Work Text:
Early August, 1957
Nightfall, curtains closed, star blanket sky. Car-cycled air thrice over, sourish, dry. Old-car-smell.
Once-upon-a-never-again Petey would hang half his body out the window, backseat and cheering, Judy glowing in the shotgun seat as Mark turned the radio dial so high Petey felt it in his chest, vibrato, radio, speaker buzz and interference as Mark, his brother, took corners so fast he cheered from the back as Judy-Don’t-Call-Me-Judith Walter batted at his arm, telling him to slow down, Markie, red lipstick sunset red in oncoming headlight glow, smiling.
That could have been the only time he was in a car with Judy, Mark, and– the child-thing beside him.
He wasn't born yet. Judy hadn’t been sick yet. Nothing bad had happened yet.
Child-thing, Peter thing— They’re doomed by the name, Wanda says, maybe. She says it like it's true. Blue-lipped, teary eyed. Wanda says a lot of things, now. Wanda says a lot of nothing, now.
It's all nothing. She tries to find meaning in what happened. He knows there’s not any more to it than Uncle Pete’s catastrophic everything with Ignatius Becile going sour, or human greed, or ambition, and—
Well. His own father was Peter, Peter the Second, secondplace, Peter jr. His uncle followed in third with Pete, himself fourth on the chopping block, neck set to slice, Petey-with-a-Y, Baby Petey, little Petey, Littlest Petey till he wasn't,
Now he’s–
Sitting in Petey’s shotgun seat in the front, is the fifth.
Petey was 10, maybe. When he was driving with Judy and Mark. Twiglimbed, something like scrappy. Something like loved, still.
Peter the fifth isn't that, isn’t anything like loved. And of course it's Petey’s job to fix it, because no one official can trust Wanda with a knife, much less a child.
Uncle Pete is dead.
It's just him, her, and this kid, now.
There’s a smashed bug in the top right of his windshield, something that careened into the glass. The wipers don't quite reach it as he whirrs them against the glass. The radio-movie-drive-in-speaker is clipped to the driver window. It fuzzle-pops, a bit, they pulled in late, late and it's busy. Popular double feature. Forbidden Planet, Earth vs. the Flying Saucers, New Sci Fi Movies, space and stars and aliens and robots,
He knows a lot about robots.
He grew up with them, but not like Mark did. Not like Wanda did. He was 4 when they left for the war. 8 when they came back.
He’s never known anything. His dad died when he was 13. His brother died when he was 14.
He’s learned a lot about robots.
There is a child in his passenger seat.
There is a dead bug in the corner of his windshield. The wipers don't quite reach it.
To go to a drive in movie is battle of two things. Seeing the screen and hearing the screen, both is ideal. But with more-than-half the spots taken it becomes a battle between great view and mediocre sound, or terrible view of the screen and great sound. Good spots and speakers are a dozen a dime. Gone quickly. So—
Slightly-terrible sound, but the kid can see the screen,
So it's…
Fine.
There is another long-dead bug in the corner of the windshield. He’s just noticed it. A crusted-dead fly. Dust-speckled and sunbaked far far up on the dash.
Petey doesn't have any idea how to do any of this.
The kid, Mark's kid. He’s Wanda's missing rib, Judy’s missing life, his nephew, and his responsibility, legally. He’s 18 years old now, and his uncle is dead. Court ruled guardianship of the kid. Marine’s dog-catchers screwed up smile, ‘I can't go back to training sir,’ he’d said in that doorway to the manor, his manor, now, The Spine had been behind him, staring green-eyed anger, ‘I have a child to take care of, sir’ - guardianship papers signed by a judge, he’d gone AWOL after the funeral, the yet-another grave of his uncle up on the hill,
He doesn’t have any idea how to do any of this.
The far off screen shines against the starry curtain backdrop. There is still a dead bug mashed against the windshield.
There is still The Fifth in the seat beside him. Mark's son. Broken voiced child of the only loving marriage Petey’s even seen. It's a shame Judy died. Judy liked their family. Blond hair, red lipstick, swing skirt - she was so alive. At least until she wasn’t.
