Chapter Text
Biking uphill is such a pain.
It’s cold today, a soft gray drizzle gradually soaking through your clothes. The cold brings a slow, tired ache to your joints too, not at all aided by the deadweight of the backpack pulling the meat of your shoulders down and back. Your chest is almost painfully tight, the fog of your labored breath released in short, steady puffs as your left foot occasionally catches awkwardly on its respective pedal. Even through the thick soles of your work boots, you could feel the wad of duct tape you had hastily wrapped it in when you found a jagged crack down the center, “hamburger style” your little sister had said.
At least the view was pretty. You were high up enough to see over downtown, a sliver of the beach and boardwalk, and the darkened water beyond it. Rays of light pierced through the cloud cover, illuminating sheets of rain as they fell like gauzy curtains onto the dreary cityscape below. The air smelled crisp, and if it weren’t for the chill, you might prefer to stay outside and find somewhere to relax. But your shift starts in twenty minutes. Thankfully, you’re making good time despite your exertion.
Once you hit the top of this hill, The Galley on 4th Avenue would be three blocks away. It’s your second job, and far nicer than the little diner you worked some of your mornings at. Not that the bar was all that high, of course. You hadn’t known it when you went in for the interview, but apparently the owner was somewhat famous, which explained why the place was fancier than you expected. Thatch Newgate, part of some hotshot rich family, or something like that. You had more important things to care about. At least he was nice. Hopefully this would translate into higher wages- lord knows the diner owed you one after single-handedly reorganizing and repackaging everything in storage to avoid food safety violations- but you weren’t gonna get your hopes up. At least the starting pay here was higher and the place was clean before you got there. Your sister would get mopey if you refused to bring her anything from this restaurant job, too.
Speaking of, what should you bring back for the little Grub? You didn’t get food from work often- it was a treat you save for the end of the week or special occasions. Employee discounts don’t do much, especially with how much nicer this job is. You’ve admittedly been spoiling her- you’ve only been a server at The Galley for roughly a month, and your proximity to quality food is just too tempting. There was a new soup you haven’t tried- a fragrant stew with tender lamb and little pearl onions. You could get a couple servings to take back, and some of the buttery rolls you both like. Maybe you could finally spring for one of those cartoonish roasts with the bone still sticking out, that would leave you both with leftovers. Or, you could forego a hearty main course and bring her one of those fancy desserts, instead. She hasn’t tried creme brulee before and you’re sure she’d love it-
There’s a sharp jolt, and your train of thought is utterly derailed when your front tire catches on a pothole concealed by a shallow puddle. “Ugh! Shit!” You scramble, feet struggling to steady yourself against the ground, but you’ve already lost control, awkwardly tumbling to the left and onto the wet asphalt. You catch yourself with your hand, the cold sting of rocks and pebbles digging into the meat of your palm as the sharp jolt of the impact shoots from your wrist up to your elbow. “Fuck!” You hiss, hauling your bike up onto the curb. Ugh, the water’s in your shoes. Your socks are utterly soaked. You swing your old backpack off, an old canvas thing you’d found second hand after the one you’d had since you were 12 finally gave up on this world and fell apart at the seams. Checking it over, it thankfully wasn’t soaked. You had your work uniform and a nicer pair of shoes wrapped in plastic grocery bags, but your textbooks had nothing. It was the wild west for them. Maybe you should wrap them up… following that, you properly turn your attention to your hand. A sizable scrape accompanied by a few small pebbles embedded into your skin, specks of grit littering the surface. You wince as you try to gently pry them out, wiping your hands on the front of your sweater. A small jolt of pain shoots up your arm again at the motion. Shit. Did you sprain it? Oh, god damn it!
You sigh. Well, your job is less than a block away. Grumbling, you stand your bike up, deciding to walk it for what remains of your route. You gently rotate your injured wrist as you go, trying to gauge how bad it is. It’s not quite a sprain, you think, though the adrenaline could be dulling some of the pain. You sigh, guiding your bike to cut across the parking lot and behind the building. You always lock it up there, in the nice little patio area the back door opens up into. There were a couple tables with four chairs each, and wooden benches facing inward whose backs formed a sort of fence along the perimeter. The whole thing is topped with soft string lights hung from the pale-brown awning sheltering the concrete brickwork of the patio floor. The little rest area was nice enough that occasionally some… “difficult” customers claimed to mistake it for a smaller outdoor seating area. Maybe you’d believe them, if it weren’t for both the signs saying otherwise and it being very clearly separate from where they were actually meant to sit- the much larger and better furnished patio on the right side of the building that also happens to be lacking in nearby dumpsters.
You lean your bike up against the back of the bench, securing it with an old corded lock looped through the wooden slats, and make your way inside. Pushing open the door, you sigh when the rush of warm air envelops you. You take a moment to just stand there and enjoy it, before heading to the breakroom. This was the nicest rest area you’d seen at any of your jobs, let alone a restaurant. At the diner, you’d just sit in one of the booths, but The Galley practically had a lounge in comparison. One large red couch pushed against the back wall, accompanied by a coffee table and a small, squeaky arm chair. There was a kitchenette on the other side of the room, but you’d seen your coworkers use the main kitchen on their breaks if things weren’t busy. It made you nervous, but you weren’t a snitch. In the adjacent corner to the kitchenette rests a larger table, a sturdy wooden piece a few shades lighter than the dark oak flooring. There were a number of differently colored tablecloths that could be swapped out- right now, it was a red and white checkered pattern, like a picnic blanket.
You set your backpack down on the armchair, the bite of the old canvas straps fading into a dull ache, and roll your now unburdened shoulders with a satisfied hum. You go to fetch the first aid kit from under the sink- one of several on the premises, of course. You crouch down to open the blue laminate doors- leaning forward to grab the bright red box and-
BANG
The doors to the kitchens slam open and you jump, banging your head on the ceiling of the little cupboard. “FUCK! UGH!” You yell before you can help yourself, whirling around to see the shocked faces of… Millie, a younger coworker with promising culinary talent, and your boss, Thatch. The man is mid-wince, with a light lopsided grimace on his face as he sucks some air in through his teeth. Millie has her hands raised in front of her mouth, wide eyes framed by her messy brown hair and the big circular glasses she wears. “Oh my god! I’m so sorry!” She starts, rushing towards you as you rub your head, wincing at the jolt that runs through your wrist. Right. Bad arm. Your good one has the kit. Well, if there’s a good time to be injured, you guess it would be now. “I didn’t mean to slam the door like that, I just- I’m sorry for surprising you!” She continues, sinking to the floor beside you. Poor kid can be just as nervous as she is talented. It rarely fails to activate your “Big Sibling” mode, which is funny since your own sister isn’t anxious like that at all.
