Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Paul has known Alice since she was a baby, and has babysitted her for just as long. He knows about her nervous tics, what rubs her the wrong way or pushes her over the edge. He knows about her passions, what fills her with joy or excitement. He takes care of her when Bill’s too busy, picks her up from school sometimes and listens to her rant about her day. In everything she does, Alice is expressive and charismatic, vividly visualising every one of her stories. It comes as no surprise to Paul when she tells him she wants to be a playwright. He knows her through and through.

But that means he can tell when something’s bothering her. And lately, something has definitely been on that girl’s mind.

Her after-school rambles grow shorter, she seems distracted far more often, barely acknowledging him at times. With each week that passes, Paul grows a little more worried about her, until it finally comes to a head.

It’s eleven o’clock at night when the doorbell rings.

The sound pierces through the silence of his house– Paul’s never been one for needless background noise, so music isn’t often heard within his walls– and reaches his bedroom. Paul, who’s already dressed in his pyjamas and is about to go to bed, jolts in surprise at the sound, wondering who could be outside at that hour in the torrential rain. Suppressing a yawn, he unlocks and opens the door, shivering at the chill that hits him almost immediately.

It takes him a moment to process exactly who’s on his doorstep, but the moment he does, Paul’s ushering Alice inside as quickly as he can. His door shuts behind him, blocking out the whistling wind and soggy slap of raindrops against the pavement, and he realises that Alice must be freezing . He doesn’t know why she’s here, but that’s not his immediate priority. He quickly tells her to take her soaked coat off and wait there, rushing to fetch a pile of blankets and a hot water bottle before he asks any questions.

Once Alice is settled on the couch, bundled up in an almost absurd amount of blankets, he takes in her appearance. Her hair, usually immaculate down her shoulders, falls limply into her face, stringy and dark. Her pale face shines with a mixture of rain and tears, her eyes bright and wide as she stares at him worriedly.

“Um… Hi, Uncle Paul,” she greets weakly, curling in on herself. “S-sorry for coming to see you so late.”

“Alice, did– did you walk here?” Paul asks, eyebrows rising in concern. The expression multiplies tenfold when she nods, a small, tentative jerk of her head. If there’s one thing Alice isn’t , it’s shy, but Paul has never seen her so subdued.

“I can’t–” Her breath hitches, Alice swallowing visibly. “I don’t wanna be at home right now.”

Paul has known Alice for thirteen years, and her parents for even longer. He knows that Bill must be working himself into a fury, that Alice’s mom will be furious, but he also knows Alice herself. So, he says simply, “okay,” and takes out his phone. “I’m going to tell your dad where you are, you know he’ll be worried sick.”

“No, no, you can’t!” Alice shouts at him, panicked. “He’ll come and get me and–”

“No, he won’t,” Paul tells her calmly, offering her as reassuring a look as he can muster. Exhaustion weighs heavily on his bones, but Paul brushes it aside as best he can. He has no idea what he’s doing, but Alice needs him. He doesn’t know if he’s doing even the remotely right thing, but he opens Bill’s contact all the same. “Alice, he needs to know that you’re safe. I’m going to tell him you need some alone time and you’re with me, he’ll understand. Nobody’s going to make you leave if you don’t want to.”

She slumps in relief, seeming just as small as she was five years ago, and Paul feels something inside of himself crack as a tear rolls down her cheek. She opens her mouth as though to say something, then hesitates, gaze darting anxiously around the room before she slowly closes it again.

“How about I make some hot cocoa?” Paul suggests suddenly. “I think I’ve got some left… I’m not big on tea and I don’t think caffeine would be good for either of us right now, should I go look in the kitchen? If there isn’t any, I can just… Heat up some milk or something.”

“Yeah,” Alice agrees quietly. “That sounds nice.”

He rummages through his drawers until he finds some hot cocoa, triumphantly pouring it into a ‘World’s Okayest Uncle’ mug. It’s the first one he grabs, and he smiles at the memory of Alice giving it to him for Christmas a couple of years back. His thoughts are elsewhere as he makes the drink, and he almost scalds his hand. Paul shakes his head firmly, reminding himself to get a grip. However bad a day he’s had at work, it’s clear Alice has had worse, and she’s thirteen . He rolls his shoulders, wincing at the crack, and heads back into his lounge, placing the mug on a coaster in front of her.

He waits for her to catch her bearings, Alice looking a little more relaxed with each delicate sip. She looks fragile like this, and Paul would never forgive himself if he broke her. Silencing his buzzing phone, Paul places it aside and sits beside her. For a while, they wait, neither willing to shatter the silence. Rain distantly patters down from outside, though the noise is muted, far away. They’re safe here, and warm. Alice is safe. Paul wants to make sure she knows that.