(And Mark wouldn't have tossed himself to the sea if she hadn't gone, maybe)
The child-thing. He’s hardly even here. Mark and Judy filled every room they went in, heat rises, current flows, sun rises, blue matter boils in a vacuum, Judy’s laugh and Mark’s voice fill a room.
Their child hardly fills the seat. Hidden eyes and stiller hands. Peter Walter the Fifth. A child in his car. His car that was his Dad’s car. His car that was the child-thing’s grandfather's car. His car that Mark called drab and boring, Petey, you have GOT get something fancier than Dad’s car. How are you ever gonna take someone to prom in that thing? The child whisper-breathes so soft that the dead-off-key-out engine could drown him out and hide him.
He’s 9 years old. Peter Walter the Fifth. He’s bundled in car-blankets and hugging car-pillow to his chest. Eyes peaking-light-brown from the bundle of fabric, from his mess of black curls, and out through the windshield to the screen.
He's never had a family before. Mark’s son. He doesn't talk, Mark's son. He hardly exists, Mark’s son.
Petey thinks he used to talk to Mark, memory is hard, before-after Dad died. He definitely used to scream, though, – the kid would scream and Mark would pace, and he would scream and Mark would cry and say I’m sorry I'm not Judy, and–
And sometimes Wanda would take him. Or sometimes The Spine or Upgrade or Rabbit or Uncle Pete could take him, and Dad would watch him, a lot, Dad would set little-baby-Pete on his lap, talk to him like he was the smartest baby in the world, and thinking about Dad—
Makes Petey’s head twist-fumble-hurt-smear, so,
No no no.
No.
He probably doesn’t remember Dad anyway. He was only two. Not even three yet.
Anyway:
So:
Peter the Fifth is bundled up in car-blanket, a dusty old blanket that he uses in storms or by Holly, when he parks them out in the hills away from eyes–
And Petey doesn't know a damnsome thing about kids. What words should tumble out of him to fix or solve or help any of this. He doesn’t think this kid knows anything about kids either. (The orphanage people said he was really shy and didn't have any friends and a normal home environment would be better for him and everything polite, but just behind it, he’s weird, he’s strange, he’s offputting, he’s not like our other children here, and—)
and but also, also,
also, but, well,
Petey knows about drive-in theaters. Far off projection screen. Radio hooked to car window. Stories from the safety of a car. Not a new place, maybe it’ll help. Change scared Peter. New foods scare Peter. Petey’s made a shopping-list that could reach mars of the things that scare Peter.
But maybe that'll make up for it. This. The fact this isn’t too new. It's a new thing from their car. Maybe it’ll let the kid breathe loud enough he isn't half struck dead by the idea of making a noise.
(If it wasn’t for The Spine telling him, two tortured months of quiet into this whole experiment, that Peter-the-fifth had started talking to him and Rabbit, Petey might have begun to believe he’d truly forgotten how.)
He doesn’t know anything about kids.
He knows even less how to help lonely can't-seem-to-talk ones.
….he….
…Where was he?
Peter. Pete. Petey. Peter/Pete/BabyPete, child-thing, peter-thing, what's in a name?
The poor blanket-bundle is Fifth. The Fifth. What's fifth to a name?
This kid was Baby-Pete, Pete like their uncle, not Pete-y not Pete-r, Baby-Pete,
Peter, this Peter, he grew up Walter or Peter Walter. Peter Walther the Nothingnd, the No Ones, the Not Fifth – their nonsense legacy of 6 letters P E T E R snapped at the neck, like Mark was, bloated in that water,
He's the fifth.
But he didn't have that number hung nooselike from nickname from fourth year rolling. He was Baby-Pete last time he lived with Petey, and now he’s just—
Peter.
Peter Walter the Fifth grew up Peter Walter the Orphan. And now Peter Walter the Orphan sits bundled in car-blankets shivering alone in his car.
And Petey loves him in terror of more loss, is the problem,
Or maybe Petey is being stupid like Wanda, and overthinking pulling into a sub-optimal parking spot, because actually? Actually the real problem is the speaker.
