"So… you gonna grieve uselessly, or do you wanna get to work?"
And accosting the father of your child definitely constitutes such.
Charlie's just thinking his presence today has done more harm than good when he sees her steeling herself, ready to pounce. Call it instinct, years of training, it doesn't matter - the sum of all his experience culminating here, with a grieving mother preparing to defend her child with all the ferocity of a mother bear. He sees her weight shift and her haunches tense, spots that determination in her eye. Charlie knows how this goes, very nearly had the book thrown at him after a particularly hateful tirade outside the courthouse during his own custody battle. If she steps one toe out of line now, that baby will end up with Beck indefinitely, and from there a ward of the state, or with that piece of work he calls grammie, probably.
It's impressive how quickly he intercepts her, arms pinned to her sides as he steps between her and Beck, preventing her from lashing out. Her voice catches on a frustrated shriek, but he shushes her as if it's no more than a particularly pathetic sob. He walks her back a few steps, eyes trained on the deputies milling about the parking lot to be sure they don't suspect a scene. When they're far enough away from the retreating party, he ducks down to her level, hands on her shoulders, and waits for her to look at him.
She's all fire still, eyes wide and confused as if language is beyond her when he tells her she needs to calm herself, that people will be watching her for moments like this, now.
"But Davey, he -!"
"I know. C'mon, you need a ride? You can scream as much as you want in the car."
Except, she doesn't. Her anger doesn't make it that far, beat out against the pavement as she marches, eyes trained on the old green clunker of a truck turning right out of the parking lot. Blinker on, stopped perfectly behind the line. That kind of overly cautious driving which makes him wonder how little they try when they're not being watched. Without her temper, she's easily led, a docile little lamb who doesn't even seem to know where she's being steered, face blank as he tucks her into the passenger seat of the squad car, clearing out space among Pernell's piles of fast food wrappers. He really needs to make that kid detail the interior one of these days.
Behind the wheel again, he hesitates to touch her, offer her comfort. She looks vacant, like she's not even fully aware of his presence or where she is. He's reminded of Bella, that long hard stretch of months where he could only ever reach her after she'd woken herself up screaming and crying. Charlie clears his throat to try getting her attention, but she only flinches minutely, eyes still focused on the spot Beck's truck used to occupy. He calls her name instead, to some more success.
"Hey, look at me. It's gonna be alright, okay?" A scowl begins to twist her face and he's quick to continue. "I'm serious. Most people in your… position… lose custody, but it's only until you can get your life back on track, yeah? Judge even said so."
Voice thick with grief, she asks, "Yeah? And when's that gonna be?"
It's a great question, and one he doesn't know the answer to. Not for the first time, he's reminded that he barely knows this woman, that his perception of her is fueled by nothing more than instinct. Still, he's always trusted it.
"You tell me, huh? What do you need for temp housing?"
Lost, her gaze drifts back out the window, too many pieces to thread together right now.
Charlie sighs. "You know, when my ex moved down south I kinda went off the rails a bit," he admits, and it's the most lucid she's looked since he got her in the car so he carries on, raw honesty. "It's hard to think of why you're doing it, when they're not there. But you have to remember you're not done growing, either. You gotta use all the time they're away to make things better each time they come back, you know? Even if it's not tomorrow, or the next day. Honestly, you're kinda lucky you're at a spot with directions." He laughs humorlessly, clearing his throat awkwardly when she just glares at him, unimpressed.
"So… you gonna grieve uselessly, or do you wanna get to work?"
For a second, he thinks she'll rally. He sees a tremor of fight roll through her body, face pinched and determined. And then, just as quick, it leaves her, and the absence turns her hollow and brittle. Her exhaustion is obvious now, pooled under her eyes and leaving her listless. Her gaze is dull and worryingly apathetic when she fixes him with it.
He thinks of Bella, of a Christmas spent with the shell of his daughter, everything within her whittled away to make space for a boy who'd left anyway.
"Can I just have, like, a fucking day?"
Charlie sighs, turning the ignition. The interceptor hums to life; silent, ready. "Fair enough."
She's quiet on the ride back to the shelter. Not that he can blame her, but the depth of her silence is slightly disconcerting. He's not even sure she recognizes the area they pass through, worries more than once that he's driving her to the wrong place. He never asks, but she never speaks up, a gamble that proves worth it when she blinks blandly at the front gate and reaches for the handle without comment. Charlie nearly kicks himself, clambering out of the car to rush around and help her out of it belatedly. He's out of practice, but he thinks maybe she'll forgive him today, certainly in no mood to be wooed anyway. Even standing, she's barely with it, staring past him toward the gate as she thanks him for the ride.
"It's no problem. Look, when you're ready, just let me know if there's anything I can do to help, yeah?"
She laughs hollowly. "Haven't you done enough for me?"
He shrugs, even as guilt twists in his stomach. He hasn't done enough, he knows. Ruben was right - he should have brought Beck in that night, gotten the ball rolling on this whole thing sooner.
"Sorry for, like, getting you in trouble, by the way?"
Charlie laughs. "You didn't," he assures. If anything he got himself in trouble, but not even that. It's been a long time since Judge Ruben has had any influence on his life. "Sorry my account didn't end up doing shit."