He’s not good with people. He never has been, doubts he ever will be. But he is good with Alice, because he knows her . Perhaps it would be too presumptuous to believe he knows her better than even Bill does, but Paul can’t help but feel like that’s the case. Alice came to him . So, he waits, ready to be there for her when she needs someone to open up to.

“They were fighting again,” she says finally, the words sounding dull and sour on her tongue. “Mom and dad. I could hear them.”

Alice pauses, looking away as she retreats further into the blankets, both of her hands clasped around her mug.

“They were arguing about me,” she adds on eventually. “I just– I couldn’t sleep, I could just hear them yelling at each other and I didn’t– I don’t–...” her voice trails off, Alice’s eyes welling with more tears. “I couldn’t listen to it anymore. So I snuck out and came here.”

Paul exhales slowly, a sharp hiss of air seeping through the gaps between his teeth. “Okay. Okay. Alice, I want you to know that you can always come here. Okay?”

“Okay,” she agrees quietly, looking up at him. Paul’s face is earnest, he needs her to understand just how dangerous it is for anyone to walk the streets of Hatchetfield alone at night in a storm , let alone for a thirteen-year-old girl.

“But Alice, please, tell me . I’ll come pick you up at any time, you can’t go through Hatchetfield like you did tonight. What if you’d gotten lost, or hurt, and none of us knew where you were?” Paul queries, and Alice wilts a little. “I need you to promise me you won’t do that again.”

“I promise,” Alice says softly, and Paul wraps an arm around her shoulders, equally relieved.

“Thank you.” Paul lets a smile onto his face, blinking hard to ward off his fatigue as his eyes itch and burn with the lights above him. “So, how’s that lates play of yours coming along?”

“Oh, it’s great!” Alice perks up at that, life reentering her pensive features as her pale skin flushes a little pinker. “Deb’s been helping me out with some of the costumes and character designs. She’s amazing with that sort of stuff.”

“I’m sure,” Paul grins knowingly, and Alice flushes further. He laughs. “What’ve you got for the plot so far?”

“I’m thinking a high school drama,” Alice tells him, practically vibrating in her seat. “An enemies to lovers tale. One of the main characters is really cool and popular, and the other one’s, like, a total geek. But then, they have to save the world together! And they fall in love, and there are a few sad bits, but I want it to be a comedy. I like funny shows. It’s going to have a happy ending, and everything’s gonna be perfect.”

A little sadness seems to creep back into Alice at her final words, so Paul nudges her, saying, “I’m sure that whatever you end up producing, it’ll be incredible– and as long as it’s not a musical, I’ll be right in the front row.”

“Seriously Uncle Paul, what do you have against musicals?” Alice giggles, and Paul smiles. Mission accomplished.

Paul shudders, a melodramatic action that he puts his all into. “What don’t I have against musicals? Ever since I attended Sycamore, they’ve been the bane of my existence… Flashy, nonsensical musical numbers and bright, expensive outfits… If I could rid this world of one thing, it’d be musicals.”

“You’ve watched loads of Disney films with me though,” Alice points out, and she’s got a point there, Paul has to admit.

“That’s different ,” he stresses, fighting the smile tugging at his lips again. “Those are… Animated movies, I can just skip past the songs!”

“But you don’t,” Alice smirks. “I think you loved Tangled.”

“Blasphemy!” Paul declares, folding his arms. “We watch Disney movies for your entertainment, not mine.”

“Oh yeah? Why don’t you prove it?” Alice suggests. “Let’s find a Disney movie right now, a musical one, and see if you hate it.”

Paul does so, flicking through his collection of CDs. He doesn’t watch much TV, so his is hardly the latest version, and he has no reason to buy a streaming service he won’t use. He settles on a familiar film, Alice’s favourite when she was younger.

“How about Moana?”

“Sounds good,” Alice yawns, and Paul suddenly realises that she must be just as tired as he is. Drowsily, he slots it into his television and grabs a blanket of his own, slumping onto the couch. It doesn’t take long before Alice falls asleep, nodding off to the familiar beat of ‘You’re Welcome’. Paul looks over her sleeping form, the slight smile of her lips, and something within him rightens itself. His phone’s still going off, but that’s a problem for future Paul to deal with. Right now, it’s time to sleep .

He’s never been one for background noise, but with Alice at his side as he too begins to doze off, Paul doesn’t mind it nearly as much.

Chapter Text

Paul isn't aware he has a nephew until Richie is already fourteen. The call comes without warning; he probably never would have known if it wasn't for the crash.

It's a perfectly normal day when he finds out– he'd come home from work one evening, fully prepared to sink into his mattress and pass our for a few hours, only to receive a call from child welfare services informing him of what had happened. Paul, face fixated in a shocked gape, learns he's Richie's only living relative in a position to take care of him.

