he saved me first, you know
8/10/18 23:44![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
scubatankfilledwithfarts As far as Ilshev’s concerned, it isn’t breaking and entering or invasion of privacy. She’d already made fun of his underwear [how mature is the woman he’s--] and is quickly on her way to amassing a whole dresser full of his clothes, jacket included. He isn’t self-conscious without it; it isn’t an image, it’s all but an armor draped over broad shoulders and tucked in at his wrists.
So no, he’s done enough B&E to know this isn’t quite it. Not to mention a window was open—not as a ‘she asked for it’ kind of thing, more of a fumigation method, he’s sure.
[secondly, not that she doesn’t smell like pansies and earth and gun metal and--]
Either way with a slow slide he whips the window open and slithers inside, soft footfalls dull against the linoleum while he surveys the room: it’s the bathroom, cracked ceilings and stained barely-porcelain his first sight. On the tiles above the tub there are scribbles, someone’s drawn in colorful permanent markers.
There’s sound from outside, the living room must be right on the other side. Ariadnne isn’t supposed to be home, that’s the point of retrieving his stolen clothes. He wonders. He knows there’s no little green monster ready to emerge from his chest cavity if he isn’t the only one.
[there isn’t! honest]
Ilshev’s first introduction to her living room is a tv blaring daytime cartoons, an empty couch complete with a nest of blankets and no less than 5 stuffed animals and 1000 hotwheels.
His first introduction to her son is a tiny redhead with a glass of milk and a milk mustache he hasn’t bothered to wipe, staring at him with wide eyes. No one dares to move, or make a sound, not even a fart. In one motion they move as one, the kid drops the milk in order to toss a nearby lamp, and Ilshev ducks behind the couch.
“Get outta here! My ma’s a cop y’know, she’ll plant wheaties on you and you’ll be eating soap in prison!” The boy squeaks, voice unbreaking, just unadulterated ferocity to defend his territory.
Ilshev sighs. Yes, this kid has to be related to her. “Not even going to touch the soap part, or the wheaties,” he mutters to himself. “--I’m a friend of your mom’s. She told me to come over and get some stuff.”
An obnoxious snort wrenches from the boy, way too big for such a small body. “That’s what all the guys with vans say! I’m calling her right now, and she’ll beat your ass.”
The kid’s like what, 4? 5? And already—yeah, that’s her kid. That is him.
[there isn’t a green monster that stomps around in the lining of his stomach, but some stones drop; does she think he can’t be trusted?]
“Don’t call her—“ it isn’t time to panic over the fact that she’ll absolutely beat his ass for trying to take back his clothes. Something occurs to him, almost like a lightbulb sparking above his head. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be in school? I don’t think your ma would be happy if she knew you’d skipped…”
Peeking out from behind the couch, careful of projectiles, he spots the kid shiver, and sympathizes.
“I was…sick. Ma let me stay home!” Cue a few weak coughs from a small chest. Nope, there is nothing convincing about the tremble in his voice, unsure of what else to bullshit. The kid’s not half bad. For a toddler.
“Yeah no, I know for a fact Ariadnne would make her kid go to school if they had the plague.” As the words leave his voice, all at once Ilshev realizes he believes it. Ariadnne is a mom.
[he breathes through the sudden tightness of his heart]
The boy groans. “Ma looks soft, so you gotta know her to know that.” Another level of acceptance. She may look like a cinnamon roll, but she’s a sinamon roll that’ll break your knee caps. This, however, leaves them at a crossroads.
“Now what?” The boy continues. The television switches to a new channel, something about a bald, whiny kid, and something primal screams in Ilshev’s head regarding such a program.
He has a decision to make. Probably the easiest one. “Why don’t I make us some grilled cheese sandwiches and you change the channel?” Apparently he’s staying for a bit. Long enough to feed the brat and find his things. [can’t forget the reason he’s gone through all this in the first place]
When it’s apparent he probably won’t be injured, at least by projectiles, he steps out from behind his cover, fully taking in the boy’s features.
Which scrunch up suspiciously. “I’m not leaving you alone in the kitchen. You’ll probably poison me, or use soy milk or something.”
You learn something new every day, like how the next generation is going to destroy the soy milk industry. Instead of dignifying this with a response, Ilshev makes his way to the kitchen, past the little nicknacks that are so Ariadnne it hurts.
It’s halfway clean, that’s a shock to the heart. Pots and pans hang from a rack and the stove only has a little cooking grease dried around the burners. A skillet is easily found, butter is procured from the fridge [full, by the way, of all kinds of snacks and lunchables too], and bread is half buttered and thrown on once the skillet heats up.
Though still wary of him, the boy does take about 4 hotwheels and skates them along the counter as he keeps an eye on Ilshev, sound effects and imaginary crashes, life and death races, unfolding right there before them. But there’s a comfortable silence, too, as cheese and salami join the bread on the pan.
“Wait, how’d you know I like salami on my grilled cheeses?” The boy pipes up, hotwheels in mid-air as he regards Ilshev with something new for the first time: awe.