She shakes her head. "It was a long shot, anyway. Thanks again, Charlie," she adds, holding out her hand as if to shake, and that just won't do.
Feeling bold, he bats it gently to the side and pulls her into a hug, figuring she could use one after the day she's had. For a moment, she does nothing, stiff as a board in his arms. He's just beginning to regret his decision when she sags, the last string keeping her animated snapping. She collapses into his hold, her arms weak but needy where she wraps them around his waist. They hold for a beat, another, and then he feels the unmistakable shudder of breath, the final warning before she breaks, just a little, and sobs into his chest. It's more than he'd gambled for, and yet, now that he has it, he's glad to handle it.
"Alright, it's alright," he mutters, resting his cheek on her crown. He's tempted to lay a kiss there - platonic, he swears - but he figures it's best not to press his luck.
"I'm s-sorry," she babbles, self-conscious, but her arms still cling to him so he doesn't give her space. Pulls her even closer instead.
"You're alright. Just let it out." And to his surprise, she does.
There's more in her than he thought there was, but he figures the long nights are catching up with her on top of everything else. He debates making a joke about being able to sleep through the day now, and quickly swallows it down. Maybe tomorrow, or the next day, when the loss isn't so raw. Because he will still be there, he suddenly decides, as long as she'll have him. He's not done checking up on her, helping where he can. More than that, he wants to see her angry glare when he asks how it feels, being an empty nester at such a young age, and he needs time for that joke to pay off. Time he plans to earn.
"Hey, look at me," he murmurs, taking her by the shoulders when her sobs begin to peter out. She wipes at her eyes, embarrassed, but he just carries on, unperturbed. She's not a pretty cryer, but it's somehow more endearing because of it. Honest, with her runny nose and her red-rimmed eyes. "Tomorrow, you're gonna go visit the baby, yeah?"
"Yeah," she sniffles, and then more firmly, determined: "Yeah."
"Good. Let me know if you need a ride, okay?"
"You don't… have to work?"
Charlie shrugs. "Don't worry about it. I can patrol anywhere." He winks, earning a startled sort of laugh, nearly hysterical. "Seriously, I know how hard it is to not have a car. Especially when all these government offices keep such strict hours." He rolls his eyes, self-deprecating, but this time the laugh it earns is stiff and courteous at best. "Just let me know if you ever need a ride. Honestly."
She nods absently, hands fluttering about as she resets herself, tugging at her shirt until it lays properly against her chest again. It fits nicely, considering it's probably used, he can't help but notice.
"Okay. Yeah. I'll let you know. Thanks, Charlie."
Except, she doesn't.
It's not a big deal. He knows it's not. She's a grown adult who's managed to navigate many obstacles without his help. He knows this. He really does. It's not a given that she'll reach out at all, let alone immediately. He goes to bed without hearing from her, and he wakes up without hearing from her, and he pockets his phone the same as normal. Sits for breakfast with his daughter, same as normal, that familiar curl of guilt sitting heavier in his belly than the turkey sausage she insists on. He should be doting on her, but Bella has been Rene's keeper for far too long, wakes up much too early in the day for him to compete with. Also, despite her questionable meats, she's a much better cook than him. So maybe he's not trying all that hard.
Pernell is more agitating than usual. Or maybe Charlie is more agitated than usual. Hard to tell when he struggles to find the source of it, turning away the obvious answer just as quickly as it rears its head.
He's a grown man, and he will not infer rejection where a preposition wasn't even made, no matter how insistently his shift ticks by, the hours dancing past prime visiting time without any word from a mother he knows well will be looking to visit her son. Pernell remains unsympathetic, or maybe clueless. Charlie makes him detail the cruiser to keep him quiet, although that means he spends three hours sat at his desk, alone with an inbox that only fills with Sheriff's memos and the odd junk mail he'd accidentally signed the wrong email up for. He's got her address starred so there can be no mistake, but he checks his junk box anyway, just to be sure, frowns when he finds yet more missives that really shouldn't be clogging up the chief's mailbox. He blocks the senders, a chore he's been meaning to get done for months, only an appealing waste of time now that each ding of incoming mail makes his heart skip a beat.
The thing is, he knows he's being ridiculous. Continues to be for the rest of the day. Lets Pernell drive when he's done cleaning just so he can't be tempted to take a drive through Circle Court. Though the kid doesn't make it much better, stopping for snacks at the gas station by the bus stop no less than twice just to prove a point.
Bella's got dinner made when he gets back, a beautiful veggie lasagna she probably sacrificed homework time to make properly, though she claims she'd gotten it all done in study hall before even leaving school. He's not sure how she does it. Is pretty sure the gaggle of Cullen kids are all crowd sharing their assignments. But he can't prove it, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't grateful Bella often used her gained free time to keep him well-fed. Especially when Pernell insists on stopping for snacks twice a day.
"Perfect, then you have time to watch the game with me."
He thinks it's a good idea, an added layer of distraction, until his phone vibrates that long, drawn out notification that's got him tensing up immediately. It's not the one in his pocket, his personal phone which serves as more of a glorified weather man than anything else. It's the one in the kitchen, left charging on the sideboard with the keys to the cruiser, the one that goes off nearly forty times a night which he steadfastly ignores because Heather knows that if he's really needed, a better bet is his personal or home line.
