Work Text:
===> Be Hearts Boxcars.
Your name is HEARTS BOXCARS. You have ninety-nine problems and a kid ain’t one. Or it wasn’t before today. Now you have two more problems and both of ‘em are kids. That’s exactly one more kid problem than your other crewmembers have and you’re cursing your damn bleedin’ heart with every step.
You’re a big guy. Strong. Sturdy. Capable. So how’s this tiny little troll grub’s wriggling somehow bruising your ribs?! It thrashes again and you grunt, squeezing it tighter, trying to simultaneously keep it still and not pop it like a fish egg. Erring on the side of caution ain’t producing much in the way of results, but erring on the side of anything else would result in a nasty mess and a guilty conscience.
Fuck that. The conscience takes longer to heal. You deal with the bruises. It’s not like you’re keeping this one anyway.
===> Pawn the squirt off on somebody else.
Gladly. You know just the guy.
===> Be the guy.
You don’t know him that well.
===> Fine. Talk about the guy.
His name’s Authuro. You met when you spent a year farmin’ all those goddamned horses. He showed up one day to pick up a piece-a-shit racehorse worth way too much fuckin’ money. Thing’s nerves were shot to hell. Almost killed itself freakin’ out over car horns or some such shit.
You only knew what the owner of the place told you about these beasts, which wasn’t much. Usually “get back ta work ya fuckin’ brute,” which you didn’t take real kindly to the first time and didn’t have to hear a second. You weren’t a brute anymore an’ you never would be again. You were a member of the Crew, vacation or no. Life on the farm eased up a little with the guy’s son in charge. Kid hadn’t liked his dad much anyway. The guy was a beater. You an’ the kid treated each other real civil with the understanding that you weren’t stayin’ forever.
When Authuro showed up, he was about the most civil bastard you’d ever had the opportunity to meet. He looked like some sorta cross between a pugilist and a butler, which was a thing you never thought you’d have to imagine, especially not in a troll. On top of that, he acted like a gent and had a way with horses that said a lot about him. Patient as sin. Didn’t get worked up over nothin’. Had that freaky-freak horse in the trailer all smooth and steady within twenty minutes as though the thing hadn’t been about to kick the bucket from heart palpitations an hour before.
Then, as icing on the cake, he stayed behind and helped you clean up the horse’s mess. Matched you shovel for shovel, too, an’ you weren’t known for taking small scoops’a that shit.
You got to talking, you and Authuro, whenever he’d stop by. He trained racehorses for a buncha different higher ups. One of his favorite stables just happened to be the Midnight City Track. Said he spent a lot of time there when the racing season really heated up. Lots of money around the track, lots of bookies and patrons making sure it stayed profitable to bring the best horseflesh into the city for a little entertainment.
Of course you’d visited the tracks before. Deuce got all worked up an’ high on the roar of the crowds. He didn’t like goin’ alone, though. Something about being trampled… and not by horses. You went. Had a good time and a few drinks. Lost a little money. Par for the course, really. You hadn’t known horses from hoofbeasts before you started farming ‘em.
He told you that horses and hoofbeasts could be the same thing. He seemed somewhat apologetic when he said it.
You said, “Oh”. Left it at that. Fuckin’ horsebeasts.
===> Enough talking. Unload the grub.
Right, the grub. The freakish little fucker is still smacking you in the side with his writhing. It has you making a face that clears the street, what little of it isn’t already empty at this time of night. Must be a pretty good face.
You can’t do anything with the grub ‘til morning, though, on account of not knowing where Authuro lives. You can find him at the stables the next day.
That means you gotta survive the night like this. You stare down at the wrigglers and try not to panic. You’d like for them to survive the night with you.
What do they eat? How do they poop? Do they poop? They have to poop, don’t they? They’re babies. Babies poop. You don’t know a lot about them but you know that much. Maybe.
Feeling a little desperate, you hit up the all-night pharmacy and yell at the human cashier until she calls her troll friend to ask about grub care. You’d really been hoping she had a troll friend. Otherwise you’re gonna have to fake it completely.
