Chapter Text
It's another bad night for Bea's dad. He’s been having those a lot more often recently, drinking nonstop, fading in and out of coherence with little rhyme or reason, screaming at her, forgetting where he even is. He didn't used to be like this. For a while he was doing better.
But now?
Now he's been screaming at the television about something for the better part of fifteen minutes and Bea still doesn't know what set him off. Bea sighs. That is the wrong thing to do, apparently, because he whirls around on her.
“And you!” His speech is slurred, beer clutched in his fist sloshing out to splatter and soak into the carpet as he points an accusatory claw in her face. “What are you even doing with your life? You good fer nothin’!”
Logically, Bea knows he’s angry and hurting and sick and drunk and lashing out, but logic only goes so far.
“What am I doing? WHAT AM I DOING?! Keeping the Pickaxe going single-fucking-handedly! Keeping you housed and fed! Paying the bills and buying groceries! Fucking everything!”
“Don’t you dare talk to your father like that—”
“Like what! Like you haven't even gotten up from the couch in a month? Like I can’t remember the last time I saw you drink water?”
“Ungrateful bitch! Your mother—”
How dare he bring her mother into this.
“My mother is fucking dead you asshole!” She turns on her heel, already storming to the door. Hand on the knob, she adds over her shoulder, “Stop using her like a weapon. My mother would have hated seeing you do that.”
The door slams behind her, shutting out enough of his screaming she can almost pretend she doesn’t hear the vitriol. Hands shaking and vision swimming with furious tears, she searches for her cigarettes — right, they're on the counter. Fuck.
She needs — something. A walk. A drive. A break. A home. A father who didn’t fall apart when her mom died and never get himself put back together. She sniffles back snot and dries her eyes on her sleeve, then drags herself down the stairs and out of the building.
And into the rain. Of course.
She manages to get the walk, at least — not quite trusting herself behind the wheel of the car like this. This is untenable. She isn't sure how much longer she can keep this up — all of this, the working herself to death in a business she doesn't even like with people she hates to pay off debts that aren't hers living in an apartment that isn't even her home with a father who's barely there.
He was getting better.
He really was. She thought. He was working sometimes. Helped with groceries. Paid the bills himself.
She's thankful it's raining hard enough no one else is out to give her any looks as she goes. She isn't even sure where she’s going, feet just taking her anywhere else, following paths so deep in her muscle memory they're carved into her bones, until she spots Mae’s house.
Bea sighs, stomps her boots off, and knocks.
Mae’s mother, Candy Borowski, answers the door.
“Beatrice, it’s so nice to--” she looks over Bea’s state. “Aww, you poor dear. Come inside.”
Bea obeys.
“Let me get you a towel to dry off, hon.” As Candy passes by the stairs, she calls up, “Mae! Bea's here!” And then she's off to the bathroom.
Bea just stands there, shivering cold and miserable, trying not to think about the puddle she is most definitely leaving on the hardwood.
Mae comes careening down the stairs just as Candy returns carrying what is obviously one of the Borowskis' “good towels” — large and clean and new enough to still be thick and fluffy. She holds it out for Bea, already unfolded and ready for her.
“Here, sweetheart.”
And somehow that does it. Being so welcomed, treated with such love, like she hasn't just shown up unannounced in the middle of the rain to stand wordlessly in the entryway soaking the floor, it's too much. Bea's shoulders shake with a sob.
Mae crashes into her a moment later, nearly knocking her from her feet.
“Bea! Bea what's wrong?” She tries to pull back and look Bea over, as if she could see what's the matter, but Bea doesn't let her — just clings tighter, too-sharp claws putting holes in the back of her old tee. Mae seems to figure it out, arms coming up to wrap around Bea's back, accepting more and more of her weight until she sinks them down gently to sit in the puddle of Bea's runoff.
They stay like that for a while, Bea blubbering into Mae's shoulder and Mae diligently holding her through it. That stops when Bea's shivering worsens.
“Dude, you're gonna catch your death like some old-timey prospector.”
Bea smiles despite herself. Candy pokes her head into the hall from the living room.
“Bea honey, why don't you take a nice hot shower and warm up? You can borrow some of Mae's things until we get yours dried.”
That's how Bea finds herself lying on Mae's futon, a pair of raggedy gym shorts with the drawstrings pulled as tight as they can go but still too loose to stay above her hips, midriff exposed by a too-short, too-wide tee. Mae's clothes do not fit Bea. The fluffy socks are nice, though, including the third one on the tip of her tail. The attic door opens then closes as Mae returns from her own shower.
"You should just keep 'em, beebee. Not like I ever wear 'em."
"I wouldn't wear them anywhere but your place anyway, Mae. The apartment's all carpeted and these things are too thick to fit in my boots." Bea turns her head to watch Mae rummage around in her things and realizes what she's wearing. "Is that the fucking zero shirt?"
"Oh!" Mae freezes. Looks askance. Tries to hide the massive hole under the arm. "Uh, weird, how'd that get out of the trash?"
"Whatever," Bea sighs. "At least it's not in public. But if I get an eyeful of your tit again I'm gonna be pissed."
Mae just giggles.
"I dunno if it's fair for you to be complaining about an eyeful when you're over there with your whole belly out like that." She makes grabby paws at Bea's midriff. Bea silently acquiesces with another eye roll, and Mae leans against the edge of the seat and rubs her hands over the smooth scales. Bea will never admit that it feels nice. "You should just leave some of your things here all the time, so you don't have to fight with your dad to pack stuff every time you visit, or like, do without."
Bea blinks up at the ceiling. She really has been spending a lot of time—a lot of nights—here, sharing Mae's futon, hiding from everything in Mae's arms. It's actually really sweet, even if Bea would sooner eat her own tongue than admit it out loud. It would save her from having to go home to pack an overnight any time she stayed over (and endure her father's questions, or insults, or drunken ravings, or whatever else) or, worse, wear the same thing the day after.
Bea could just leave a duffel in the corner, or under Mae's bed, to be pulled out when needed. Hell, Bea's pretty sure she's running low on most of her grooming products, so she may be able to replace her various soaps, lotions, oils, and unguents a little early and pack the low ones up, too.
"Yeah, alright."
Mae looks up from kneading Bea's stomach, pupils blown out. "Whuh?"
"Nothing, Mae." Bea can't help her grin. "Get up here and keep me warm until my clothes are finished drying."
"Yes ma'am!" Mae mock salutes, then clambers up to flop down on top of her.