And yet, tonight, he's off the couch as soon as he hears it, mumbling something about another beer, thanking whatever powers may be that Bella doesn't know enough about football to call him out on the fact that he's walking away from a third and goal.
'Hawks will probably blow it anyway.
Charlie goes for the fridge first. Makes a big production of clinking bottles around. He taps his screen as he moves about the kitchen, scowling at first when he sees the icon that indicates a text because she always emails, even though he knows she has this number.
Still, a text is rare enough that it catches his interest and Charlie takes a minute to open it, smiling around the mouthful of plain white bread dipped in lasagne sauce he's snagged for himself when he reads her name in the notifications bar. Full name, consummate professional, saved that first day she'd called him, all shaking and scared. She's only a little more confident now, giving him her name again as if he's likely to forget her.
> Just want to thank you again for the ride yesterday.
From the living room, he hears the unmistakable cheers of the Seahawks actually producing.
"What I miss?" he asks anyway, as he sinks back into his favorite spot.
Bella shakes her head as if rousing herself from a daydream. "Uh, Green got some points."
"Insightful," Charlie laughs, attention split between the replay and the weight in his pocket. Personal phone this time, an outgoing text explaining this has probably officially moved away from professional jurisdiction and to please contact him on this line. It's maybe a bit too forward, but he's just as sick of not producing as Green here seems to be.
It is a good goal, after all.
"That's me," Bella returns, voice just as droll as his own.
Charlie shoots a smirk at her, but finds her staring intently instead, at odds with her blithe remark. "Right," he laughs, and his phone vibrates rather damningly. He waits until the next commercial break to check it this time, a smirk hidden behind the lip of his beer bottle.
> Wouldn't want to get you in more trouble, I suppose.
< Don't worry, I know the boss.
< Did you visit the kiddo today?
It's a blessing and a curse, her phone time being so limited.
Charlie thinks it's probably for the best that he can't expect to hear from her all day, but it comes at the cost of knowing that when she does reach out, it's likely because she's bored at work with nothing better to do than blow up his phone.
She responds quickly. Enough so that Charlie notices Bella noticing, short vibrations echoing loudly in the silent stretch of a broadcast malfunction. Charlie mutters something about work as he silences the device altogether, but Bella is clever enough to catch on that it's the wrong phone, even if she's merciful enough not to comment.
For now.
> I did. For a little while
He waits for a follow up. Doesn't get one.
< How'd it go?
For a few moments, he watches her text bubble bounce more avidly than he watches the game, and then -
> Not great, honestly. Dave was a real piece of work and the baby was cranky and my MIL was there and she's probably even worse than Dave honestly
Charlie scrubs his hand down his face, an exasperated motion that seems to sell his lie, as Bella asks if it's about the murders taking place in Seattle.
"Closer to home," Charlie grunts, not all too convinced it's a lie.
Give him time, it might be accurate.
With Bella off his case, he shamelessly fires off a response, thumbs clumsy and unpracticed. He's never been much of a texter, but he can appreciate the fact that it gives him enough time to formulate an appropriate response.
< She the one that was at court the other day?
> The very same
< I didn't like her either
Mostly, he didn't like her hands on the woman, but he could name a few other things that had rubbed him wrong as well, if pressed.
> Yeah she's a treat
> And you know what's complete bullshit? Here she is all the sudden grandma of the year babysitting whenever she's needed but when I wanted to get a job she was too busy
Charlie's still drafting a response when another message comes through.
> Sorry. Just bitter. Hate that he gets free daycare when I was expected to get a job spend time with my kid and navigate social service offices with a baby on my hip
And bitterness Charlie understands, though more than that he knows it's uselessness.
< Well if you want to take advantage of the free daycare you do currently have, I don't mind helping you navigate these offices
She takes a while to respond, long enough that the 'Hawks give up an answering field goal, and he begins to wonder if he should have just let her bitch. He knows better than anyone the catharsis of it, after all. But when he next checks his phone, he has to hide a smirk behind his bottle again, her shy request giving him hope where he'd all but abandoned it earlier in the day.
> Actually, I was more hoping for a lift to go see the baby tomorrow and I wouldn't want to take up your WHOLE day
< Nonsense got nothing planned anyway
> Sometimes that's a plan all it's own
And she's got him there, that's true, but he doesn't think he can tell her he'd rather spend all day in social services hell with her than moping around with a beer and SportsCenter reruns without scaring her off so he lies.
< Not with a teenaged girl at home
***
Bells is definitely onto him.
He's not sure what the final straw was - cleaning out his truck, or the fresh shave. Maybe even the aftershave he'd bothered to use this time, but he can feel her eying him over as he moves about the house, restless energy as he waits for an appropriate time to head over.
Damn kids. Only ever around when you don't want 'em.
"Got a date?" she finally asks, cheeky, when she catches him eying his Carhart dubiously.
Who got all those stains all over it?
"No," he tells her honestly, a reminder to himself just as much as it is to her.
"So what's with the -?"
"What's with the what?" he asks, snappish, stuffing his fists down the wrinkled sleeves.
(It isn't a date, afterall.)
She squints at him. "Did you pluck some ear hairs?"
Charlie swats her hand away when it closes in for inspection. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"
"Would you prefer I be out with Edward?" She challenges, and he bites back a retort about the importance of having other friends. He's not exactly a great parent, but even he knows the more he pushes, the less likely she is to listen.
