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As much as it may not seem like it, what with how much she bugs Narancia and Mista to let her be, Trish actually hates being alone, especially at night. And up until just a few years ago, she never had to be. She was always able to curl up with her mother and lose sight of all of her worries, thanks to the company beside her.
But her mother is gone now. And she is alone in this huge bed in this huge house, unable to just fall asleep .
Turning over onto her other side, Trish stares at the wall, wondering if it’s too late to text Mista and ask if he wants to join her for a late-night snack. But it’d be weird for her to text him– it’s usually the other way around. So instead, she continues to stare at the wall, and then the ceiling when she rolls onto her back, pondering what to do to kill the time she’s wasting trying to sleep.
The most frustrating part of it all is that she’s exhausted. Her eyelids are heavy and her limbs feel like lead and she’s certainly teetering on sleep–but try as she might, this bed is cold, and it's empty, and it feels too wrong. She remembers the feeling of a hand brushing along her spine, of blankets being adjusted to cover her shoulders even when she’d shrug them off. The safety she’d once known feels like a far cry from the sort of safety she lives with now, and the bitter truth is that it isn’t much.
Frankly, Trish is starting to feel sort of paranoid. The harsh reality of it all is that, just over two years ago, she was nearly killed by her own father–and so was the closest man she has to a father.
Right. Bucciarati is probably– hopefully, though one can never be too sure with him–fast asleep at the opposite end of the hall right now. And maybe , Trish chews on the inside of her cheek, thinking, maybe his presence could give her that same sense of safety that her mother’s did?
No. That’s insane. He would think that she’s insane. What 22-year-old wants a 17-year-old girl waking him up in the middle of the night because she doesn’t want to be alone ? An insane one, she concludes.
But there’s a huge chance that he isn’t even asleep right now! Knowing Bucciarati, he’s probably not in his room right now, and he’s probably in his office filling out a stack of paperwork before he even considers sleeping. Or maybe he’s not even home. Maybe he’s out to dinner!
That’s also insane. It’s past midnight.
Regardless of what he may be doing–as there is the other probable option that it’s none of the above, given his innate oddity as a person–he could be awake and make for good company. A part of Trish, giving into wishful thinking, wonders if perhaps he’s also spending a late night alone and wants some company because the thought of that makes her feel reassured. A part of Trish wonders if he would understand.
And perhaps it’s the lack of sleep clouding her judgment, but the overarching theme she settles with is that she’ll never know the truth unless she goes and finds out herself. So she swings her legs over the side of her bed and forces herself to stand, taking careful steps towards the door and further into the hall. The house is entirely silent, which is to be expected for the time, though there’s something about a dark and silent mansion that’s eerie.
Her steps are slow and quiet, especially while passing Fugo’s room, the lightest sleeper in the entire house. While creeping past his door, Trish takes extra care to make sure her steps are as light as they can be, and even so, she swears she hears him grumble and move from inside.
Approaching Bucciarati’s door, Trish’s heart rate picks up scarily. Why is she so nervous? She’s just going to check if he’s awake. It’s not like she’s going to kidnap him or threaten him or his loved ones for money. That’s stupid.
Her hands freeze right before she touches the door handle, and she takes a single deep breath before turning it and pushing the door open gently.
Thank god for rich people and their creakless doors.
The lights in Bucciarati’s room are significantly dimmed, but the room is certainly not pitch black, and he’s laying in bed but facing away from her. Though all signs point to him being out cold, something compels Trish to make sure of it–maybe because she doesn’t want that to be the case. Gingerly, she creeps further into the room with measured, quiet steps until coming to a sudden halt in the center of the room; a deep breath and a shift in position scare her into thinking she’s woken him up from a peaceful sleep. Thankfully, that’s not the case; he’s facing her now, and she can see that his eyes are certainly closed.
Trish bites back her disappointment; of course a night where she can’t sleep is going to be one where he retires at a normal time. It’s just her luck. After a long pause of consideration, staring at the empty space beside him, she shakes the thoughts out of her head and turns to leave.