“I-it’s fine, kid, don’t worry-” You start, but Millie keeps going.
“Were you getting the- here, let me help! I know you’re the med student but I can take a look at your head-” She reaches for your face and you instinctively jerk away.
“Millie!” She stops, shoulders tensing, hands held against her chest. “Millie, I’m serious, it’s really not that big of a deal,” you try to assure her, but judging by the looks on their faces, your smile is just as strained as it feels. Millie’s lips are pressed into a thin line, wobbling slightly. You try again. “Sorry, sorry for yelling. I didn’t mean to freak you out.” You reach for her shaking hands, gently clasping them between your own. “This isn’t something to get worked up over. I was more surprised than hurt, honestly. And even if I was, it was an accident. You can chill.” Millie exhales slowly, slowly relaxing a little bit. That’s good. Your eyes slide over to Thatch and his… impressive hairdo. He’s watching quietly now, arms crossed with a soft smile. “My only worry is getting in trouble for ‘unprofessional language’ at the moment.”
That earns a good-natured snort from your boss, who waves a hand dismissively. “Oh please, if I had an issue with that, I’d have to fire every line cook we’ve got. And you always get here early, so there are a couple things I’m willing to overlook. If anything, you’ve earned the profanity.” You quirk an eyebrow, releasing Millie’s hands to gather the kit and stand up.
“Kinda sounds like you’re keeping track. Is it measured? Do I earn swear words based on how many times I get here before my shift, or is it based on the number of minutes left before it starts?”
“Hmm. We can workshop it,” he says jovially, and when you hear Millie giggle, the strained smile you’d plastered onto yourself relaxes into something more genuine. “So, what were you getting that out for, anyway?” he asks, gesturing to the kit you’d risked life and cranium for. “Does it have to do with how drenched you are? It isn’t raining that hard.”
You chuckle nervously, opening your mouth to assure him it’s really no big deal, to just let you take care of it, when your thoughts are interrupted by Millie exclaiming “Oh!” You both turn to look at the girl, who is looking at her hands with that same wide-eyed anxious look. “Y-you, um, you bled on me? You’re bleeding?” She says, holding out her right hand to show the little bit of blood you’d accidentally smeared onto the back when you tried to comfort her.
“Ah! That’s- oh my god, that’s so gross, I’m sorry kid,” you start rambling. Now it’s your turn to be flustered. You look down at your hand, and sure enough the blood is still oozing out. “I just fell on my way here. I wasn’t thinking about it when I touched you, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay! M-maybe I could look at it?” Millie starts, but Thatch gently puts a hand on her shoulder.
“Nah. Why don’t you go wash your hands, and head back to the kitchen to tell the others about that appetizer idea you had? I’ll take care of our friend here. Don’t worry about it.” Your eye twitches a little bit at that. He’s not your friend- he’s your boss, and you have boundaries regarding superiors getting buddy-buddy, thank you very much. But it’s not worth mentioning, at this point. It’s small, he’s saying it to comfort Millie, and he’s already doing you a favor. He’s never actually crossed the line, you’re just… a bit jaded, maybe?
“Are… are you sure?” Millie asks, glancing between you and the blood smeared over the backs of her knuckles.
You smile gently. “Yep. It’s all fine. Go tell everyone about the thing. And let me know too, if you find a minute once I’m up and running.” You assure.
Millie flushes, tilting her head and looking off to the side bashfully. “It’s nothing that special…” she mumbles, shuffling past you to use the sink. “We just have a lot of cauliflower and only two menu items that call for it…”
You giggle at the comment but nearly jump out of your skin when your boss lays a hand on your right arm. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, hands raised flat in front of him. “Would you hand me that? Let me see your hand.” His voice is soft, and he’s looking at you with that warm look again- the one that really accentuates the crinkles around the older man’s eyes.
You aren’t sure how to feel.
Your boss is pretty friendly, to say the least. It really threw you for a loop when you first started working- you’d been preparing yourself for the predatory bloodsuckers you were used to, the ones who’d wring as many hours as possible while looking for any excuse to dock your pay. Practiced smiles and an ego stroked by exacting power over impoverished retail and fast-food employees. Any friendliness out of these people came with an agenda, and you’d always found it endlessly infuriating how someone so pathetic held so much sway over whether or not you’d get to eat. The Galley was probably the nicest place you’d ever worked- so you expected the attitude to be similar. You went in with your guard up, but the friendliness you’ve been met with thus far seemed genuine. The way that man effortlessly pulled you in despite your reservations was… unnerving. You barely even register that you’ve handed him the bright red box until he’s already holding it.
You blink, then mentally shake yourself off, choosing to finally shuck off your sweater. At least it’s wool, so you aren’t all that cold despite being soaked. The sink shuts off, and Millie rushes past both of you with a quick “See ya!” You smile softly again. She’s a good kid.
“Could I take a look at that now?” Your boss speaks up gently. You look back up at him, at the concerned crease in his brow, the dark eyes scanning over your wrist.
“It’s really not that big of a deal, sir, I can t-take care of it myself,” you try to assure, tensing when he frowns.
“I’m sure you can, but you don’t have to. Hmm… it’s swelling,” he says, moving a warm palm gently resting against your forearm, slowly lifting it. Now that you get a better look at it, you wince. Shit, it’s probably a sprain after all. He clicks his tongue, eyes sliding from your wrist to your face. You don’t meet his gaze. “What happened?”
“I fell on the way here, like I said. Dumb accident,” you mumble. He doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking at you. You start to sweat a little. Thatch knew you biked here- but even so, transportation was something you preferred to be vague about. Even if he knew you didn’t have a car, you didn’t want to draw attention to it. Incidents like this could be used against you, potentially creating the argument that you didn’t qualify for the position due to a ‘lack of reliable transportation.’ It was bullshit, but it didn’t mean they couldn’t do it. “It’s not a big deal, I promise. I don’t want to waste anyone’s time,” you insist, and he sighs.
“Do you want to take a night off? We both know this doesn’t look good…” he speaks tentatively and gently, but you still jolt, finally looking him in the eye.
“Wh-? No! No no no, it’s fine, I can still work!” You cringe inwardly for sounding so frantic. You’re reminded of a time where Grub had gone home with a school friend without telling you, sending you into hysterics when she hadn't gotten off the bus. You shake yourself off- you aren’t anywhere near that freaked out at the moment, but it was a memory that always encouraged you to calm down. “I can still… I’ll just carry less plates at one time, or something. I promise it’s fine,” you say, calmer this time, but he doesn’t seem convinced.
“C’mon, I know you’re pre-med,” he says softly, lowering your arm.