So, here he is, accommodating the kid of the sister he hasn't seen in years. He gives Richie the room that Alice usually stays in (it used to be a study, but he gave up on that a long while ago), offering to decorate it however the boy wishes. It's clear he's already been through a lot, and Paul wants him to be comfortable here.

It's… A lot. He's a parent now. Paul hadn't intended to have kids until he was in a stable, loving relationship, if at all. He likes the idea of a perfect family, but knows such a thing is very different in practice– his own is a testament to that. Now he no longer lives alone, but with a teenager who he has to look after and provide for and keep from dying and–

…And it's a lot. So, he takes it one slow step at a time, keeping a pace that they're both comfortable with.

Days go by and anime posters begin to line the walls. Comics and visual novels are left scattered around the house, and one of Richie's bedroom walls is painted a pleasant shade of blue. It's summer break, so they have plenty of time to adjust. 

Paul doesn't want to push a relationship– he doesn't even know how he'd go about doing so anyway– so he waits until Richie's ready to talk. He gets to know him better. Paul listens to Richie ramble about complicated show plots Paul doesn't quite understand, his nephew clearly very passionate about them. Richie begins to share his views on popular film franchises Paul hasn’t watched, explains the newest slang term Paul hasn’t found out the meaning of yet. Neither of them are particularly good at conversation, but they maintain a comfortable silence when neither has anything more to say. Their interactions gradually become less awkward, and Paul finds himself truly caring about the kid. September nears, and Paul sorts out his work hours to accommodate for the new development.

And Richie goes back to Sycamore.

And everything goes horribly wrong.

Paul doesn't want to send him there. Of course he doesn’t! He knows how little Sycamore has to offer, how depressing the atmosphere is. But the lady who's been helping him with the adoption is very insistent that Richie needs time to adjust, so he shouldn't throw too many changes at him all at once. Doubtfully, Paul notices that it doesn't look like Richie wants to go to Sycamore either, morose as he is packing his bag the night before the semester begins. But Paul doesn't pry (he wishes he would've), and drives the kid there the next morning, heeding the advice of people far more experienced than he.

There's a sinking feeling in his stomach as he heads to work, and he's hit with the sudden thought that something awful is going to happen. He doesn't acknowledge it (he wishes he would've), but it follows him through the day. He can't focus on his paperwork, his sheets are sent to Ted's printer more than once, and his neck prickles uncomfortably all day.

He practically runs out of the office at the end of the day. He brushes off Melissa's proposal that they watch the latest musical at the Starlight Theatre together that evening a little too harshly, offers only a short, clipped response to Charlotte's concerned call after him as he leaves. It's hardly out of the ordinary for him to be blunt in his replies, Paul knows he's not the most sensitive of people, but even he can recognise how rude he must have come across. He resolves to apologise the next day.

He's usually a completely safe driver, but today, Paul finds himself going just a little over the speed limit, slowing down in surprise when he realises. Despite his best efforts and much to his dismay, the irrational sense of wrongness he's been carrying all day is something he still can't quite seem to shake.

He waits outside Sycamore High for Richie to leave its doors, tapping his fingers anxiously against his steering wheel. Students pile out in heaps, hollering and typing away on their phones, shoving into each other and swearing at the top of their lungs. The horde dwindles bit by bit until there are only a few stragglers left, and still, no Richie.

Paul glances at his watch. School finished fifteen minutes ago. He's tried calling Richie a few times, his phone blaring on dully until it reaches voicemail. He's tempted to go in and look for him when Richie finally appears, Paul noticing the familiar huge backpack and colourful jacket with ease. He prepares a reproachful look, ready to ask Richie why he’s so late out, only to stop dead in his tracks.

Because there’s blood on Richie’s face, stark and undeniable, and Paul feels his heart drop straight into his stomach.

He waits, wide-eyed and shocked, as Richie continues to approach the door, limping a little. His face is quickly purpling, mouth twisted into a pained grimace, and there’s a cut right across his cheek. Paul’s gaze, however, is quickly drawn away from Richie’s bloodied features and to the teenager’s pale neck, now encircled with a dark ring of bruises.

Silently, Richie opens the door and gets into the back of the car, slumping in his seat and looking down, hiding his face as he clutches at his bag straps. “Sorry I’m late,” he mumbles, and what does Paul even say to that?

“Richie– that’s not–” Paul stops, taking a deep breath in. For once, he finds himself struck speechless, not a single word coming to him as he frantically searches his brain for the best way to address this. 

There’s a pause. Paul sees Richie flinch in the rear view mirror when he tries to look through it at his face.

“Okay,” Paul says finally, just to fill the silence. “Okay… Okay. Okay.”