Teasing is more fun anyway. "You know what? Maybe."
She follows him outside, unwilling to let him off the hook. "So where are you going?"
"I thought you were the one who's supposed to tell me where you're going?"
"Well if I don't know where you are, how will I know if you're in danger?" She laughs, using his own words against him. For the life of him, Charlie's not sure how she wound up so much like him when she spent so much time with Rene.
Ignoring her long enough to climb into the truck, he looks her over for a moment as the engine warms up, for the first time noting her outfit. Dressed properly, hair pushed back in a cute headband. Leaving after him, for sure.
"I'm giving a friend a ride, if you're really that concerned about me. Where are you sneaking off to after I pull out?"
"It's not sneaking off if I'm an adult, dad," she reminds him.
"A grounded adult," he mutters, trying not to listen to the part of him that balks at how ridiculous that is. "Tell Edward I said hi. Just make sure you're back by -."
"Ten, yeah. You gonna be here to know either way?"
Charlie squints at her, a look that makes grown officers shrink which she weathers admirably. "You think I need to be home to know what you're up to?" He challenges menacingly, but it's hollow and they both know it. Damn kid had managed to flee the country without his knowing.
"Sure, dad. Have fun today." She tries to wink at him, ends up blinking rather aggressively.
Charlie cringes, yet again reminded that this is very firmly not a date. "I won't," he promises with enough conviction that Bella falters briefly.
"Well, guess I'll just have to have enough fun for the both of us."
Add that's just too much for dear old dad's sensibilities, so he just scowls and slams the truck door.
It doesn't hit him, what he's doing, until he's waiting outside the shelter in a civilian truck and the hapless security guard he's dealt with a time or two mosies out to see what's brewing.
"Afternoon, officer," he says amiably enough when Charlie climbs out to greet him. "What can I do you for?"
"Jerry. Actually, I'm just picking up a friend, giving them a ride."
"Oh." Jerry blinks, his handshake faltering for a moment as he tries to wrap his head around the situation. He asks which girl Charlie's after and nods his head sagely at the answer, as if he should have figured. Charlie wonders if she has many callers.
"Just popped out," Jerry explains instead. "I'm willing to bet she'll be looking to meet you down on Swanton and Dorner. Where she usually heads, anyway. Oh, and Chief?" he adds as Charlie makes a break for the truck. "Unofficial business is kept strictly off the property."
It's said with such severity that for a moment, Charlie sees him as the seasoned professional he is, hardened in his own way after decades of his solemn sentinel.
"Thanks, Jerry." Charlie nods, and then the man is back to his blustering self, head bobbing and hand waving.
"Be seeing you."
Charlie's not sure if he should hope that's the case.
Sure enough, he finds her sat at the corner, tapping away at her phone as he approaches. She doesn't notice it's him at first, perhaps grown used to the cruiser, and he takes advantage of her obliviousness to hop out and get the door for her. A miscalculation, maybe. At the sound of the door, she goes stiff all over, eyes wide and scared as she takes in this new visitor. Charlie's anger flares briefly, impotent here where the source of her skittishness is nowhere to be found. Then, just as quick, she relaxes at the sight of him, standing to greet him with a small smile that forces him to remember himself, how actively harmful his frustration will be here.
"You're punctual," she teases, allowing herself to be pulled into a brief hug. She's stiff again, all the progress he'd made undone by a night stressing over her baby and the inadvertent jumpscare, no doubt.
"Well, figured you'd be eager."
She makes no refute, climbing into the truck just as she had all those months ago, grim determination setting her jaw.
The miles tick by in an uncomfortable, strained sort of silence. They talk, some - idle chatter neither pay much attention to. She's got her eyes trained out the window as she recites the list of offices she needs to visit, stammering apologies about it all as if he weren't the one to volunteer his time. Charlie is quick to reassure her, though he couldn't honestly recall what for, attention split between the road and the hands twisting in her lap. She's nervous. He makes her nervous, he infers, guilt and anger vying for his assessment as he recounts their interactions, the way she'd jumped when she'd heard the truck door slam.
Charlie has seen more than his fair share of battered women, an unfortunate consequence of the job. He's known what Beck was capable of since that day he'd first met him, seen him stumbling and belligerent, that baby all but forgotten in the house. It had never rested easily with Charlie but when he pictured it - when he let himself picture it -, he supposed he'd thought Beck as more of a hands off sort, controlling and negligent by turns; capable of just enough affection to keep his woman close, or at least dependent, and just as miserable as him.
But when he'd seen her at the shelter, clutching her baby and watching on with those wide, terrified eyes, the final piece of the puzzle had fallen into place and he understood right then how badly he'd failed her - how badly he's continued to fail her, much as she won't admit it. He struggles not to dwell on it, to push the images his imagination keeps supplying him with to the side so he can stay in the moment. He dwells where he knows he shouldn't, broken dishes and shouts which drown out the baby's cries. From the corner of his eye, Charlie watches her pick at ragged fingernails and chokes back the urge to throttle his steering wheel, well aware of how tragically attuned she will likely be with signs of anger. It's one thing he remains most grateful to his training for, his ability to remain outwardly calm when dealing with the timid and the irate alike. He draws upon it now, gently clears his throat and waits for her to look at him before asking what's all on the menu for the day.