“Yeah, so I’ve got a decent idea of how bad it is, and what my limits are,” you huff impatiently. The sooner you can go change, the sooner you get this shift over with.
“So you know that it’s probably a sprain.”
Your eye twitches. “Yes, and I know how to wrap and tape it. There’s an elastic bandage in the kit.” Goddamnit, drop it. You need this shift, you promised Grub something good to eat, and you need to get her some decent winter boots.
He tries again. “You should see an actual doctor.”
“Not bad enough to be worth it with my budget.”
“Carrying dishes out to customers could make it even worse-”
“I’ve done harder jobs in worse condition.” Your voice raises slightly.
His brows furrow. “You shouldn’t-”
“I have to!” You spit, cutting him off before you can stop yourself. “I need the fucking hours, don’t patroni-” you cut yourself off abruptly.
There’s a beat of stunned silence. The blood rushing in your ears far outweighs the clatter of dishes and pleasant chatter of coworkers drifting in from the kitchens- people whose names you haven’t even memorized yet. You tuck your chin against your chest and stare down at the floor. You… can’t talk like that. Your body goes rigid, stomach clenching. You absolutely cannot talk like that. This is the best job you’ve had. “Sorry, m’sorry, sir.” It’s a whisper, and the sentiment feels laughably hollow. Your tongue feels heavy and numb in your mouth, like a big useless hunk of lead. You’ve been fired for less. How could you be so stupid? So utterly, laughably stupid ? Damn it, damn him- you’d never argued like that with other employers, you knew better. His grating, incessant friendliness, despite your caution, despite knowing from the start that it could lure you into a false sense of security, must have gotten the better of you. You got too comfortable somehow- there’s no other explanation for how you hadn’t even spared a second thought to the idea of arguing with your damn boss. Should you plead your case? Apologize again? No, it’s over. It has to be. “I’ll…” there’s a painful lump in your throat. Getting the words out feels like dragging boulders up and out of your own big, stupid gullet. “I can just go. I don’t… k-keep anything here, anyway. Nothing to… clear out…”
There’s a movement, a flash in the corner of your eye- the shadow of a familiar raised hand is pulled from the depths of your brain and you jerk backwards, eyes blown wide, reflexively guarding your face-
Both of you are frozen for a moment. You can feel him staring at you, hear your name being called coaxingly.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Just… Come sit down and let me wrap that up for you, okay?”
“...Right.”
You don’t really make any conscious decision to sit down so much as you just find yourself at the table in a chair turned sideways, facing your boss with your arm outstretched. His hair blocks out one of the lights from where you’re sitting, and it almost makes you crack a smile, but you don’t. You’re wordless as he gently dabs your palm with a disinfectant pad, eyes searching your blank face for something. His brows furrow a little. Does he want something? Are you being too quiet? There’s a soft inhale. “You…” He pauses, sighs, broad shoulders slumping as he leans forward- you instinctively move back, and he stops. “Sorry.” He’s quiet for a moment, maybe waiting for you to say something. When you don’t, he continues. “You don’t need to be so nervous, alright? I try to take care of my people here,” he speaks softly, laying a light square of gauze over the angry red flesh of your scraped palm. There’s another small jolt of indignation. Again with the familiarity. You aren’t his anything.
… But you really can’t risk another little outburst.
“You don’t need to work tonight,” he says, warm murmur grounding you as he starts to wrap your arm. “But I won’t make you leave, either, if you’re… Really sure about this.” Your brows furrow. You don’t understand why he’s being so… Nice. You’d had a dishwashing job before this- it was mostly fine, until Grub came down with the flu. You had to take five days off to take care of her, and once you’d come back, they started cutting your hours. Shorter shifts, to losing days, to finally being “laid off.” All because you missed five days of scrubbing plates. If you’d argued with your manager there, you’re sure he would’ve smashed a glass over your head.
You sniffle, rubbing your eyes with your good arm. “I-I don’t get it,” you mutter. It still hurts to try and speak. It’s all so embarrassing.
He chuckles, a gentle rumble resonating in his chest as he applies the little bandage fasteners. He gently turns your wrist, examining the bandaging job, before gingerly laying your arm back down on the table. “Please. You think you’re the first struggling employee I’ve had?” He asks. You can tell he’s looking at your face, but you don’t feel ready to meet his eyes. He continues, seemingly unbothered. “I try to be decent, that’s all.” You nod slowly, and he hums. “You’ve still got some time before your shift. I’m gonna go check in with the fine folk in our kitchens, and you take some time to calm down. Let me know what you decide once I get back, alright?”
You blink. That was it? You aren’t even being reprimanded? You… probably should be, at least a little bit. “A-alright,” you parrot, voice faint.
He pats your shoulder before rising to his feet. Good god, he’s tall. “Great. Think about what I said, alright?” And then he’s off.
That’s it.
You don’t move, at first. It takes you a minute of just sitting in that chair, listening to the sounds of the kitchen. Then something finally clicks and you own your body again, springing to your feet and grabbing your backpack as you scramble to the staff bathroom to change- something you manage without incident, surprisingly, considering your night so far. And when you’re done, you amble your way back to the armchair, dropping backwards onto the worn leather. You should… try to clear your head. You need to be able to act like you have yourself together when Thatch gets back.
You still aren’t sure what to make of everything. He’s so painfully nice, but you still can’t help but think you’ve really, really fucked up somehow. But one thing is certain- you have another chance, and you really don’t want to ruin it.
When Thatch finally comes back, you don’t miss the way his face falls once he sees you in uniform. “... I see you’ve made up your mind, then.” You shift under his gaze, clumsy fingers fumbling with the thick seams of the right armrest. He talks nice, and plays the part of a concerned party very well, but you still can’t help but see it all as a possible ploy to get rid of you. You needed to prove yourself, so you could stay. You had to. So you just nod.
“Yes, sir.”
-
You have practice putting on your customer service voice. The empty smile, deliberately flexing your cheeks just enough that it looks like it reaches your eyes. The friendly voice you put on too, gratingly chipper to your own ears. The shift isn’t that bad. There are a couple tables that express concern, asking about your bandaged wrist, but you’re able to laugh it off and give a vague answer. Taking orders isn’t much of a problem. Holding the little notepad does send twinges of pain through your wrist, but it’s manageable. One table praises you for being oh-so careful with their food, and it’s all you can do not to roll your eyes. They end up tipping very well, anyway. Multiple tables do, actually. Maybe you should wear a bandage more often.
It’s not until you’re two hours in that something eventful happens. You’re on your way to deliver an order to the kitchen staff when you see her. Millie is loitering just next to the doors to the dining area, chewing her lip with a platter of appetizers in hand- a bread basket, shrimp tartlets, some of those fancy cheeses and a portion of breaded calamari, it looks like. Millie is just staring down at them, buckling at the knees in a pigeon-toed stance. “Mills?” You call softly, and her head snaps up to you. “Millie, are you okay..? What’s wrong?”