You really don’t wanna kill the little things. They’re so helpless. At least, yours is helpless. Another slam to the ribs makes you wonder about the other one. Are higher-blooded baby trolls supposed to be this strong? Fuck. No wonder the lower ones get culled. Yours is barely squirming.
The girl at the register gives you instructions over the phone from her friend who had woken her guardian and hashed things out in a late-night verbal brawl. You didn’t particularly care how you got the information. So long as you can feed the pair of ‘em overnight, that’s fine. You borrow a pen and the back of an old envelope to scribble down instructions. Then you buy a couple supplies and leave.
You got a long night ahead’a you and the night’s halfway over. That says somethin’.
===> Survive the night.
You do. Somehow.
About an hour to sunrise, you get a call from Deuce begging for help. His grub won’t stop screaming.
“That’s fine, mine won’t stop screamin’ either, only it’s in stereo.” You close your eyes for a second, seeing little dancing lights behind your eyelids and wondering if you’re going to get any sleep today. “That’s what grubs are supposed to do. Apparently. And you need to feed an’ poop ‘em before they might be happy again. You’d better expect a lot of screamin’ fer a while.”
Clubs goes quiet for a minute, almost audibly thinking, before asking how you know so much about troll babies. You tell him you got the information from a troll adult through a troll teenager through a human girl and that there were enough dames in the equation that somebody had to know what they were talking about. Dames and babies went together like pancakes and syrup. Even troll dames and troll babies.
After another pause, his voice takes on a slightly less harried and more curious tone. “Why pancakes and syrup?”
That should be obvious. “Because dames are fluffy an’ smell good an’ because babies are sticky an’ messy an’ get nasty shit all over the table. An’ because I’m hungry for fuckin’ breakfast an’ the neighbors are cookin’ what smells like heaven.”
“So… do you want to go out for breakfast then?” He sounds hopeful, dreadfully so.
“Hell yeah, I want to,” you grunt, jiggling the little bull-horned grub to try and make it laugh. “Can’t leave kids at home alone, though. I think there’s laws about that. Important ones. ‘sides, one’a mine might kill the other, wrestler-style. The one that ain’t mine killin’ the one that is, I mean. Crazy how strong the little bast- uh. The little guy is.”
Aw shit. You can’t curse around kids. This realization suddenly hits you heavy in the stomach. You think you might’a already slipped up earlier and it makes you want to curse again. You’re not Slick, though. You can control it. Hopefully. At least they’re too little to pick anything up. You would warn your friend about it except that he’s not usually much up on cursing.
At that thought, another thing occurs to you and you bring it up while Clubs is pining away after Belgian waffles. “Hey. Deuce. One more thing. You leave that cane’a yours in yer deck. Don’t leave it where the kid can get it. Hear?”
“Oh, right! That’s a good thought. I wouldn’t have thought twice about whipping it out. Thanks!”
You try not to groan and tell him to be careful with his grub. Then you hang up and stare down at yours. And the other one.
Better call the track to make sure the guy’s in. You don’t want to lug a pair of grubs halfway outta town for nothin’.
===> Make the necessary arrangements.
A phone call, a taxi, and a bucket full of grub are all you need to make this happen. There’s nothing else around your apartment you can use to haul one around in and you’ll be damned if you’re subjecting your ribs to more punishment. The weaker one gets wrapped in a towel and held in your arm.
Before you leave, you throw three microwaved eggs and some coffee at your stomach to quiet its growling. Fuckin’ sleepless night. You wouldn’t trust yourself behind the wheel, not with your concentration shot to hell by a squalling symphony. You’re really gonna have to look into finding a babysitter. But can you even trust a babysitter? Aw hell. Maybe not. You’ll ask Droog later. He might have an idea.
The place is pretty low-key once you get there. No races runnin’ today, which is a blessing, though there’s a slew scheduled for the weekend. People give you funny looks as they go about their business, but they quickly look away when they notice your expression. It isn’t especially approachable.