She grasps onto the conversation lead like a life line, just as happy to be steered out of murky waters as he is to navigate. "Social services first, please. I've got some questions about the housing paperwork I'd like to clear before I try to file them. Then, over to public housing to file and pray I don't need to head anywhere else. And then, if time permits, maybe over to the house, if you don't mind? I'd like to stop by with the truck so I can grab some of my stuff," she admits with a cute little grimace.
"I see how it is," Charlie grumbles good-naturedly, and her grimace turns a bit cheeky.
"Well, I mean, you did offer."
"That I did. Shouldn't be a problem to get everything done today." Privately, he ponders the possibility of grabbing lunch or dinner after and thinks he might just luck out.
"Mostly just depends on the wait times," she muses. "Public housing is usually really bad from what I hear."
Charlie suppresses a snort, thinking it might be best to keep some tricks hidden up his sleeve. She catches it anyway, and he pivots when she arches an eyebrow at him, leveling her with a beady squint.
"I don't know. I saw you outside that courthouse. I have a feeling people will clear out for you when they see you all determined."
She frowns at him, vaguely unamused. "I wasn't too bad, was I?"
Charlie shrugs. "I don't know. Thought I was going to have to break out the cuffs there for a second."
"Oh, stop," she laughs. "I think I was reasonably upset."
"For a mama bear," Charlie teases, and delights in the way her nose scrunches up, embarrassed.
"Well, I'll try to behave better today."
Charlie kind of hopes she doesn't.
They're among the first in line at her case worker's office. Charlie waits in the car while she makes relatively quick work of the visit, climbing back into the car not long after to say they'll need to make one more stop before heading to public housing. Charlie just nods along and goes where told, eying the full parking lot dubiously as he drops her off at the door.
"Sure you don't want company?" Charlie prompts, eying the clock on the dash somewhat warily. There's plenty of time still until he can get away with asking her for lunch, but he doesn't know how long the visit with the boy will take.
She waves him off. "This one will probably take a while," she apologizes. "Honestly, if you wanna just go find something to do, I can text you when I'm wrapping up?"
Sweet, but that won't do.
It's a bit of a struggle to find a parking spot, but not enough of one that she's made any progress with the line by the time he heads inside to meet her. He announces himself by whistling lowly next to her, raising unimpressed brows at the throng of people who have spilled into the vestibule. The expected wait time sign overhead announces they should expect to be waiting another ninety minutes.
She takes his presence in stride, rolling her eyes at the sign commiseratively. "Those signs can usually be depended on for being optimistic." She pauses while Charlie laughs, eying him over like he's crazy. "Couldn't think of any better way to spend your morning?"
"A couple things occurred to me," Charlie muses, and places a hand on the small of her back to steer her off to the side of the queue before she can question it. "C'mon, think I know a shortcut."
The help desk has one open line, and one window that's technically closed, but is still manned by a frazzled looking older woman who turns a rather unimpressed glare over her glasses at them as they approach, though it clears up quickly enough when she recognizes her new visitor.
"Chief Swan. What can I do you for?"
"'Mornin', Maggie. How are you now?"
Maggie laughs at him, an answer on its own.
"A bit early to be so negative," Charlie chides, and she adjusts her glasses as she turns back to her computer to close out of whatever she was working on.
"I know you know too much about this system to believe that," she challenges, and Charlie meets it with a humorless smile.
"To that end… how do you feel about helping my friend here out? We still gotta find time for public housing today, too."
Maggie scoffs at his audacity, but she holds her hands out expectantly, and mama bear rises to the occasion. Charlie listens astutely, eager to make himself useful later should she have any questions down the road just as much as he enjoys the opportunity to learn more about her case - and by extension, her. She doesn't object like he thought she might, too focused on getting her task done quickly so as to use up as little of Maggie's time as possible. It's sweet. Just as sweet as the way she keeps eying the stagnant line behind them, guilt-ridden for having taken advantage of offers freely given. But they're sorted in no time flat and Maggie sends them off with yet more forms and vouchers to take with them to the next office, which goes much the same. Charlie doesn't know anyone here personally, but the right word in the right ear has them cutting the line again and for thanks, Charlie gets levelled with a rather scathing glare which morphs slowly into appreciation when she checks the time as they leave and notes she now has all day to spend with her kid if she wants.
She babbles on the way over, nervous energy overspilling between the prospect of seeing Beck again so soon, and the waiting game she's officially on for the housing. For his part, Charlie merely offers sympathetic noises when prompted, content to let her wind herself out for now and offer stability - or food - when all's said and done.
It's strange, having her in his truck again as he heads back to Circle Court. He won't pretend he's not familiar with the route, plays it off as a combination of years patrolling and a good memory of the day they met. It's not fully a lie, being a route he's taken hundreds of times since then, a cycle of guilt that pulls him back toward the park with some regularity, always hoping to catch Beck slipping up, landing himself in some heat that would allow Charlie to fix his original lapse in judgement. He never had, of course, so now here he is so much time later, wasting his first outing with the pretty little mama that's haunted him ever since bumping along back up the road.