But it’s not okay, is it? Of course it isn’t. Because this is Sycamore , why did Paul expect anything could possibly go well here? His fists whiten against the steering wheel. Richie needs medical attention. The thought forces itself to the forefront of his mind with burning quality, Paul trying to swallow the lump in his dry throat as he speaks.

“I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“What?” Richie looks up, a mix of surprise and apprehension in his eyes that makes Paul feel furious. Furious that nobody’s helped this kid, furious that this seems normal , furious that there are teenagers out there who are willing to inflict this sort of damage. Richie looks broken , and Paul feels his fingers tremble with rage.

“You’ve been beaten to hell and back, Richie, why would I not take you to the hospital?!” Paul exclaims, running a hand through his hair. Richie flinches again behind him, and Paul curses himself silently. He needs to stay calm , the last thing Richie needs is Paul taking out his stress on him.

He drives fast, ignoring the beeps that follow him as he heads to a hospital. Richie’s condition isn’t ambulance-worthy, but it’s far from pretty to look at. Those marks look painful , and Paul hates them with a passion. How someone could do that to anyone– let alone to a kid – is beyond him.

When Richie first gets out of the car, he almost falls facefirst onto the concrete, and Paul rushes forwards to catch him. Richie is… Concerningly light.

“I’m fine!” Richie tells him, almost panicked as he jolts away, nearly tumbling to the ground a second time. Paul doesn’t push, but makes sure Richie knows he’s there to help if he needs it.

Richie doesn’t speak as they enter the hospital, seeming to shrink in on himself. Over the past few weeks, Richie’s been so lively , chatting animatedly at high speeds with a relighted spark in his eyes. Now, he’s subdued in a way Paul’s never seen before, not even straight after the crash.

His wounds get treated. His ankle’s sprained, he’s covered in bruises, and dark blue bandaids have been applied to a few particularly bad cuts. Paul inhales sharply when Richie first removes his shirt, revealing the dark blemishes mapped across his chest. Nothing’s broken, thank goodness , but Richie’s hardly fit as a fiddle. There isn’t much the hospital can do other than bandage the ankle and advise them to keep it elevated, so the two of them return home.

It’s late by that point, so Paul decides to get takeaway. “Hey, Richie,” he looks through the mirror at him. “What do you feel like for dinner?”

Richie hesitates, then suggests, “can we just get McDonald’s?”

“Sure,” Paul agrees easily, and finds the best route to their nearest one. “Anything you want in particular?”

“I don’t really mind,” Richie begins. “But I do like the Quarter Pounder with extra ketchup and no pickles,” he adds on, sounding like he does, in fact, mind. The ghost of a smile flitters across Paul’s face as he nods in acknowledgement.

He turns on his radio as they drive, some new pop song or the other playing. Paul couldn’t name it if his life depended on it– something about cars and girls on a beach? He thinks? It definitely mentioned sex at some point.

They arrive at McDonald’s and he gets Richie a McFlurry and a milkshake too, ordering an apple pie and black coffee for himself. It’s better than the ones he gets at Beanies but not quite as good as Starbucks’. Paul has strong opinions on his coffee, as plain as it may be, and Starbucks remains on the top of his list.

It’s a cloudy evening, the sky grey and miserable-looking above them (hardly a rare sight for Hatchetfield), and Paul is glad to be home once they arrive. He carries the McDonald’s bag inside, grabbing them two plates and getting Richie settled on the couch, preparing a cushion for his ankle.

“Are you comfortable?” He asks anxiously, fully aware that he has no clue what he’s doing.

“Yeah, this is good,” Richie nods, then a half-smile crosses his face. “Thanks.”

Paul brings through the food, and switches on the TV, passing the remote over to Richie. “Your pick.”

Richie’s eyebrows rise almost comically as he straightens in his seat. “Really?!”

“Really,” Paul agrees easily, taking a sip of his coffee. He doesn’t much mind what they have on. Hopefully, watching one of his favourite shows or films will cheer Richie up a bit.

Paul listens fondly as the teenager ponders over which anime to choose. He eventually settles on something called ‘Howl’s Moving Castle’. Paul’s never heard of it before, but he recognises the main piano theme from somewhere he can’t quite place. Richie watches, invested despite having clearly watched this before, and Paul has to remind him to actually eat a couple of times. It’s… Nice, if he can ignore the bruises marring Richie’s skin.

“Do you want to move schools?” Paul asks around halfway through the movie. Richie startles, looking like a deer caught in headlights.

“I– it’s– it’s really no bother!” Richie says, a little too quickly for it to be the truth.

“It’s no bother for you to move, either,” Paul tells him, trying to force his voice to soften. He isn’t… Great at emotional stuff, but he’s trying. He can do this. “I can just transfer you to Hatchetfield High.”