A single broad shoulder rolls. “I suppose it’s just shared life experiences, is all. Plus it’s really good, yeah?”
Apparently that’s all it takes for the little one to open up, because as soon as he bobs his big bobble head in a nod, he launches into a story about his Kindergarden class, specifically how he’s convinced half of his classmates that eating their own boogers gives them superpowers.
“—then I said if they put markers up there, the scent ones, y’know? That’ll give them spicy powers! Like the red ones are cherry…”
Ilshev is honestly at rapt attention at this tale, the hierarchy of 5 year olds is amazing, and this kid might just be a politician or President or something one day. Of course the sentiment is ruined when the lock to the front door rattles and unlocks and Ariadnne springs into action, pistol aimed at the intruder—
Instead of being too concerned, Ilshev and the boy point accusing fingers simultaneously.
“You never told me you had a kid—”
“You didn’t tell me you had friends!”
Ariadnne stows her gun, sighs and flips a curtain of red hair from her shoulder. “This is exactly why I didn’t want this to happen.” Instead of hanging Ilshev’s jacket up on the coatrack, her bra swings back and forth upon the hook, her shoulders relax a tick, as if breathing in the home and the hearth does it all.
[must be nice]
Green eyes flicker back and forth and not for the first time, he feels honored she hasn’t shot him where he stands. Or sits, in this case.
“David Theophillis Nahane, what did I tell you about skipping school? You don’t get caught.” She tsks and shakes her head, but the corners of her mouth twist while warm hands ruffle through the boy’s hair.
“And Ilshev Christian Name Undecided: I’m pretty sure we’ve had a discussion about you seeing my underwear drawer.” Those green eyes are sharp as she reads him to the bottom of his heart, looks right through him, and his breath catches.
Dave gags, and it’s a wet sound, like its truly genuine. “Maaaaaaaaaaa! This isn’t how you keep friends, you gotta be nice, like don’t try to get them in trouble.”
In contrast to the tightness of his heart upon discovering the boy, Ilshev’s entire body feels weightless as laughter bubbles from his mouth. Mother and son’s gazes whip towards him, shocked,
“Your mom’s failed steps one and two, kid. I don’t know what other steps there are, but she’s not very good at ‘em.”
Ariadnne crosses her arms over her middle, huffing.
“You don’t know how to make friends?” The boy questions, eyebrows raised. “You’re weird. Guess I gotta teach you stuff, too.” With a put upon sigh, like he’s just come home from an 8 hour work day, Dave rolls up his sleeves, pushes his plate aside.
“Step one—”
Sensing what a big adventure into bullshit this is going to be, Ariadnne, stops him right there.
“Let’s change the channel first. You know I hate this kid—and no, it’s not because he’s Canadian.”
She shuts the tv off instead. Heart update: feels really warm. Might be heartburn.
So no, he’s done enough B&E to know this isn’t quite it. Not to mention a window was open—not as a ‘she asked for it’ kind of thing, more of a fumigation method, he’s sure.
[secondly, not that she doesn’t smell like pansies and earth and gun metal and--]
Either way with a slow slide he whips the window open and slithers inside, soft footfalls dull against the linoleum while he surveys the room: it’s the bathroom, cracked ceilings and stained barely-porcelain his first sight. On the tiles above the tub there are scribbles, someone’s drawn in colorful permanent markers.
There’s sound from outside, the living room must be right on the other side. Ariadnne isn’t supposed to be home, that’s the point of retrieving his stolen clothes. He wonders. He knows there’s no little green monster ready to emerge from his chest cavity if he isn’t the only one.
[there isn’t! honest]
Ilshev’s first introduction to her living room is a tv blaring daytime cartoons, an empty couch complete with a nest of blankets and no less than 5 stuffed animals and 1000 hotwheels.
His first introduction to her son is a tiny redhead with a glass of milk and a milk mustache he hasn’t bothered to wipe, staring at him with wide eyes. No one dares to move, or make a sound, not even a fart. In one motion they move as one, the kid drops the milk in order to toss a nearby lamp, and Ilshev ducks behind the couch.
“Get outta here! My ma’s a cop y’know, she’ll plant wheaties on you and you’ll be eating soap in prison!” The boy squeaks, voice unbreaking, just unadulterated ferocity to defend his territory.
Ilshev sighs. Yes, this kid has to be related to her. “Not even going to touch the soap part, or the wheaties,” he mutters to himself. “--I’m a friend of your mom’s. She told me to come over and get some stuff.”
An obnoxious snort wrenches from the boy, way too big for such a small body. “That’s what all the guys with vans say! I’m calling her right now, and she’ll beat your ass.”
The kid’s like what, 4? 5? And already—yeah, that’s her kid. That is him.
[there isn’t a green monster that stomps around in the lining of his stomach, but some stones drop; does she think he can’t be trusted?]
“Don’t call her—“ it isn’t time to panic over the fact that she’ll absolutely beat his ass for trying to take back his clothes. Something occurs to him, almost like a lightbulb sparking above his head. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be in school? I don’t think your ma would be happy if she knew you’d skipped…”
Peeking out from behind the couch, careful of projectiles, he spots the kid shiver, and sympathizes.