The speaker and its hummbuzz through staticword.
Music-sound-whatever-not-the-movie-yet playing as the kid curls smaller and smaller beside him, because Petey’s been messing with the speaker settings for like 6 minutes, lost in his head thinking about nonsense,
Mark used to twirl that body around, Petey remembers, he was 13 and agony, at the time,
He was 13 and agony and Mark would kiss lovekisses to his sons hair as he walked and laughs and,
And that son Mark’s son his nephew,
And—
And the speaker is fine. No amount of fiddling with it will fix it. It's good enough. And it's been long enough that if there was a better spot, with a good view, and a good speaker, it’s gone now, and uprooting them now will only startle the kid he’s trying to give one good night further, and—
"I could go grab us snacks, from the concession stands. Do you want popcorn?" His voice startles himself, nearly as much as the kid startles at the sudden words, light-brown-not-blue eyes flashing to him,
The Fifth or The Orphan or Baby-Pete or “Just Peter, please?” shrugs, mouthing something, turned away and so bundled Petey can’t parse what and,
"Peter?" He asks,
(Peter-The-Orphan. The orphan. They're all orphans. Every Walter still alive is an orphan.)
(Father dead at 13, Mother dead at 2 sitting next to Father dead at 4, mother dead at birth,)
(they have more in common than their name)
And his nephew-thing is frozen then. Frozen. Then a jerk of a nod. Single-motioned breakage. Nervous-thing.
And Petey is out of the car in the fresh-non-car-air and walking before he can process or think to say anything like are you alright or it’s only popcorn or what did they do to you, what did they do to you, what did they do to you there, was it really better than Wanda ruining everything like she does? Was it better there than it would have been? I was only 14 but the bots probably could have made sure you were taken care of, Was it worth it? Was it–
Popcorn. Popcorn and soda. Acquisitions. The line is long. Petey fidgets with his sleeve, and–
And there are bugs in the path. Flies buzzing the trash cans.
Dead wind. He suffocates in the open air. Two popcorns, extra-butter-please, soda, whats-the-kids-favorite, he doesn't know—
Mark liked Pepsi. Pepsi over coke. Judy wouldn’t drink anything carbonated because she said it make her nose itch, she was an milkshake or lemonade woman, he—
A Pepsi and a milkshake. He’s fine with either. He hopes Peter wants at least one of them.
He doesn't fully expect the too-quiet too-scared tears, when he pulls back open the car door, arms bundled full of snacks.
A startled gasp, loudest sound he’s heard the kid make. Peter-not-baby-anymore drags the car-blanket up across his face, red blotched cheeks hidden in maroon fabric, and the movie hasn't quite even started, intermission adverts - there's soft drinks and coffee, and so much more, so direct your steps to the refreshment stand, for the finest snacks in all the land - radio fuzz, but Petey–
"Popcorn," he says, lost, adrift in it all, fumbling, reaching, he propping it between his nephew and the door, "For the movie,"
And everything has always been a mistake, and he should never have brought him here, and—
“I got drinks. A Pepsi and a chocolate milkshake. Your uh- your dad, liked Pepsi. Your mom liked milkshakes. I don't— know which you'd want, but I'll um, set them here,”
He props them in the Russ brand drink holders, slotted in the other window,
And-
And—
"..thnkyou" it's small-soft-scared- a mumble, but it's voice, and has Petey even heard him talk? He doesn’t talk, he locks up and freezes in place, and—
And okay. Okay maybe not ruined-it-all
He
And Petey sits back down. Solidly. Shuts the car door.
And Petey sits back down. In his car. And he looks across at him, at Peter, at Peter Alexander Walter The Fifth.