Hope flickers in Richie’s eyes, and that solidifies Paul’s resolve.

“Who knows,” He shrugs. “There might even be an anime club there.”

“Yeah,” Richie breathes, and smiles fully. “That sounds nice.”

“Sycamore’s awful,” Paul says disdainfully. “Not as bad as Clivesdale , sure, but it’s got way less problems than Hatchetfield High does. I went there myself when I was your age.”

Richie’s eyes sparkle in the way they do when he’s excited about something. “You mean it? I can actually transfer?”

“Believe me, one way or another, I’m getting you far away from whatever little sh–” Paul cuts himself off, saying cautiously. “...Bullies did this.”

“I’m fourteen,” Richie tilts his head, taking another bite of his burger and saying through it, “At high school. I know cuss words.”

And that’s a fair enough point, Paul has to admit. So, he just shrugs, letting Richie unpause the movie until the credits begin to roll and they’re both very ready to collapse onto their beds and stay there forever. Paul helps Richie to his room, and the teenager laughs at his fretting, wishing him goodnight. Paul doesn’t sleep right away, he makes a phone call first. He’s finding out who got his nephew in hospital , and is going to make sure they’re duly punished. He doesn’t think the sight of blood dripping down Richie’s face will ever leave his mind again.

The next day, Paul joins the neighbourhood watch. He can keep an eye on things better this way, look out for the kids of Hatchetfield. And for all his colleagues (Ted) mock him for it, he doesn’t regret doing so in the slightest. Because when Richie first finds out, he seems to sag a little in relief, unspoken ounces of gratefulness in his eyes. And that alone is enough to make his application completely worthwhile.

Chapter Text

The last thing Paul expects on a Sunday morning is to receive a knock on his door. He’s in the middle of his breakfast when he hears it, loud and insistent, and sighs, making his way over to his foyer.

The knocks continue until he unlocks and swings the door open, coming face-to-face with one of his new coworkers. Ted is standing there, a sheepish look on his usually-smug face even as confidence continues to emanate from him in waves. “Hey, Paul,” he greets smoothly, and Paul can immediately tell that he wants something.

“What do you want?” He asks simply. There’s no reason to draw this out longer than it needs to be.

“Ah… Well, I need to ask you a favour,” Ted exhales through his teeth; it’s a sheepish hiss, and Paul frowns at the noise before noticing something. 

Ted isn’t here alone.

“Good morning,” a boy who looks around ten sticks out his hand politely. Puzzled, Paul takes it gingerly, shaking it.

“Morning,” he replies awkwardly, then his gaze slides back to Ted. “Why did you bring a child?”

“I heard you were the local babysitter,” Ted grins, and Paul tries to suppress his sigh. He babysits one child on occasion. “And, well. Bill sure isn’t up for looking after Petey after what happened last time , so you’re the next best thing!”

Paul’s brow furrows. “You’re just going to… Leave him here.” It isn’t a question.

Ted shrugs. “I’m a busy guy, Paul. Lots of things to do, lots of dates to go on.”

“Hm,” Paul hums tonelessly, peering at ‘Petey’ inquisitively. “I didn’t know you had a son.”

“Wh– he’s my brother !” Ted splutters, and the brother in question nods his head sharply, looking put-out. “Jesus, how old do you think I am?”

Paul opens his mouth to reply, but Ted beats him to it, holding up a hand.

“Look, Paul, I’d really appreciate it if you watched over him. Just for an hour or two! He’s a good kid,” Ted wheedles, and, well. Paul doesn’t have any other commitments that day, and he does have experience with Alice. How hard could this be? “Tell you what, I’ll give you a tip next coffee round–”

“Okay,” Paul agrees easily. “Does– does he… Need anything?”

“I dunno, lunch?” Ted shrugs carelessly. “I’m sure you can handle it. Thanks buddy, I owe you one. Bye!”

And with that, Ted turned on his heel and strode back to his car. Paul watched him go, still trying to process that whole interaction while a child waits patiently in front of him. He’s only been working at the CRRP Technical Department for about a year, but in that time, he’s gotten to know Ted Spankoffski far too well. Ted is an open man, and as thankful as Paul is that he doesn’t have to deal with the additional barriers of complex emotions and the like with him, he does wish the other man could be a bit less… Abrasive.

Ted’s brother doesn’t seem much like him at all, thank goodness. Paul doesn’t know what he’d do if he had to deal with a mini-Ted running around his house. No, the kid is simply standing there, round glasses looking too big on his face, dark hair gelled neatly back behind him, a bow tie adorning his collar. If the brothers didn’t look so similar, Paul would find it impossible to believe they were related at all.