Except, Beck blessedly isn't there when he pulls in. Nothing but wheel ruts where his truck usually sits. Charlie pulls up into the spot and his passenger mutters something about the mother in law as she eyes the beat up Buick. As if summoned, he sees the curtains of the trailer flicker, and Sharon's beady eyes meet his own for a moment, drawing the fabric back into place just as the baby appears at her feet.
"I'll wait here?" Charlie offers and she gives him a pained sort of smile.
"If you'd rather go for a ride, I can -?"
Shaking his head, Charlie kills the engine and makes a show of settling in. He'd hurry around to open the door for her, but knows it will seem less imposing to their audience if he were to remain in the car. "No worries. And no hurries, either. Take your time with that kiddo."
Reaching out, she squeezes his arm once, friendly and sweet, and then the passenger door opens with a creak and she slides out of the seat. He watches her as he walks around the front of the truck, head held high as Sharon comes out onto the porch to greet her.
"David's not home."
"That's fine. I don't wanna see him anyway," mama quips, shoving her foot in the door as Sharon tries to shut her out.
With the door propped open, there's nothing to stop the baby from storming his mother, crashing into her leg with an excited giggle. She scoops him up easily, well-adjusted to the boy's growing weight, apparently, and showers him with kisses as she asks how he slept and what he's had to eat. Sharon, unmoved by the display, answers for him: slept fine; cereal for breakfast, and mac n' cheese for lunch.
Forgotten, Carlie watches from a distance as the two women squabble about how much cheese the boy can eat, barbed words and 'I know what I'm doing's growing steadily more insistent until the baby interrupts, eyes wide as he points at Charlie.
"Hank!"
For a moment, no one seems to know what to make of that, and then Sharon's face grows stormy as she steps onto the porch, the trailer door slamming behind her.
"You bringing strange men around that baby?" she seethes, and the other woman scowls at her before correcting her son, stepping closer to Charlie as she points.
"No, baby. That's Charlie. Can you say 'hi'?"
Charlie, suddenly feeling like he shouldn't remain in his truck, sidles down from the cab and waves nervously, unsure what to make of it when the boy calls him the wrong name again.
"No! Hank!"
Charlie laughs it off, at a loss. "Well, it's better than Chuck."
"Sorry, I don't know where he's…"
But Davey squirms, insistent, and when he's lowered to his feet, it's not to Charlie that he runs, his eyes wide with wonder as he slaps at the truck. "Hank!"
"Who the hell is Hank anyway?" he hears Sharon mutter.
And suddenly, the boy's mother is able to answer. "The truck," she sighs, understanding dawning as Davey continues to beat a toy clutched in his small fist against Charlie's truck.
He waves his toy around at everyone assembled, as his mom approaches, pressing the bright red button on the roof, its own little cherry light. The toy groans its disapproval of being used, a sad little horn that stretches too long, the note misshapen and sharp.
"Hank! Hank!" Davey crows, nearly beaming the truck at Charlie's own in his excitement. "Hank!"
"It's 'cause -."
But Charlie's ahead of her, leaning into the cab to tap the horn, a friendly toot that makes the boy squeal and squirm. "Just like yours, huh?"
Davey crows with delight, waddling closer with hands outstretched, begging Charlie to lift him so that he might try it as well. Charlie hesitates, eying the women over. Sharon looks like she has plenty to say - or scream - about it, but mama bear is smiling encouragingly, so Charlie doesn't disappoint, crouching low to swoop Davey up and into the truck. He points at the steering wheel and helps press down when the baby's chubby little fingers don't quite press hard enough.
Charlie forgot, somewhere along the way, what it feels like to have a kid, breathless with laughter, looking at you like you've hung the moon. Worth the bullshit, certainly - courts and services, visitation headaches. He hopes mama bear makes it out the other side, gets to stand in her driveway one day and listen to her sarcastic bastard of a son ask if she's plucked her ear hairs today.
Maybe, he's starting to hope he sees it.
They step inside and for a while once the boy is satisfied with his horn mashing, and Charlie is left alone to busy himself overanalyzing the yard, the unkempt lawn - with the baby around, Charlie worries about ticks -, and the warped siding of the trailer. Unattended, his thoughts turn to blame, honey-do lists left uncompleted and an imbalance chore load that still couldn't get wrapped up by the end of the week.
'Not like you worked all day.'
That's the thing he at least got right. For whatever else Renee could blame him for, at least he'd never been one of those husbands.
His consolation is short-lived. He's only been counting roofing patch projects for about a half hour when the stuttering approach of a malfunctioning catalytic converter alerts him to Beck's return. Well attuned to the noise, he watches as mama's face appears in the window, a worried frown creasing her brow as she watches Beck pull up beside Charlie, scowling as he takes in another man's truck in his spot. Charlie just meets it levelly, years of training schooling his expression, not easily cowed - not something Beck seems to know how to handle, here in his own home where everything usually bows to his whim. The door creaks as he drops out of the truck, loud enough to cover the matching crash of the screen door as an audience gathers on the porch. Charlie eyes the assembled group warily, unsure if his pride is worth inciting Beck's anger with the house full as it is. Deescalation has never been his strong suit, but he gives it his best shot now regardless, boots sinking heavily into the churned mud of the drive as he hops out to meet the other man.
"Mr. Beck -."
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
"Dave -?"