"...you know your dad used to take me to these," he says, filling space or time or the air, because the car feels so empty, because the just-hidden blotchy overwhelmed tears on Peter are making him panic, "And your grandfather, um, I guess mine and your's namesake, sorta. Well I'm after my grandfather— I think you're after my dad? It's all the same, I guess. But my Dad. He'd take me and Mark and Wanda to these sometimes. Before Mark started driving, your Dad loved his car,"
His dad died in his car,
"Mark. Your dad. He’d uh- he’d pile me Wanda and your mom up, he'd stick me and Wanda in the back, you can't hardly see from back there, Peter, so I guess you're lucky, front seat and all,"
And he's being looked at, as he talks, light-brown eyes staring,
Wanda says she had brown eyes until she was 6. Petey was born with blue-matter-blue ones already staring.
Peter's are the same brown as fresh-cut wood, and he's staring,
"He'd uh- Mark. He liked spoiling your mom. Judy. Bought her anything she wanted. But um. Yeah. Uh. Movies. Movies. Your grandma was an actress? My mom. She uh, I should put on one of the show reels sometime, I uh, I was younger than you were when your dad— um, died. When my mother did. But um. Yeah. She was an actress. Sometimes. She mostly did local shows after a while though.”
He's halfway to giving up and driving them home when the speaker blares to actual life, Petey jumps, practically, as it announces the movie will start in one minute, reminding everyone to keep your lights off until you leave the theatre, avoid horn blowing, for courtesy's sake.
And he feels silly for not talking more, for the silence, but the kids attention snaps to the far-off screen,
And he exhales a shaky breath
(And perhaps another as Peter takes a hesitant bite of the popcorn, and chooses, very decidedly, the chocolate milkshake)
And then the movie plays.
And the Peter-thing, child thing, stops being quite so hidden in the blankets, as he gets excited, watching rapt at the movie starts,
And,
And maybe
And maybe he did a good thing. With this. For once.
Maybe he did a good thing.
Time passes. The car clock continues. Hours run past sunset, first feature ending, intermission passing. He knew this was late. Well past sunset in the summer heat. So late for his 9 year old nephew who sleeps so early usually.
Halfway through the first act of the second feature Peter's all but listed sideways,
And
It's a bold move, perhaps, but Petey slides sideways across the bench, the front seat, closer,
Pulls the kid (head nearly falling) against his side, wraps an arm around him,
And the second he does Peter wakes up, stares over at him with the most scared eyes, wide, wide and scared,
And,
And he's about to pull away, hoping he hasn't burnt the kid too badly, hoping that maybe it's fine,
Because then the kids hand makes its way from the blanket to his shirt, wraps in the fabric and clings to him, and—
And then hes holding his small-baby-child-thing-nephew against his side, caring maybe,
And,
And someone has to
Someone has to raise another Walter.
And his nephew turns into him, after a few seconds, wrapping his arms around him, clinging sort of death rattle sound as Petey holds him back.
As Petey holds him back, hoping the hug is as tight as Mark would want it to be,
Someone has to
Someone has to hold him
And sometimes Petey can't really remember what Dad's arms felt like around his back, but he'll always remember how the future looked from up on his dad's shoulders,
And sometimes Petey can't remember how Mark laughed, and that Wanda’s broken wheeze isn't all it ever was,
And Uncle Pete is buried up on that hill next to what was left of Dad and
And his brother's son isn't saying a word but
“Peter?” He squeezes him. “I have you.”
And maybe that breaks it. Because Petey knows no one has ever had him before, but Peter—
Peter Walter the Fifth,
Peter nods into him. Tightens his grip onto him. Shoulders trembling.
This kid is only 9 years old.
And maybe Petey feels something like what family is supposed to be. When family isn't only your sister who locked every door in the house. When family isn't your uncle who can't fix anything anymore staring empty down the halls. When family isn't him and only Holly, out of the house and out of the nonsense,
“...do you want to go back to watching the movie?” He asks, and Peter nods. Sharp against his chest.
And then his nephew is propped against his shoulder, watching the movie still, and,
And Petey is still holding him.
And he thinks maybe things might turn out okay after all.
(And if by the end of Earth vs. the Flying Saucers, Peter is asleep against his chest, then that's history)
(And if Peter drove home 15 under the speed limit to not wake him up, careful not to start or stop too fast, then that's cheesy, and it can be forgotten that it ever happened.)