“Ah, i-it’s nothing,” she stammers, but the way her voice is trembling says otherwise. “I o-only need a moment, a-and I’ll be just fine! It’s just fine!” Her voice cracks on the last word, and she visibly cringes, the rattle of lightly jostled silverware filling the brief silence.
“... Millie,” you start gently, crossing your arms as you automatically slip into your concerned-big-sibling mode. “It’s obviously not fine. What’s the problem? What has you so shaken up?”
Her lips wobble. “It’s dumb,” she mumbles. “Not even that bad…”
You scoff, rolling your eyes. “You’re a nervous kid, but not without reason. Tell me what’s up, okay?” You say, adding a touch of firmness to your tone.
She sighs, shifting on her feet, looking anywhere but you. “I-it’s just… there’s this table of business-man types, and um… a-at first they were just kinda looking at me weird, but…” Your body goes rigid. “I came back to take their orders, and one of them says I’ve got pretty hair, a-and he wants to brush it out for me? Which is j-just weird, I guess, but it made me uncomfortable, and then another one says our uniform supplier sh-should bring the skirt length up by a couple inches and everyone laughed… and another said to lower the necklines too, while they’re at it. So um… I just…” You put a hand up.
“Millie, you don’t need to say anything else. That’s fucking gross and you’re not stupid, okay?” You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose, before looking back up with a stern expression. “Alright, here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna handle that table. You’re getting an early break- go take a little bit to calm down, okay? I’m taking over as server for those creeps.”
Millie splutters, but you’re already taking the platter. “W-wait, no! I can do it, it’s fine!” She reaches out to take it back from you, but you shoot the poor girl a stern look.
“If anything happens, if anyone asks- throw me under the bus. You have my permission. I’m not gonna let you deal with that shit if I can help it, okay?” You say, maintaining eye-contact with the wide-eyed girl. “Tell me you understand.” She just nods, hugging herself now that her hands are free. Your face softens. “Great. Now go take that break, okay? It’s just fine.” You want to pat her shoulder, but your hands are full. She just nods, mumbles out the table number and a thank-you, then scurries away. You take a deep breath, before pushing the door open with your back, and spinning around to face the public dining area.
You don’t bother putting the customer service smile back on. You walk up to that table with the blankest, most unimpressed expression you can muster. They’re in a corner booth, three men in suits. Two seem about middle aged, one with dark hair and the other gray. The third is a younger brunette- he has his coat draped over the back of the booth. One raises a brow as you approach, but you don’t react. Wordlessly, you set the carrying platter down, before removing each appetizer. “Shrimp tartlets, bread basket, tempura, cheese platter,” you say flatly, retrieving the platter with your good hand, before saying the dreaded next lines. “The main courses will be out shortly. Is there anything else you need.” The men look at eachother, scoffing, one shaking his head and another doing a breathy sort of laugh.
“You’re not the girl we had before. What happened to her?” One of the older two asks.
Your eyes narrow, ever so slightly. “She’s busy,” busy taking some time to herself, hopefully. “-So I delivered your food. Now, is there anything else you would like to order?”
“How about a smile?” The younger one says, leaning towards you.
You’re unable to keep the sharp glare off your face. “That is not a menu item. My coworkers and I are here to serve food, and nothing else. Now, is that all? ” You ask, holding the brunette’s gaze. You don’t flinch, you don’t falter, not even when you jostle your injured wrist. You can tell they feel awkward, glancing around at each other. Nobody says anything for a good few seconds, until you speak up again. “Right. We’ll have the rest right out for you soon, sirs,” before turning and swiftly retreating. Could be better, could be worse. As anxious as you were about job security, you were far more pissed with men like that. You couldn’t deny you were jittery though- your nerves wrung tight with everything that had happened thus far, and the simmering anger at the idea of anyone upsetting Millie.
You just keep going, denying the exhaustion creeping through your body. Fake smile bright, voice chipper, laughing off your injury even when it sent jolts of pain all the way up your arm. You don’t pay the few comments much mind, save for the one-armed regular who frequents the bar with his friends cracking a good-natured joke about taking better care of yourself, lest you end up matching him. You snort, letting the facade slip a bit. The smile you give him is tired, and doesn’t show any teeth- but it’s genuine. “I dunno, man… I think I could pull off the facial scars pretty well,” you quip back. You almost worry that you could cross a line with that, but your worries are quickly assuaged by drunken laughter.
Thankfully, you don’t have to serve those men again. Neither does Millie. By the time your break rolls around, another coworker greets you- the tall, scruffy line cook with patchy facial hair who’s always chewing on a toothpick, what was his name again? He usually looks like he’s bored out of his mind. He informs you that the poor kid is in the kitchens again. She’d had an emotional conversation with Thatch, but he hadn’t heard the details, so you fill him in on the creeps she’d been serving. He smirks. “Ohoh. Well, those three won’t be back now that she’s told him, I can promise you that. Thanks for covering for her, by the way.” His eyes narrow. “Hey, what happened to your arm?”
You blink, barely swallowing a yawn. “Oh, th- it’s just a sprain. Fell on the way here.”
“And the boss didn’t give you the night off? No offense, but you look trashed.”
You wince, glancing at the little mirror above the bathroom sink. You guess you do look pretty tired, your eyebags are very prominent. “He, uh. Tried too? I need the hours.”
He’s still for a second, before the bored expression morphs into a pitying look, clapping a hand on your shoulder and leaving it there. “Listen, I know how lots of places are, but the boss ain’t one to screw you out of PTO,” he drawls, toothpick waggling as he speaks. “If he offers something, he means it, alright?” He says, looking you right in the eyes.
“Oh,” you mumble rather dumbly in response. He gives your shoulder a squeeze.
“Just… try taking him up on it, the next time he offers you something, alright?” He says, retrieving his hand and sauntering off. He moves with a hunched, somewhat bow-legged stance. Right before he opens the door to the kitchens, he turns to call back to you. “If it doesn’t go well, I’ll saw my own foot off! Like in that one movie with the guys in the bathroom… aw damn, what’s it called?”
“... Saw?” you offer tentatively.
He snaps his fingers, giving you a grin. “Yeah, that’s it! I’ll saw my foot off, just like that movie Saw!”
A nervous little chortle bubbles its way out of you. “I, um, don’t want you to do that, though?”
“Well that’s good, cuz I won’t have to!” He says, flashing a grin and a peace-sign before the doors swing shut behind him.
Huh.
