Chapter Text
It was long past midnight, and the pair lay quietly in bed. One was lying on his side, staring at the closed door, while the other was smoking a cigar. The day was uneventful, so there was nothing interesting to talk about. Both of them didn't mind though, the silence was nice in a way. The only sound echoing through the air was the cracking from the cigar's embers and both of their breathing.
Hindley shifted slightly on his side; his face contorted in this deep frown. It's been a while since he last relapsed when it came to self-harm, but the scars from last time started to itch very bad and it's very, very uncomfortable. He can't scratch at them, because what if he opens them up again? What if he opens them up again and Hareton will see them? He will grow up knowing his father is a coward who cuts himself when things go awry. He doesn't want his own son to see him like that; he refuses to let him see him like that.
He let out a deep sigh before burrowing himself further into the thick blankets, a weird attempt to ignore his spiraling train of thought. He doesn't want to do that right now.
His husband seemed to notice him snuggling into the fabric and gently ruffled his tangled hair, taking another drag from his cigar in the progress. The silence stretched on for another moment, before Hindley decided it was a good time to speak up.
“...Hey Frances...?” He quietly asked, something inside of his voice sounding almost hesitant. His husband just hummed in response. Keep talking.
“Do you... Do you think I’m doing a good job?” Hindley started, refusing to turn his head to look at the man who currently still has his hand in his hair.
“Good job at what? You're gonna have t’be more specific than that.”
A sigh from Hindley.
“This entire parentin’ thing... Do you think I’m doing a good job...?”
It was silent once more as Frances seemed to think about it. “Well, you're trying, aren't you? I think that says enough.” He eventually answered, his tone awfully casual for a question with such weight attached to it.
That... Wasn't what Hindley expected. Honestly, he didn't really expect anything from Frances. The syndicate member usually wasn't rude against him at all, aside the occasional look of irritation or disappointment that he was given, of course. But Hindley thought he wasn't a necessarily great father either.
“The fuck does that mean?” He shot back, but he sounded too exhausted for his words to sting.
Frances just blew some smoke out of his mouth, his fingers starting to run through the other man's hair again, throwing said man off a bit.
“I know you want to be a good father to Hareton. And the fact you're trying to teach him things and at least be there for him says enough about you.”
“But m'not as good as you-” Frances’ grip tightened on Hindley's hair a bit as he cut him off mid-sentence, clearly growing a little agitated by his husband's constant fits of self-hatred and degradation. “Hindley, you're not listening to me. The boy loves you. He cuddles up to you when you're asleep on the couch. He asks about you when you sleep through breakfast, and most of all he trusts you. You're doing perfectly fine.”
That seemed to shut Hindley up, almost growing embarrassed about the fact he even asked. Frances just sighed and flicked his cigar into the ashtray on the nightstand on his side of the bed, settling down next to his husband and pulling him close by his waist.
“You're a good dad, Hindley. And just remember that if you ever slip up, I'll be right there to help you.”
Hindley leaned into the embrace, his eyes fluttering in response. Frances was always so warm.
“...Thanks, I guess...” He mumbled, still unsure what to do with the sudden display of affection.
“F’course. Now I think it's time for you to go to sleep. Goodnight love.” Frances muttered in his ear, pulling him flush against him now.
“Yeah yeah... G’night...”