The boy clears his throat expectantly, and Paul realises he’s still waiting at his doorstep. He hastily apologises and opens the door, hesitantly letting the kid inside. He may not look like a hooligan, but he’s still a Spankoffski . Paul watches as the boy removes his shiny black shoes and places them neatly by the door.

“So, uh… ‘Petey’, was it?” Paul asks, then winces at the deadpan look the child shoots him. Aren’t kids supposed to be happy?

“ Peter ,” the boy corrects stiffly, adjusting his bow tie. “My friends call me Pete.” He stops, tilting his head. “Well. Ruth calls me Pete.”

“Okay, Pete,” Paul amends, trying to offer him a smile. It feels far too watery and fake. He’d just wanted a day to himself, to watch bad TV and visit Beanies. “You and your brother sort of dropped in in the middle of my breakfast. Would you like anything?”

“No thanks,” Pete replies. “I had some toast earlier. I’m not hungry right now.”

Ah. Well, that would make this a little awkward. Paul sits back down at his kitchen table and cautiously finishes his cereal, keeping one eye on the ten-year-old in front of him, who is surveying the room with mild disinterest. He eyes the fruit bowl suspiciously.

“There aren’t any bananas in there, right?” Pete asks, an accusatory note to his voice.

“No?” Paul tries to hide the confusion in his voice. He isn’t very successful.

“Good,” Pete nods, relaxing a little. “I’m slightly allergic to bananas.” He frowns then. “Ted thinks it’s a joke. He bought me one for Christmas a couple years ago.”

“Oh. That’s– that’s not good,” Paul says, eyes darting about the room. His cornflakes have gone soggy.

“Exactly,” Pete agrees importantly. “Are you allergic to anything?”

“Just Ted,” Paul says mildly, a half-smile crossing his face when Pete begins giggling a little behind him.

“I think I am too,” Pete tells him, tone solemn. “Do you have any baking soda?”

“I might do,” Paul thinks. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m not allowed it anymore at home,” Pete laments. “I’m a scientist. But my mom keeps saying I’ll make a mess with it.”

All Paul can see is a towering baking soda volcano erupting in the Spankoffskis’ lounge. He pities Pete’s parents. It seems like they’ve had their work cut out for them.

“Why don’t we try some actual baking ? That’s kind of like science,” Paul suggests, very much not wanting a towering baking soda volcano erupting in his lounge. 

Pete peers at him dubiously. “Is it?”

“Sure it is,” Paul grins at him, but Pete stays unimpressed. “Chemistry, right? Mixing things together–”

“Reactants,” Pete interjects.

“–to make a different thing–”

“Products.”

“I’m sure you’ll be a natural,” Paul forces his voice to remain level, hiding the stab of irritation he feels. 

They look in his cupboards for ingredients, but they are pitifully empty. He doesn’t have baking soda after all. Paul really needs to restock. He can’t survive off of cornflakes forever, let alone soggy ones.

“We’ll have to go shopping,” he decides, and watches as Pete groans. “What?”

“Shopping takes for- ever ,” the boy complains, crossing his arms. “I’m not going.”

“I’ll buy you a new bow tie,” Paul offers without missing a beat. Bribery always works on Alice. Like a charm, Pete perks up.

There’s a pause before he relents. “...Fine. But it can’t be one of the cheap ones!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Paul mutters. He rinses his bowl and places it in his sink, then helps Pete put his shoes on. “I need to grab a few things but we can grab a brownie mix or something while we’re there.”

“And a bow tie,” Pete reminds him seriously.

“And a bow tie,” Paul acknowledges tiredly, unlocking the door. It’s a cold day in late November, and the icy wind hits him at full blast. He winces, and notices Pete doesn’t have a coat. “Where’s your coat, Pete?”

“I didn’t bring one,” Pete replies, entirely unbothered as he steps outside. “It’s like Elsa from Frozen. I don’t mind the cold.”

“Pete–” Paul cuts himself off, taking a deep breath and watching as his exhale forms a white cloud before him. “You’ve got to wear a coat.”

“Why?” Pete asks, blinking curiously up at him.

“Because it’s cold ,” Paul grits his teeth. Not even his coat is warm enough to withstand this.

“I’ve got a jumper,” Pete tries to reason.

“You are so lucky Bill always forgets to bring Alice a coat,” Paul sighs, and reaches up to grab the fluffy, pink thing. Alice is a couple years older than Pete, but this should work well enough.

“That’s a girl’s coat,” Pete pouts, looking at the coat like it has mortally offended him.

“It’s the coat, or hypothermia,” Paul stays steadfast, watching as Pete grumbles, reluctantly putting it on. He slumps a little in relief. At least that’s over with.

