Work Text:
FEBRUARY 14, 1998
RACCOON CITY
Why did she have to be sad? It was Valentine’s Day and her backpack was full of conversation hearts and heart shaped suckers and tiny chocolate boxes shaped like hearts. Hearts. Hearts. Hearts. She should give them to mom and dad because they certainly didn’t have hearts. Unlike Uncle Al, who had the biggest heart of all. It’s why she didn’t eat her cupcake—chocolate with pink icing and edible pearls. Mrs. Coleson had made them and said, “This year, you are all my valentines,” but Sherry had a feeling she said that every year, to every class. It didn't matter. There was only one person who deserved a valentine and Mrs. Coleson’s cupcake would have to do because mom yelled at her and took away all her ingredients to make lemon cake last night.
Everyone at RPD always looked bored or tired. Except, when Chief Irons was around, then they looked scared, which made sense because he was an awful sourpuss. “A real asshole” as she had heard it said, but she wasn't allowed to repeat that. Today, everyone looked interested. It was probably because of the balloon tied to her backpack, a big Mylar heart with “Happy Valentine’s Day” in rainbow letters. Kathy’s dad was the manager at Piggly Wiggly and apparently he spent all morning blowing up balloons at the store for the entire class, much to the chagrin of all the grocery clerks. Sherry thanked him personally because now she had another gift for Uncle Al and maybe, just maybe he would let her be his valentine this year.
When she marched herself up to the S.T.A.R.S. office, everyone looked at her and smiled in a weird way, like they knew something she didn't and it was just too funny. Of course, she never got to be in on the jokes. Her buckled shoes tapped softly along the floor. Some people waved. When Chris looked up from his desk, she made a beeline for the door in the back. He could smell chocolate from a mile off and what if he took a bite out of Uncle Al’s cupcake? She certainly wanted to, but Uncle Al once said that she had “better impulse control than Christopher.” A few knocks in the pattern he had taught her to use and then came his voice. “Come in.”
There was no reason to be sad, but as soon as she saw her favorite person sitting at his desk in the same uniform he always wore, neat and tidy as always, she felt like crying. Her throat clammed up and her lip wobbled and it made no sense! She never cried, even when mom and dad were screaming and being awful to each other and telling her they were sick of her lasagna and why couldn't she be old enough to drive herself to school? Even then, she didn't cry.
“Will you be my valentine, Uncle Al?” Her voice cracked. Oh no. No no no!
“Of course, my dear. Would you believe no one has asked me yet?”
“Then everyone’s stupid,” she croaked out, her last words before her face crumpled and the tears poured out, little hiccuping breaths wracking her body. She could count on one tiny hand the times he had picked her up. Once, when someone pulled the fire alarm. Another, when Irons cornered her in the stairwell, his spittle flying at her. All she remembered was covering her face and then Uncle Al’s voice: “Touch her and I'll break your wrist.” He had even let her take his sunglasses off and wear them as he took her away in his arms, sticking her tongue out at Irons and feeling like she ruled the world.
This time, he crouched down and gathered all her things—the soggy box holding the cupcake, her backpack that was sliding off one shoulder, the puffy coat restricting her arms. “Alright, Sherbear,” he said softly. When all was said and done, she threw those little arms around his neck and sobbed as she had never done before. She wasn't allowed to cry like that in front of her parents, but Uncle Al said nothing about it. He simply picked her up and brought her over to his big executive chair.
Her mother never rocked her. According to her dad, there had been a nanny when she was a baby, but she couldn't remember. She had always been alone as far as memory served her. Uncle Al was rocking her and he was singing. Quietly. In another language. It had to be French because he had taught her to say “Merde!” and that was when she learned he had lived in Paris for a while.
Her little arms tightened, cheek comfortable against his shoulder. Even with his bulky tactical vest in the way, Uncle Al was easy to hug. She wanted to hug him, unlike her parents who only did it out of obligation, and rarely at that.
“I wish you could adopt me,” she told him somberly, once the tears had dried and he had convinced her to at least share the cupcake with him. Most of the edible pearls had fallen off, but they looked better than they tasted.
“I would, my dear, but then Will would poison me in my sleep.” Sherry huffed, blowing away the strands of hair that fell in her face.
“I think he’s gonna poison himself soon. Mom and dad—I know they're working on something, Uncle Al. It’s making them crazy.”
A knock interrupted them. It was that pesky Chris, poking his head in like a lost puppy. “Hey, Cap, you anyone’s valentine yet?” Sherry gasped, eyes growing wide as saucers.
“He’s mine!” She howled. “You can't have him!” Chris stuck his tongue out at her, waging a war of silly faces. Uncle Al sighed and muttered something about being in an office full of children.
“Oh well then,” sighed Chris after he’d had enough. “Guess you're not getting a slice of the heart shaped pizza Jill ordered.” Sherry screeched and scrambled from her perch on Uncle Al’s big mahogany desk.
It was time for piggyback rides and pepperoni and like hell was anyone going to stop her.