The man rounds on his ex, hardly seeming to even register she holds his kid as he shouts at her. "Shut the fuck up. What do you think you're doing bringing a cop around?"
"Charlie is my friend," she starts, stepping closer. Charlie holds up a hand encouraging her to stay put when Beck turns back to him.
"Friends, huh?" He steps closer, chin raised defiantly to meet Charlie's gaze. "That so, Sheriff?"
Christ but the little bastard is quick to anger, a young buck rearing to every challenge.
"Chief Swan, actually," the man corrects, holding out his hand. Beck just stares at it, lip curled in disgust. "Was just offering the lady a ride, seeing as she doesn't have a car and -."
"Sure you were," Beck spits. "Tell you what, though, you can forget giving her a ride here ever again, cause the next time I see you, you'd better have a warrant."
Charlie bites back a smirk. That can be arranged, he muses, but he just runs his palm over his scruff and eyes their audience, regretting that he won't be the one to bear the brunt of Beck's ire if he draws it. "Alright," he says instead, and tells mama to let him know whenever she's ready.
"Ready now, just - hang on."
She pawns the baby off on Sharon and disappears inside for a moment, reappearing with two heaping, misshapen trash bags which Charlie scrambles to take from her.
Beck gets to her first, hand in her chest to stop her in her tracks. "Fuck is this?"
"My clothes." She tries to sidestep him, gets her arm grabbed for her efforts. Sharon conveniently turns to bring the screeching baby inside.
Charlie muscles his way between them, catching her eye as he takes the bags from her, nodding her off toward the truck while Beck still reels, instincts warring between his casual cruelty and maintaining his innocence of the claims she's publicly leveled at him.
He gets her sequestered in the passenger seat as Beck continues to hurl insults at her. Charlie tosses her clothes in the bed and swallows down every name he wants to call the man, his pride along with it as he shoulders past on his way back to the driver's side. Beck does his best to prevent him, but Charlie knows better than to take the bait, would rather take Beck's abuse on the chin than endanger her case anymore by beating the father of her child on the front lawn of his own house. So he practices restraint, climbing half up into the truck and towering over the man as he stands on his running board to look down at him.
He wants to say something. Anything really, a list of curses or threats a mile long running like a teleprompter in his mind's eye. Charlie allows himself to imagine the satisfaction of telling this man off, of promising to come back with a warrant. He can feel the words caught in his teeth, the weight heavy on his tongue.
Charlie's never been any good at deescalation, but he knows better than to let his pride get in the way of priority number one being to remove the victims to the best of his ability.
But if he happens to remove her to a secondary location offering hot meals and cold drinks, well. That's between him and his bruised pride.
If this things still on I THINK I'll get around to posting the next chapter either tomorrow or Friday. Sorry to have fallen off a cliff for a while there it will likely happen again but I swear I haven't abandoned it
Sincerest apologies for the sudden disappearance. Spiraled a fair amount there for a bit. But I am officially writing again and I'm really hoping to get this next chapter up this week and here's proof im putting the work in lmao
Wip Wednesday from noncom. This chapter be even more delayed because I'm in a #crisis, but is still coming along
"Got a date?" she finally asks, cheeky, when she catches him eying his Carhart dubiously. Who got all those stains all over it?
"No," he tells her honestly, a reminder to himself just as much as it is to her.
"So what's with the -?"
"What's with the what?" he asks, snappish, stuffing his fists down the wrinkled sleeves.
(It isn't a date, afterall.)
She squints at him. "Did you pluck some ear hairs?"
Charlie swats her hand away when it closes in for inspection. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"
"Would you prefer I be out with Edward?" She challenges, and he bites back a retort about the importance of having other friends. He's not exactly a great parent, but even he knows the more he pushes, the less likely she is to listen.
Teasing is more fun anyway. "You know what? Maybe."
She follows him outside, unwilling to let him off the hook. "So where are you going?"
"I thought you were the one who's supposed to tell me where you're going?"
"Well if I don't know where you are, how will I know if you're in danger?" She laughs, using his own words against him. For the life of him, Charlie's not sure how she wound up so much like him when she spent so much time with Rene.
God you can tell what I have written for this chapter so far was disjointedly scribbled down in five minutes spurts at best cause I've just finished typing it up and it's like maybe half way done and it's like 4k words of repetitive bullshit which will probably have to be like halved ughhh
"Good as we're gonna get, I think."
"Thanks, Ally," you mutter sarcastically, frowning in the mirror when you see what she sees: dark circles under your eyes, ragged nails and sunken cheeks. You'd been able to scrounge together a decent outfit with her help, but there was nothing really to be done about the ravages of so many overnight shifts, or the days spent being thrown around by a system that didn't work. You looked haggard, ill-suited to the task you're about to go beg and plead a court to let you keep doing. To give you the sole right to keep doing.
"Good as we're gonna get, I think."
"Thanks, Ally," you mutter sarcastically, frowning in the mirror when you see what she sees: dark circles under your eyes, ragged nails and sunken cheeks. You'd been able to scrounge together a decent outfit with her help, but there was nothing really to be done about the ravages of so many overnight shifts, or the days spent being thrown around by a system that didn't work. You looked haggard, ill-suited to the task you're about to go beg and plead a court to let you keep doing. To give you the sole right to keep doing.
