Work Text:
Rainbow held onto Trouble long after Mamita and Shyboy were out of view. Both his arms were wrapped around Trouble’s chest, pulling him tight against his body, while Trouble squirmed, beating his little fists against Rainbow’s arms and wailing, louder than a seven-year-old had any right to be.
He counted the remaining family he had in his head. Two sisters, three brothers. He supposed that someone doesn’t stop being your sibling just because they move away, but it sure felt like losing her. He remembered being unable to tear his eyes away from Cookie’s body in her grave, while in the distance Trouble had screamed and cried nearly as loudly as he was now.
Cookie hadn’t looked like herself, hair brushed neat and dressed in a little sundress, white and pink and peach zig-zags all up and down it. Cookie’s hair was never neat. Gertie brushed it every morning and every night and still, it was always tangled, always had something in it. Cookie never wore dresses, either. She hated wearing them almost as much as Ducky did.
While she normally delighted in doing the exact opposite of what Gertie said, she’d gotten more and more frustrated with how often she’d been told to sit differently so no one could see up her skirt, or to fix the straps when they slipped off her shoulders, that eventually she declared she’d never wear a dress again. When Gertie tried to put her in one some time later, Cookie had promptly pulled it off, thrown it at Gertie, then taken off down the hall in just her socks and underwear, shrieking with laughter.
"¡Eso!" he and Ducky had cheered, laughing as she streaked past.
"Don't encourage her!" Gertie had snapped, hot on her heels.
Would Mamita stop looking like herself too? Conejo had told them all about how killjoys looked. Would she color her hair? Cut it short? Killjoys liked color, and liked to dress like the opposite gender. That’s why Conejo insisted on keeping his hair long- every male killjoy did that, apparently. When Gertie had tried to give him a haircut he’d screamed and fought so hard that she’d just given up.
He tried to imagine Mamita in a leather coat, face hidden behind a neon mask, hair short and boyish, as mean and loud as Conejo. But the only image that came to mind was her, exactly how she had been an hour ago, in her sensible jeans and T-shirt, her long black hair braided neatly, the soft and gentle voice she'd used to soothe them.
In the end Trouble tired himself out, just like he had at the funeral, and Rainbow carried him inside.