“I was…sick. Ma let me stay home!” Cue a few weak coughs from a small chest. Nope, there is nothing convincing about the tremble in his voice, unsure of what else to bullshit. The kid’s not half bad. For a toddler.
“Yeah no, I know for a fact Ariadnne would make her kid go to school if they had the plague.” As the words leave his voice, all at once Ilshev realizes he believes it. Ariadnne is a mom.
[he breathes through the sudden tightness of his heart]
The boy groans. “Ma looks soft, so you gotta know her to know that.” Another level of acceptance. She may look like a cinnamon roll, but she’s a sinamon roll that’ll break your knee caps. This, however, leaves them at a crossroads.
“Now what?” The boy continues. The television switches to a new channel, something about a bald, whiny kid, and something primal screams in Ilshev’s head regarding such a program.
He has a decision to make. Probably the easiest one. “Why don’t I make us some grilled cheese sandwiches and you change the channel?” Apparently he’s staying for a bit. Long enough to feed the brat and find his things. [can’t forget the reason he’s gone through all this in the first place]
When it’s apparent he probably won’t be injured, at least by projectiles, he steps out from behind his cover, fully taking in the boy’s features.
Which scrunch up suspiciously. “I’m not leaving you alone in the kitchen. You’ll probably poison me, or use soy milk or something.”
You learn something new every day, like how the next generation is going to destroy the soy milk industry. Instead of dignifying this with a response, Ilshev makes his way to the kitchen, past the little nicknacks that are so Ariadnne it hurts.
It’s halfway clean, that’s a shock to the heart. Pots and pans hang from a rack and the stove only has a little cooking grease dried around the burners. A skillet is easily found, butter is procured from the fridge [full, by the way, of all kinds of snacks and lunchables too], and bread is half buttered and thrown on once the skillet heats up.
Though still wary of him, the boy does take about 4 hotwheels and skates them along the counter as he keeps an eye on Ilshev, sound effects and imaginary crashes, life and death races, unfolding right there before them. But there’s a comfortable silence, too, as cheese and salami join the bread on the pan.
“Wait, how’d you know I like salami on my grilled cheeses?” The boy pipes up, hotwheels in mid-air as he regards Ilshev with something new for the first time: awe.
A single broad shoulder rolls. “I suppose it’s just shared life experiences, is all. Plus it’s really good, yeah?”
Apparently that’s all it takes for the little one to open up, because as soon as he bobs his big bobble head in a nod, he launches into a story about his Kindergarden class, specifically how he’s convinced half of his classmates that eating their own boogers gives them superpowers.
“—then I said if they put markers up there, the scent ones, y’know? That’ll give them spicy powers! Like the red ones are cherry…”
Ilshev is honestly at rapt attention at this tale, the hierarchy of 5 year olds is amazing, and this kid might just be a politician or President or something one day. Of course the sentiment is ruined when the lock to the front door rattles and unlocks and Ariadnne springs into action, pistol aimed at the intruder—
Instead of being too concerned, Ilshev and the boy point accusing fingers simultaneously.
“You never told me you had a kid—”
“You didn’t tell me you had friends!”
Ariadnne stows her gun, sighs and flips a curtain of red hair from her shoulder. “This is exactly why I didn’t want this to happen.” Instead of hanging Ilshev’s jacket up on the coatrack, her bra swings back and forth upon the hook, her shoulders relax a tick, as if breathing in the home and the hearth does it all.
[must be nice]
Green eyes flicker back and forth and not for the first time, he feels honored she hasn’t shot him where he stands. Or sits, in this case.
“David Theophillis Nahane, what did I tell you about skipping school? You don’t get caught.” She tsks and shakes her head, but the corners of her mouth twist while warm hands ruffle through the boy’s hair.
“And Ilshev Christian Name Undecided: I’m pretty sure we’ve had a discussion about you seeing my underwear drawer.” Those green eyes are sharp as she reads him to the bottom of his heart, looks right through him, and his breath catches.
Dave gags, and it’s a wet sound, like its truly genuine. “Maaaaaaaaaaa! This isn’t how you keep friends, you gotta be nice, like don’t try to get them in trouble.”
In contrast to the tightness of his heart upon discovering the boy, Ilshev’s entire body feels weightless as laughter bubbles from his mouth. Mother and son’s gazes whip towards him, shocked,
“Your mom’s failed steps one and two, kid. I don’t know what other steps there are, but she’s not very good at ‘em.”
Ariadnne crosses her arms over her middle, huffing.
“You don’t know how to make friends?” The boy questions, eyebrows raised. “You’re weird. Guess I gotta teach you stuff, too.” With a put upon sigh, like he’s just come home from an 8 hour work day, Dave rolls up his sleeves, pushes his plate aside.
“Step one—”
Sensing what a big adventure into bullshit this is going to be, Ariadnne, stops him right there.
“Let’s change the channel first. You know I hate this kid—and no, it’s not because he’s Canadian.”
She shuts the tv off instead. Heart update: feels really warm. Might be heartburn.