He’s a nice guy. You should really get his name…
You roll your shoulders back, exhaling. You’ve got the break room to yourself, for right now. You fetch your backpack, lugging it one-handed to the table. Gingerly unzipping it, you grunt as you clumsily slide the hefty nursing textbook out of your bag. You can probably manage about half an hour of cramming before you’re back out on the dining floor. The book is dropped onto the table with a loud THUNK! Before you pull up a chair and crack it open. You ought to pat yourself on the back, you think. You’re getting a lot of shit done, despite everything that has happened tonight. You squint, staring down at your book. Ugh. Your eyes are scanning over the words, but you’re not really taking anything in. Okay. Well, you’ll get up and fix yourself some tea with the little stove. Sighing, you stand back up, trudging your way over. Wow, your limbs feel heavy, huh? You need to reset your brain. Just take a second to get your bearings. The tea will help with that, you think.
You manage to set the kettle to boil with one arm, having had to awkwardly brace it against your chest to pour the water in. You pick one of the options kept in the cabinet, until finding one that seems appealing and leaving it in a pre-prepped mug. The piercing whistle of the kettle sounds, so you turn off the little stove and pour the water. There. Time to grab your beverage and get back to it. You walk back over, sit yourself back down, and look at the page. Elbows on the table, head resting on your hands. There isn’t much left to read. Just a couple chapters, maybe? You’re allowed to annotate. Highlight text, write notes and shit. God, the text really is bleeding together though… you want to pull your hair out. You take a sip of tea, instead, letting the warmth spread through your mouth. Rubbing the heels of your palms against your eyes, you sigh. You can rest your eyes for a second. You cross your arms over the open textbook, laying your head down. Only for a second. Just for a second.
-
This doesn’t feel right.
You huff, brows furrowing at the dryness of your mouth. Ugh. You have your tea though, you think, fingers digging into the cushions of- you stop. Cushions? Wait. You’re at the table- no, you aren’t. You aren’t sitting anymore, you’re lying down-
You shoot up, hands flying to rub your eyes fiercely- wrenching a strangled yelp out of you when the taut sting of pain returns to your injured wrist. A white shape slides off your body with the soft rustling of fabric. You blink the sleep out of your eyes- it’s quieter now. You look around- you’ve moved to the couch. You fucking fell asleep. Why didn’t anyone wake you? And did you lay yourself down? You don’t remember that. Your tea, now cold, sits on the coffee table on a branded coaster, your textbook closed next to it with a bookmark slipped between the pages. And beside them, three… generously sized to-go bags. Your body goes numb. You feel like you’re gonna throw up.
Did you… pack up more food then you’ve ever taken before and then just go pass out? You wouldn’t have, right? Your hands are trembling, it feels hard to breathe- you wouldn’t. You know that. If you did, it would definitely be over. Back to stints in retail and fast food and lord knows they don’t pay as well. If you’ve blown this, there goes any chance at saving up money. You stifle a sob, pushing the ache in your throat back down into your chest. You sniffle, furiously wiping away the tears beading up in your eyes. Why didn’t anyone wake you up? It was busy! Little hiccups crawl their way out of you, feeling so much louder in this quiet, empty room. Your good hand slaps over your mouth, trying to stifle the pathetic sounds. Come on, get your shit together. You didn’t do this. You know that you would be too afraid to. It clicks into place when your eyes fall to the white fabric puddled on the floor by your feet. A chef’s coat- one a couple sizes too big to fit any of your peers.
Your boss’s coat draped over your sleeping form, the food you never would’ve had the balls to order for yourself, his aggravatingly friendly demeanor- you feel the heat rising to your face, resting in your cheeks and the tips of your ears. The familiar burn of the twin-flames, shame and embarrassment. Thatch moved you. Picked you up and laid you onto the couch himself. Who else? Millie couldn’t, and the coat was too big to fit… the Saw Guy. You bend down, gingerly picking up the white coat. You rub the fabric between your fingers for a few seconds, staring down at the garment now bunched up in your lap. Another sniffle, another rub of the eyes- and you drape it over the back of the couch with a shaky breath.
The food smells… really good, but you can’t bring yourself to examine it properly. You sit there in silence for a long moment, staring down at your hands. You feel… far away. This is all so weird. What does your boss get out of this? Your coworkers all seem to adore him, yes, but you just…
You don’t want to get your hopes up.
The doors to the kitchen swing open, but you don’t look. You feel a bead of sweat roll down your neck, the sensation sending a shiver through you. The familiar voice of your boss calls out to you, but you say nothing. You hear his footfalls echoing through the empty room, coming to stop on the other side of the table. You can see his figure in your peripherals. “Hey,” he calls softly.
You swallow the lump in your throat. “... Why didn’t you wake me up?” You choke out.
“... I suppose I felt bad,” he confesses. His voice is soft but… almost tight. “I have some bad news.” You immediately tense, the fingers of your good hand digging into your leg. “Well hang on, it’s not like that!” He says hurriedly, already knowing what you thought. Now you look up at him, searching his weathered face. He’s got a plain black shirt on- yep, the coat’s his for sure. He rubs the back of his neck, and there’s no hint of a smile. Despite his assurances, you feel like a fist is squeezing your heart, a thick anxious weight in your throat. “Millie came to talk to me earlier. I appreciate that you helped out, of course, it’s just…” He sighs, screwing his eyes shut for a moment. When he opens them again, he looks you in the eyes, and your gaze dips before you can stop yourself. “She went out onto the back patio to calm down like you said, and… someone had stolen your bike.”
It takes a moment to hit you. “Th-that old thing?” You breathe incredulously, eye twitching just barely. “Why the fuck… that old p-piece of..?” You stare at him. Is he fucking with you? But the way his mouth is pulled unevenly, brows drawn tight, the slight scrunch of his upper nose bridge… and his eyes are awfully soft.
“I’m afraid so,” he says softly. Your throat falls into your chest and your heart falls into your stomach. Of course. Of course! Is fucking everything happening today? You’re caught somewhere between the urge to laugh or burst into tears- you just lean forward with a choked wheeze, anxious hands pulling at your hair. Don’t- don’t break down in front of this man-
You already can’t afford a car or proper daycare a neighbor is watching your sister for fuck’s sake
Your good hand slides down to your mouth, roughly clamping over your lips in a desperate attempt to stifle the lurching wail of frustration you know is trapped in your chest. A strangled whine leaks past your rigid fingers anyway.
She needs winter boots a new coat too but the bike the fucking bike you can’t earn money without it everything is over
The couch cushions dip, and a warm hand rubs your upper back. You jolt. When had he moved? “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “Let me give you a ride? I already do it for Millie, when her dad… can’t.” You look up at him, peeking between your splayed fingers.