Or, at least, it would have been, had Pete not hid behind him every time they got even slightly close to someone. “What’s up?”

“He could be here,” Pete says ominously, gaze flitting about nervously. “Anywhere. Waiting to strike…”

“Who?!” Paul recoils, a mixture of concern and confusion across his face. “Who could be here?”

Pete looks around again, then beckons Paul down to his height. Paul, feeling ridiculous, obliges, and Pete leans in towards his ear to whisper, “ Max Jagerman.” His voice is hushed, as though he’s just admitted to summoning the devil.

“Is that a schoolkid, or…?” Paul asks, tilting his head as he gets back to his feet.

“He’s the worst ,” Pete tells him, shuddering in a rather overexaggerated motion. “Everyone knows he is! He wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a girls’ coat!”

“I see,” Paul muses, brow furrowing. “Well, you tell me if he gives you any trouble while we’re out, and tell your parents if he does afterwards. Okay?”

“Okay,” Pete says doubtfully, but keeps the pink hood over his head even as he tentatively walks more alongside Paul than behind him. They keep going downtown until they hear a voice from behind them.

“Hey! Hey you!”

Paul wants to continue moving forwards, but Pete stops, looking around inquisitively. The voice calls out again, and Paul’s attention is drawn to its source. It’s the homeless man. He’s standing there, bedraggled as ever, and he looks like he’s just seen a ghost.

“You,” he breathes, the word hanging in the air, a misty cloud of white.

The strange thing is, though, he’s not looking at Paul.

“Petey,” the man whispers, and Paul watches in bewilderment as Pete takes an apprehensive step back.

“Um… Hello?” Pete greets, looking torn between offering a handshake and getting as far away as possible. To be fair, Paul wouldn’t want to give that guy a handshake either.

“Petey, it’s me!” The homeless man says desperately, something wild in his eyes. His pupils have shrunk to the size of pinpricks, his every muscle looks tense, and there’s a sort of frantic despair across his face that’s just plain unsettling .

“I don’t know you,” Pete says bluntly, blinking at him. Paul watches, befuddled, as the homeless man flinches back as though he’s been struck.

“You’ve gotta– you gotta–” the man’s voice shakes as he stumbles forward. Pete’s eyes widen with alarm, and he takes a small step closer to Paul. “Petey–”

“Hey, leave the poor kid alone,” Paul tells him sternly, feeling an unexpected wave of protectiveness wash over him as Pete clings to his coat. 

The homeless man doesn’t listen, attempting to come even closer. There’s something close to insanity in those eyes. Paul doesn’t want to stick around long enough for the guy to go completely deranged, so he gently places a hand on Pete’s arm.

“Come on, Pete, let’s go,” Paul tries to be reassuring– he’s not sure how effective it is– only for a shout to sound out behind them. 

“NO!” The man cries out. It’s a hoarse, strangled yell, but louder than anyone Paul has ever heard before (barring maybe Ted when he decides there’s too much ice in his chai iced tea). “No, you can’t leave– no, I can’t do this again– no, no, no–”

Paul steers Pete away from the man’s ramblings firmly, until they’re out of earshot again. Pete is shaken, that much is obvious by his death grip on Paul’s hand and how wide his eyes are behind those glasses.

Paul kneels down, face softening a little. “Are you okay?”

Pete swallows. “‘M alright. He was just…”

“A little scary,” Paul finishes, then offers a small smile. “He’s gone now. We can take a different route back– I know a few back alleys. They’re kind of filled with ferns at the moment, but you’re small! We can manage.”

Pete laughs a little at that, and they keep going. He still doesn’t let go of Paul’s hand.

They reach the store, and grab what they need. Paul is flabbergasted by the sheer absurdity of the price of the bow tie Pete wants, but, well. It can be an early Christmas present, he supposes. Pete chooses a brownie mix, Paul stocks up on milk, and they’re done. Easy. Paul pulls out a couple of folded recyclable bags from his pockets when they reach the counter (Pete nods in approval), fills them to the brim, and sets about heading home again.

As it turns out, alleys filled with ferns are significantly harder to navigate when laden down with two shopping bags.

Still, they make it back eventually, and by that point, Pete is chattering away openly about everything from his best friend to precipitation, from halogens to his favourite colour (it’s green). Paul listens as he talks, humming in acknowledgement and replying where necessary. It’s nice, being around someone who’s more than happy to fill the gaps in conversation. Paul enjoys listening.

“–and then I told him the only hot thing I knew was a Bunsen Burner,” Pete continues. “And he said ‘just wait until you’re older’ and I tried to set him on fire, and he–”

Pete goes on as Paul unloads the shopping, putting everything away and setting out the brownie mix on the table. He hands Pete a long, thin towel as a substitute for an apron, and begins to read the instructions. Paul is just about to open the box when–

“Wait!” Pete orders haughtily, holding a hand out in the universal sign for ‘stop’. “You haven’t washed your hands.”