You seem to be drawing more attention from trolls than you are from humans. Probably because of the grubs. They do keep staring at the bucket you’re lugging around. It shakes violently every few minutes as the kid inside thrashes, denting the sides with its freakish strength. A couple of shocked gasps greet the sight and you fix ‘em with a scowl fit to thin paint. “So I couldn’t get a stroller!” he shouts at one gaping woman. Her skin darkens and a hand flies up to cover her mouth before she quickly hurries away.
Fuckin’ gawkers. None’a their business anyway. You try not to gnash your teeth too hard and head into the stables with a quicker step.
An’ there he is. Fuck. You haven’t been so happy to see another man in years.
He sees you and smiles, his long black mustache twitching, and he raises an arm in greeting. “Good morning, Boxcars! It’s a pleasure to see you again. You look a mite bit harried, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
His cultured tone is at complete odds with the smell of manure and horses, at least in your mind. You relax a little and your face manages some semblance of a smile. Less of a grimace, anyway.
“Authuro. Good t’see you, man. You just have no idea. I got a problem. A troll problem. I figured maybe you could help me out.”
You thrust the bucket out at him and wonder why he suddenly blanches. Awkwardly, he edges forward and peers into the depths of the container. What he sees makes his expression twist a little more into the realm of distress.
Your face falls. “Aww hell. You don’t like kids, huh?”
You’re treated to an expression of confusion that wars with concern and disgust, something you’d never really expected to see on this guy’s face. You wonder what the hell and start to think maybe it’s not your lack of appropriate child transportation. Maybe it’s something more… cultural. A troll-thing.
You start to explain why you even have grubs in the first place, omitting several of the more violent details surrounding their discovery. A short ways into your explanation, he takes a breath and gingerly reaches in to extract the grub. Something in him simply cannot leave it sitting in that… receptacle. It rewards him with a thrash to the chest. He grunts and holds it slightly away from his body, hands like steel clamps as he listens to your story.
Eventually you finish and stand there awkwardly, your quietly bundled grub in your arms and his squirming gray mass in his. He remains silent for several moments, looking thoughtful. You try not to shift around too much, because you’re standing in between two piles of horse poop nobody cleaned up yet and bluh, you don’t want that shit on your shoes anymore. Brings back fuckin’ memories.
“I recognize your dilemma, Boxcars,” he finally begins. His voice comes slowly and his words sound as though they’re being carefully considered with every syllable. They probably are. He’s that kinda guy. “Taking on the rearing of a child, especially one of another species, is no small responsibility. I’ll admit that your request comes as something of a shock, however, to say the least. I need some time to think on it.”
Oh shit, he’s gonna give the squealer back. You open your mouth to start arguing and he puts the grub under one arm so that he can hold out his calloused hand in a placating gesture.
“It’s gonna get yer ribs that way,” you advise him, eying it warily. It looks about ready to wind up for another round of ‘beat the shit out of your captor’. He follows your gaze and returns it to its previous grip. Less secure but also less damaging. Your warnings about the kid packin’ a punch haven’t fallen on deaf ears.
“Please let me finish,” he requests, and the words just come out too polite for you to say no. You reluctantly nod. “Thank you. I will need some time to determine whether or not I’m prepared for the responsibility of caring for a child. That being said, I am also willing to lift its burden from your shoulders and place it on my own. One unexpected child is more than enough for any individual to handle. You should not be punished for your charity in saving these grubs’ lives. Even if I decide that I am unable to care for him, I can at least find him a suitable guardian in my stead.”
As he speaks, your face relaxes and something bordering on a smile takes up residence. You made the right choice in comin’ to this guy. You knew he was an alright sort.
When he finishes, you reach out a hand and clap it on his shoulder in pure gratitude. “Authuro? Thanks, man. I owe you one. Knew you wouldn’t let me down. Raisin’ one’s gonna be hard enough. Two’s just not even… yeah.”
“Yes. I understand and I agree. This is a good thing you’ve done, Boxcars, even though popular opinion may not agree.”
After a couple more minutes shootin’ the shit, he finds a place to temporarily deposit the grub and returns to shake your hand properly. A real gent, this troll. You say your goodbyes, eager to return home. You still gotta figure out how the hell you’re gonna catch some sleep before Slick calls up and starts cursing.