“A ride,” you repeat dryly, voice hoarse. “Don’t suppose you’ll be driving me to work, as well?”
“... If that’s what you need, I can make it work. It’s not like biking is a good idea with your wrist like that, anyway.” You’re quiet for a long moment. He does have a point, as much as you hate to admit it. You change the subject for now, gesturing to the bags on the table.
“And the, uh… pity rations?” You ask. Thatch snorts, leaning back and crossing his legs.
“Millie felt pretty horrible about the bike situation, especially after the favor you did her-”
“Wh- that’s not her fault!” You interrupt before you can stop yourself. He gives you another look you don’t like, a strange warmth with a glint you can’t place.
“No, of course not,” he says, reaching over your shoulders to pick up his coat where you’d laid it out. “But you know how she is- the poor kid was broken up about it all the same. Didn’t know how to tell you, so I said I would. She made most of that for you- Genkei invited himself to help her, when he found her still sniffling over a pot of chowder.” Ah, Genkei… you remember now. Saw-guy’s actual name.
“Oh god, kid…” you mumble to yourself, shaking your head. “She’s… gone already, then? I can’t thank her?”
Thatch nods, smiling at you softly. “I wouldn’t worry about it- you can do that next time you come in. Neither of you are leaving this job anytime soon- not by my hand, anyway.”
You look to your boss, then back at the packaged food. It all still feels too good to be true, but… what option do you have, really? Even if you did still have your bike, Thatch was completely right. Biking with a busted wrist wouldn’t work out. “I just…” you start, then pause. This… puts you in a strange spot, though. You’ll… owe him after this, won’t you? Is all this gonna be hung over your head? Genkei didn’t seem worried about anything, but… but…
“What do I need to do to convince you that you aren’t in any trouble?” Thatch asks, warmth slightly cut with exasperation. You cringe.
“I don’t… I don’t know? I just…” You struggle to find the words. “... Sorry?” You offer.You aren’t looking at him, but you can feel him staring at you.
“None of that, now,” he says, waving you off. “How’s this to start? Let me help carry your things to the car.”
Well… you can’t do it yourself, you think. “Okay,” you relent, nodding. “... Thank you.”
It turns out that when Thatch said “Let me help carry your things” he’d actually intended on carrying all of it. He had your backpack and two of the take-out bags looped around his arm, while you were left with the smallest of the three. He whistles a tune while you follow him out to the darkened staff parking area- street and building lights casting strips of ruddy yellow-orange over the lot. You trail behind him, watching as he goes from a silhouette, to being outlined in amber light, to a silhouette again- staring at his bobbing pompadour as he leads you to an old, brown ford bronco with tan paneling. You blink. The paint is chipped and worn away in places- this is an old beater car. Nice when it was in its prime, likely still efficient. You’d expected something fancier from some sort of… well, you weren’t sure if celebrity is the right term, but he was a big deal in culinary circles and he came from a rich family.
He leads you to the passenger side door. With one hand, he fishes his keys out of his pocket, unlocking the vehicle and opening the door with a smile. You blink, taken aback for a moment before you thank him, sliding in and placing the one bag you were allowed to carry at your feet. Leave it to him to make being down a limb look so effortless. You exhale, trying to relax against the cracked leather seat, cradling your wrist in your lap when Thatch slides into the driver’s seat. He turns the key, then turns to you. “How’s it feel?”
You glance at him, half his face shadowed, then back to the bandaging on your wrist. “It’s… fine when I don’t move it,” you admit. That was mostly true. You suppose there was a dull ache but you were good at tuning that out. “I’ve got painkillers back home, that should help a little…” you muse, earning a hum in response.
He starts the car, asks your address, and the two of you are off. It’s mostly quiet, just the hum of the engine and the passing streetlights. What are you going to do about the bike? You don’t have work for two days, but you can’t get a new bike in that time. You glance at your boss through the corner of your eye. You… really don’t want to rely on him for this. Calling your boss for a ride to work feels wrong. Maybe you should’ve asked Saw g- er, Genkei… no, you barely know that guy, either. Ugh.
“Uh… thanks again,” you force out, when the two of you are stopped at a red light. “Grub’s gonna be really happy about the food…”
“Grub?” He asks, and you can imagine the quirked brow even if you can’t currently see it.
“Yeah, my baby sister.”
“Ah, right,” he says, looking to you then back up at the light. “Guess I never heard you mention her name.”
“You haven’t..?” You mumble to yourself. “Well, it’s… not her legal name. I called her that once to tease her, but it completely backfired and now she refuses to go by anything else,” you explain, feeling a smile start to pull at the corners of your mouth.
He chuckles softly. The stoplight switches. “She sounds like a funny kid,” he says, accelerating forward.
“She really is.”
“You take care of her on your own, then? No parents?” There’s a sharp jolt in your chest.
“... No parents,” you confirm after a long moment. The tightness in your voice is clear. You’re worried he’ll press you for more- you can feel him look at you again.
“... I see,” is all he says, voice quiet and sympathetic. You’re grateful for it. He drives in silence for a little while, making a turn. “Got lotsa siblings myself,” he muses after a while. “All of us adopted.”
You blink, glancing back over at him- but his eyes are focused ahead again. “Oh. That’s…” you aren’t sure what to say. “I-I’m sorry,” you settle on.
He huffs good naturedly. “Nah, don’t be. Oyaji’s great. I wouldn’t have things any other way.” Another pause, another strange pitying glance. “ I’m sorry. This sort of thing… none of this is easy to do on your own.” You blink- finding yourself fighting back sudden tears. His voice was so much softer when he said that, so… earnest.
Why did it hurt? Why did it feel so good to hear, at the same time? He hasn’t said anything revolutionary. Of course it was fucking hard. Is it because he’s your boss, that the acknowledgement hits you so sharply? The novelty of it all that knocks you off-kilter?
You focus on swallowing that lump in your throat again. “Thanks,” you force the word out, unsure if you actually mean it.
-
Thatch regarded you with pity. You were far from the first employee who’d had it rough when he took them under his wing- hell, Genkei got the job a week after surviving an overdose. The ambulance ride alone put the poor bastard in debt, not to mention the actual treatment. Not that he disclosed that, but he had looked like hell during his interview and it wasn’t difficult to find out when one of your brothers has connections in every local hospital. No, Thatch was no stranger to what others would call charity cases (Though he preferred to regard them as “investments”). But matters of family never failed to tug on the Chef’s heartstrings.
He didn’t know exactly what your story was, beyond the poverty and custody over your sister. You tried to keep to yourself, bottling everything up until it was impossible to keep it in. But he could infer some things- your parents were probably either dead, or… unfit to care for children. Not unlike Millie’s parents, in his opinion- if Thatch’s father could somehow balance the amount of kids he had, Millie’s had absolutely no excuse for blatantly favoring her brothers.