“Ah, right. Okay,” Paul nods, and moves to do so.

“Wait!” Pete repeats, and he stops, turning to look at Pete quizzically. Pete grins, a spark igniting in his eyes. “I wanna show you something. Get me some pepper and a bowl!”

So Paul does, carefully watching over the kid. First, Pete fills the bowl with water, then begins sprinkling pepper atop that water. Paul raises an eyebrow when Pete takes the soap too, depositing it all on his kitchen counter.

“First,” Pete begins, entire face lit up. This is clearly something he’s passionate about. “Dip your finger in the bowl.”

Paul can’t help but pull a face as he looks at it. “Why? I’ll get soggy pepper on it.”

“Just do it, it’ll make sense later,” Peter commands. Paul obeys begrudgingly and, as expected, his finger leaves covered in bits of pepper. “Now, cover your finger in soap!”

“Can’t I just wash it?” Paul queries, but Pete shakes his head resolutely.

“Without the hand wash, all the pepper bits stayed the same and went onto your hand, right? I want to think of those pepper bits as germs,” Pete tells him. Paul doesn’t think he’s ever heard anyone sound so passionate about germs before. “Now, dip your finger in with the soap on it!”

He does so, not expecting much. Then, his eyes widen in shock as the pepper bits jump away from his finger, not a single one touching him. “What the f– heck?”

“Science!” Pete cheers joyfully. “That’s what’ll happen– more or less– with the real germs! So you gotta wash your hands.”

Paul nods, still staring, transfixed, at the bowl. Well, you learn something new every day, he supposes.

“Very cool,” Paul nods, and sets off to do so. Pete has to go to his bathroom sink, being too small to use the one in the kitchen. Soon enough, they've both got clean hands, and are ready to start baking.

Well. “Baking”. He's not really sure if the pre-made brownie mix counts, but it’s probably for the best.

They begin by dumping the brownie mix into a bowl. Pete takes care of measurements, cautious and precise to the nth degree. It’s Paul’s job to preheat the oven and gather ingredients, showing Pete how to crack an egg and mixing it all together when the boy’s little arms get tired. At one point, Paul tries to surreptitiously lick the spoon, and Pete goes off on another tangent about disease and salmonella. Paul listens to him talk with a smile, sprinkling chocolate chips atop the mixture.

Eventually, the brownies are done, coming out of the oven just right. Pete refused to leave its side for the twenty minutes while it cooked, wanting his creation to be perfect. And they were perfect. Paul wasn’t passionate about much, but these brownies were amazing.

…They’d go perfectly with a drink from Beanies’.

(Maybe they’d drown out the taste of that godawful coffee.)

“Hey, Pete,” Paul says casually, and Pete looks up at him happily, munching on a brownie. “Why don’t we go to a coffee shop? My treat.”

“Why? Don’t you have coffee at home?” Pete enquires nonchalantly, never one to leave a question unasked. Paul hadn’t expected to enjoy babysitting as much as he has, but this has been… Nice. 

“I… Do. But I, ah… Prefer the coffee there,” Paul lies. He’s seen Emma spit in those coffee cups so many times. “Besides, there’s someone I’d like to give a brownie to there.”

“Ah. A female,” Pete nods knowledgeably, and Paul chokes on his brownie.

“Pete–” he splutters. “You–”

“I am well-versed in the customs of acquiring a female!” Pete declares confidently. “I know all about it. It’s as Ted says, buy them a drink– or, in your case, a brownie, ask them over for a night, then Netflix and chill!” Paul chokes again. “What’s wrong? Is she pretty?”

“That’s– that’s not–” Paul argues weakly, then gives up. “Okay. Yeah. She’s very pretty.”

“Wait a second,” Pete eyes him suspiciously. “Is she the Latte Hottay?!”

“Is she the what ,” Paul deadpans, then remembers whose brother he’s talking to. “Okay. Okay. We’ll– we’ll go with that.”

So, off they embark to Beanies. Emma rolls her eyes but looks a little touched at the gift– until Pete asks her, face-to-face, what it feels like to be the Latte Hottay. Her perplexed ‘you have a kid? ’ is quickly followed by ‘ Ted’s kid’, and realisation flickers onto her face as she groans. Emma does not like Pete, and Pete quickly grows to dislike Emma, but they soon reach a sort of begrudging coexistence, Paul in the middle of them as he sips his terrible coffee. Pete requests a hot chocolate. Emma makes him wait patiently for it until Paul’s coffee is finished, and he has to order another.

But he has to admit, that day, it tastes a little sweeter than usual.