On her way out, though, a shoe that she swears wasn’t there before is right in front of the exit, and right before she steps back into the hallway, she’s tripping into it instead. With a sharp gasp and a hand thrown to her mouth, she looks back quickly into the room. She knows that must’ve woken Bucciarati. Admittedly, she can’t say she’s necessarily upset if it did…but she feels bad nonetheless for waking him when he’d finally decided to sleep at a normal time.
Bucciarati, as expected, stirs into half-consciousness. He’s not sure what he expects as the reason for the noise–frankly, he hasn’t even registered what it was that woke him yet when he picks his head up to look towards the door. However, he is sure that the last person he would expect in his room in the middle of the night is Trish.
“Trish,” he clears the rasp from his throat, “did you need something?”
Her hands ball into fists, and she silently curses herself for waking him before turning around. She steps back into his room, rubbing her arm nervously. “No- I didn’t- uhm…” Trish’s voice is shaky, full of nerves, “Don’t get any ideas! I was just seeing if you were awake because…ugh! Nevermind!” Trish waves her hands dismissively, turning around as if to walk out, but not actually making the move to walk away yet, secretly hoping he’d stop her.
“No,” Bucciarati shakes his head, but he doesn’t say anything more for a minute, trying to figure out the words he wants to say. He runs a hand down his face, trying to bring himself further into wakefulness. “What were you going to say? See if I was awake because…?”
Biting her lip, she sighs and turns back around. “Because…because I can’t sleep. And before…everything…whenever I couldn’t sleep I always had my mom, and I’d be able to sleep with her. Just for some company, you know?” her words are quick, almost embarrassed, but she continues, “And I guess I thought that…because you’re like the closest thing I’ve got,” she sighs, “maybe it’d be the same way with you?” After a few moments of silence, Trish’s cheeks burn with embarrassment, and she adds, “But now it just sounds stupid! I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have woken you up or even come in here, but– I was just going to ask if I could stay with you tonight. ”
Bucciarati is quiet for what must only be a couple of seconds in actuality, though it feels like much longer to Trish, who assumes this time is being spent judging her for everything she just said. But instead of saying something disapproving or cold as she’d expected–rather, feared– Bucciarati gives a quiet, husky laugh.
And then he scoots back a bit to make room and pats the new space beside him, answering simply, “of course you can.”
Of course, this is what she wanted to hear, but she never expected it to actually come out of his mouth. So instead of just doing what she’s been wanting to do since she made the decision to come to Bucciarati’s room and join him , she stands there, eyes wide for a moment. But then it clicks and she nods softly, taking a few steps - one of them being over the shoe she tripped on - towards his bed. “Are you sure? I mean…you’re not uncomfortable with that or anything?”
Bucciarati shakes his head. “No, I’m not uncomfortable,” he says, near incredulously. On a logical level, he can understand her thought process, but things like this are just innate to him. In the same way that, to Trish, he is the closest thing she has to a father, Trish is like Bucciarati’s only daughter. “Now come here.”
Trish takes this in, and nods softly, joining him on the bed and making herself comfortable under the covers. She smiles awkwardly, adjusting her pillow before resting her head on it, staying a little ways away from Bucciarati, afraid of making him uncomfortable- regardless of what he may say about the matter.
Eventually, after a while of Trish keeping her eyes closed in an attempt to sleep, she opens one to see if the man beside her is asleep. It looks as though he is, so she takes the opportunity to scoot closer, tucking herself into his chest with a yawn.
Trish soon learns that her assumption was incorrect when, after a moment, Bucciarati reaches over to pull the blankets up and over her shoulders. And then his hand comes to rest on her back, fingertips skating along her spine, comforting and reassuring, as though he knows.
And then he says, “you’re safe here.” And he says, “I won’t let anything happen to you. I love you like you are my own,” as though he knows.
And for that moment, Trish believes him. For that moment, it’s like an undeniable truth to her, and the thought envelopes her in a familiar warmth that she’d thought had been lost years ago.
For that moment, Trish knows it: this is home.