… Could be worse, though… at least she had a proper roof over her head, but the apartment lot he had just pulled into left quite a bit to be desired. This complex was notorious- barely maintained structures, leased to those unlucky enough to be without alternatives. He can see you curling in on yourself the closer he gets, staring down at your fidgeting hands.
Poor thing.
Though your reservations weren’t without merit, and he had found your earlier outburst endearing- like a sad, wet puppy snapping at him before recoiling shamefully, he wished you were more receptive to being cared for. This was a step in the right direction, he supposed, as he pulled into a parking spot in front of building eight. Your apartment was on the second floor, so he’d be lucky enough to assist you in bringing your things inside as well. Even if you were embarrassed, he needed to know what type of situation he was dealing with.
“Thanks for the ride,” you say softly, hugging yourself.
“Well, of course. Wouldn’t do to strand you at my restaurant, now would it?” He keeps his voice soft for you. He unbuckles, opening the door, and you look back up at him in confusion.
“Wait, what are you-?”
He stops, turning to face you and raising a brow. “I’m helping you carry everything up, of course.”
He softens at the look you give him next, eyes widened and head shaking. “N-no, that’s okay, sir! You can just drop me off, you d-don’t need to-”
He tuts in disapproval, a little pearl of guilt welling up when you flinch. He knows you’re afraid of letting him see the conditions of this place, of the judgment you were no doubt used to receiving. But he wanted to see- it made helping easier. “I wouldn’t have let you carry your things to the car, so I’m definitely not letting you do it up a flight of stairs. That textbook of yours is awfully heavy, you know.”
You sputter as he exits the vehicle, and by the time you're done fumbling with your seatbelt, he’s already opening the door for you again. You breath shakily, looking up at him all flustered. “You don’t h-have to…” you try to insist, but he just chuckles, shaking his head.
“I want to,” he asserts, giving you a warm smile. You look like you’re going to say something else, but decide against it, closing your mouth and looking down with a huff. You timidly shuffle out of the car with your one bag. That one has mostly appetizers and desserts, so it’s the lightest. He closes the car door behind you, going to fetch the other bags. Your backpack, the other generously packed bags- one with Millie’s clam chowder, a seafood gumbo, and a hearty chili, while the other had two steaks with a portion of roasted vegetables and potatoes. He also portioned some of that roast he’d seen you eyeing- cut up so it could fit in the container easier, of course. He didn’t pack much seafood outside of the soup- he knew it wouldn’t keep or reheat as well.
He follows you, this time- glancing over your shoulder at him, your sweet face contorted in anxiousness. He idly whistles as he goes, slowing his pace so as not to overtake you. You’re fumbling with your own keys, standing in front of apartment number 404- when the door swings open, and a blurry form shoots forward to throw her arms around your legs. You stumble, instinctively reaching to pat her head with your injured hand- wincing empathetically when you inevitably jolt. The kid looks up with a big, gap-toothed smile, sparkling eyes peeking out from behind her bangs. “MISS HOWELL! EARWIG IS FINALLY HOME!” she shouts, earning an exasperated groan from you.
“Earwig babies are called nymphs, kiddo.” You correct teasingly. “At least pick a bug that actually has grubs, huh?” She pouts, sticking her tongue out and blowing a raspberry at you, before finally noticing Thatch. He smiles, giving the little girl a small wave. The sleeves of her sweater are a couple inches too short- the same as her pants, with mismatched patches sewn over both knees.
“Hey, who are you?” She asks, unwrapping her arms from around you and pointing at him- or rather, up at his hair. “You look like bread.” She states plainly.
“G-grub!” you exclaim, voice rising with your nerves, but Thatch busts up laughing before you can really admonish her- a hearty jovial sound. Children are children, it would take far more than that to upset him. His own family had said much worse.
“My name’s Thatch, kiddo,” he says, crouching down and extending his free hand to her. She narrows her eyes, glaring at his hand for a moment, and then his face. “You must be Grub, yes?” She nods, reaching out to shake his hand. She grips as hard as her little hands can, yanking up and down with a fervor that has him laughing again.
As she does so, an elderly woman appears in the doorway as well- dressed in loose, flowing clothes with her graying hair tied up in a bun. “Thank you for looking after Grub, miss Howell,” you speak softly- a tired, but genuine smile on your face. It’s a sweet look on you, he notes, before turning his attention back to the glaring child. She’s let go of his hand now, opting to cross her arms and attempt a staring contest.
“Oh hush,” chides the old woman. “You know I adore that girl, really- oh dear, what happened to your arm?” She asks, reaching out towards your bandaged wrist before clearly thinking better of it. At these words, Grub’s little brows furrow and she spins around, Thatch all but forgotten.
“What?! Something happened?!” She exclaims, before she sees your wrist and gasps. “Something DID happen!”
“I-it was an accident! N-not a big deal! That’s why Thatch is here- he h-helped me get home!” You sputter, gesturing to where he stands behind Grub.
“Oh, he did, hmm?” This Miss Howell turns to face him, hazy eyes regarding him with warmth. “Well, it’s much appreciated,” she says, shuffling forward to pat him on the arm, smiling widely when he gives her a nod before moving past him. “But this old woman is up past her bedtime, so I’ll be taking my leave.”
“What! But you’re OLD!” Grub cries, earning a panicked look from you. “You don’t NEED a bedtime!”
The woman laughs, raising a hand to cover her mouth. “I just don’t have the energy that I used to, little one. Appreciate it while you have it, hmm?” Reaching the door just across from yours- 405- she glances over her shoulder and winks. “You lot know where to find me, should you need anything,” she says with a grin, earning an adorable giggle from Grub who waves energetically despite the lack of distance.
“G’night, miss Howell! See you tomorrow for tea and cocoa!” She calls, grinning brightly. As soon as the door closes, it’s like a switch flips and she’s right back to side-eyeing Thatch. You chuckle nervously.
“Sweetie, th-this is my boss at The Galley. He drove me home, and packed us some extra food to bring home. Isn’t that nice?” You prompt through grit teeth, shoulders tensed. Please, he wasn’t so pathetic as to punish you over a little kid running her mouth. That’s what they do, after all!
She glances to you, then back up at Thatch with a suspicious look. “... He’s the food guy? The good food guy?”
“Um, yeah, pretty much!” You confirm, going to rub the back of your neck but wincing at the contact. “So, say thank you, and help bring the bags in, okay?”
Oh no you don’t. Thatch would be seeing your apartment, he would not be loitering at the door with nothing but a glimpse. “Oh, I wouldn’t trouble the little lady with that,” he deflects warmly. “Let me carry the backpack at least- I won’t have you do it and it’s too big for her. Easier to just make one trip, yes?”
You sputter a little bit, brows creased in worry, but as he suspects you don’t want to make a scene out of this. He’s not unsympathetic- your nerves do twist something inside him. But he can’t help you without pushing you out of your comfort zone. “O-okay,” you nod, relenting with a shaky sigh. Grub watches the exchange with a harsh stare. He would… need to find some way to assuage the kid’s fears.
“So what even happened?” The kid asks, throwing an accusatory glance back at Thatch as he follows the two of you inside. But before either he or you can explain, you stop in your tracks. Thatch, who is so tall he had to duck to get through the doorway, can see over your head at the… organized mess that overtakes the living room.
“Grub… what is all this..?” There’s a small tv across from a threadbare couch, behind which sits a table with four mismatched chairs, as if they’d all been picked out separately. Probably for free on some street corner, he thought. There’s one wall-mounted shelf above the tv, but other than that the only wall decorations are Grub’s artwork- unless you count the plain gray curtains. But none of that is what had caught your attention. Between the couch and the tv, various cardboard packages have been stood upright, organized in neat rows. A little to the left, beneath a cracked windowsill, the same has been done with several old cans. As he walks further, following you to set things down on your table, he sees a similar cluster of jars creeping out from underneath that, too. Some old newspaper has at least been laid underneath each collection.
Grub crosses her little arms. “Boxtown, Cantown and Jartown. Miss Howell helped me make ‘em. But don’t change the subject!” The kid says. You raise both now-free hands in a placating gesture, but roll your eyes. He snorts, setting each to-go bag down at the table, before shucking the thin but sturdy plastic down to pool around the packages inside. He sets your backpack down on a chair, and busies himself with setting out the options while listening to the two of you.
“Okay, okay,” you huff. “Biked through a puddle that hid a nasty pothole. Completely wiped out,” you confess. Ah, so that was it? You were deliberately vague with him. “... Then, uh… the bike got stolen. So even if my wrist wasn’t messed up, I couldn’t have gotten home.” Ah, now you’ll admit it, he thinks, inviting himself into the kitchen to fetch silverware and dishes. And snoop, of course. You shoot him a worried glance when he moves across the cheap linoleum flooring, but it quickly settles into acceptance when he opens up a cupboard.
“The bike? Really? That thing was old and ugly, though,” Grub blurts, earning a snort in response. Thatch smiles to himself, glancing your way, but it falls slightly once he properly takes in the contents. Three ceramic plates, three glass bowls, and a number of pilfered paper and plastic dishes- both from his restaurant, and others you’d no doubt worked at. Not that he was upset with you- it was just yet another thing that hammered home how tough you had it.
“Yeah, that’s basically what I said too,” you say, voice heavy with exasperation. “Anyway. What’s with all this?” You ask, and he looks up even though he knows what you’ll be gesturing to. “Boxtown is looking kinda sad,” you tease, and you’re right- the cardboard is a bit more scuffed than anything else, with wrinkles and torn edges abound. Not shocking- it was the least durable of the three options. Thatch passively takes note of the brands on the cluttered containers within view- generic or knock-off brands, several of those bright, eye-catching clearance stickers.
“Um, they’re having a fine- a fininal- a f-” Grub struggles for a moment. “The economy is really bad there,” she eventually settles on as he fetches a bowl and a plate for each of you. As much as he’d like to sit down and share a meal, he wants as much of this going to your mouths as possible, rather than his own. He has no need for any of it.
You huff with a shake of your head, and he notes that you don’t give him another frightened face when he returns to the kitchen for silverware. “Okay, fair enough,” you say, before crouching down to examine the jars lined up under the table. He opens a drawer, noting the way it sticks as it slides out. The silverware is just as limited, three or four of everything supplemented with plastic utensils and paper-sleeved chopsticks. “What’s going on here, though, Grub?” You call out. “This jar still has tomato sauce left in it!”
“That’s Jartown’s famous murder house! Tourists love it!” She calls jubilantly as Thatch approaches the table once more, bounding over with a big grin. The split second her eyes meet Thatch’s again, she forces the cool, stern glare back onto her little face. He laughs softly, setting out the utensils. This isn’t gonna push him away, the kid is absolutely adorable. It warms his heart to see her so suspicious on your behalf. He’d pinch her cheeks, if he thought he could get away with it.
You stand up from where you were squatting, stretching your back. Your shirt rides up, exposing a strip of your stomach, and it’s harder than he’d like to admit to not look directly. Settling with a deep breath, you fix your sister with a sly smile. “Jartown’s famous murder house should’ve been condemned ages ago, kiddo,” you tease. “Clean it up or we’re gonna get ants again.”
The kid groans, slouching exaggeratedly and lurching forward with her arms dangling limply. “Fiiiiiiiiiiine, but only because the ants suck,” she grumbles, dropping to her knees to fetch the offending container, and scurrying past him once she’s got it.
“Well, look on the bright side,” Thatch finally speaks up again. “There’s plenty of food waiting for you when you get back, hmm? Some might think it’s a bit late to eat, but I say there’s no such thing. Want me to tell you your options, or leave it as a surprise?” The returning Grub actually stops, seeming to think on it- examining all the opaque white containers while her fingers idly fumble with the pilling on her sweater. You’ve turned your attention to her as well, no doubt waiting for her to choose.
“I think…” She pauses for a moment, holding her chin between her thumb and pointer finger. “I… I want a surprise. I wanna find out when I see it.”
“Your house, your rules, kiddo!” He exclaims, and she speeds toward the table, clambering on top of a wobbly chair. She looks at her options. One bag with three tall, plastic containers of soup, one with three sizable white boxes stacked on top of each other, and the final bag with several small boxes containing appetizers. She leans forward, palms firmly planted against the table, before picking the top box from the second bag. Ah- the roast that had you so enamored. Not a bad choice, if he thought so himself. Her little hands struggle with the cardboard clasp for a moment, before finally maneuvering the flimsy hook out of place. The box pops open- the scent of a well-marinated cut flooding the air.
Grub’s eyes go wide as saucers behind the curtain of her bangs. She looks at the tender slices of meat, and then up at Thatch in dumbfounded silence- the previous glares and exaggerated disdain completely absent. Now she looks at him like he’s just given her the cornucopia. His heart clenches at the sight. It hadn’t even taken a day to win the poor kid over, huh?
Then a mischievous little grin curls across her face, and she points up at his hair again. “Do we get that, too?”
“GRUB!” You shout, but he’s already cracking up. The rascal is a delight, and so are you.