"Oh, come off it. You're gonna be fine," she offers with a friendly pat on your hip, her head leaned on your shoulder. "Davey's well taken care of here. They're not gonna take him from you when you've been doing everything right. You got a job, you've done the classes. They'll see how hard you're trying."
Through the mirror, your eyes drift to where plays contentedly, showing off his blue truck to Ally's youngest, who coos excitedly, complimenting it.
"I need sole custody, Ally," you sigh, adjusting your cardigan. It's a shade of green that doesn't suit you well, but the fit is good and most importantly, it doesn't look donated.
"You might need to lower your expectations," she counters, fixing you in place with her dark stare even as you sputter a denial.
"Sole custody takes time, and lots of proof, which you don't have. You said Dave's never hurt the baby, right?" Reluctantly, you agree and she nods sagely, the wisdom of a woman who's had to do this more than once. "That's not going to change overnight. Let him slip up, just a little. You just keep track."
"Aren't you supposed to be telling me I've got this or something?"
"I'm supposed to be telling you the truth. I don't want you crashing and burning tonight if things don't work out. That kind of upset is more dangerous to Davey long term than anything decided today.
Anger flares hot at the implication. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that's the kind of stuff that makes women go back, fear about what will happen to their kids if they're not around to stop it. We need to be more level headed than that."
"I don't want to think about this," you huff at her, cross. But Ally has seen worse sights than you.
"You either think about it now, or live it later," she tells you bluntly, then softens as she pulls you into a hug. She smells like allergen-free laundry detergent, the generic stuff they offer downstairs which pills your fabric something awful. It's a scent you've come to associate with safety. "I want what's best for you and Davey. I've no doubt you're going to get him in the future, but the path there might not be what you're expecting and I just want you to be ready for that."
"I appreciate that," you lie. "But you're worrying over nothing. Davey has never been away from me. I have faith the judge will do what's best for him."
But faith, as it turns out, is not something that has chosen today of all days to start rewarding you.
There's a small crowd of familiar faces in the parking lot when your ride - Helen, a volunteer from the shelter, who uses her free time to shuttle people to and from appointments - drops you off. Darlene, the woman who's carpooled with you on her way to a second trimester check in, smiles at you sympathetically when she sees how you hesitate to get out.
"Good luck," she mutters, squeezing your shoulder. Up front, Helen echoes the sentiment.
"Thanks, you too," you mumble absently, your thoughts scattered as you unbuckle Davey from his carseat. But as you climb out of the car you look her over one last time, see how young she is, how scared she looks. "This one's a fun one," you tell her, nodding at her belly. "It's about to make more sense."
Darlene smiles brightly at you and Davey. "I hope so."
You do too.
There's nothing you'd like more than to breeze past the assembled group on your way in, but they make it impossible. Dave's brought along his parents, and Sharon, the formidable mother who you'd once admired, is muttering agitatedly, pointing at you while Davey squirms to see his father.
"'Morning," you greet the assembled lot, trying hard as you can to redeem yourself against whatever lies Dave has been spreading. "Davey, say hi?"
"Daddy!" he crows, and much to your chagrin, the man steps forward, arms wide open.
"Hey, buddy! D'you miss me?" But Davey is too busy giggling to answer, being tossed in the air as he is.
"Careful, Dave, the concrete," you remind him, but he doesn't seem to hear you.
"What were you thinking, bringing him here?" Sharon snaps, stepping forward to dominate your field of view.
"I - what?"
"Court is no place for a baby," she scolds, and you frown back at her.
"I'm sorry, I -? I don't know, he goes everywhere with me."
Sharon just clucks, taking the baby from her son as the doors to the courthouse begin to open. "I'll stay out here with him," she decides and you thank her, despite your better instinct, stopping to say goodbye to your son as he reaches for you.
"I'll be right back, okay baby? You're gonna stay out here and spend some time with Grammie. You wanna show her your truck?" you prompt, fishing it from your bag. "Tell Grammie what a truck says."
"Hank!" Davey declares, pressing the button for her inspection.
You laugh at her confused expression, nerves turning it slightly hysterical. "That's right, hank. Okay, I love you, be good. I'll see you soon, okay?" You ask, blowing him a kiss, but Dave's hand is on your back already, guiding you away.
Court is stifling, a stuffy room filled with stuffy people who all seem to look straight through you. You're guided to an empty table up by the front and you watch wide-eyed as the rest of the room fills out, friends and family all filing in neatly behind Dave, a sick parody of the nuptials you'd never exchanged. And then, to your dawning horror, a man in a stiff suit slips past the gate that separates you from the rest of the crowd, and slips into the empty seat next to Dave, shaking his hand as he rests a pile of papers on the table.
Dave's got himself a lawyer. Or his parents did, more like.
Things go bad, and then somehow worse. Terms you have no understanding of, no real capacity for, are thrown around casually over your head. On your left, you see Dave's new lawyer lean close to translate, your ex's glassy eyes darting between yourself and the judge with that cruel gleam you've come to know well.
He's not even doing this for Davey, you suddenly understand. He's just doing this to hurt you, to keep you tied to him in some capacity. You wonder how no one else seems able to see it, how this man who has never once taken interest in his son's upbringing has not suddenly developed an ability to love, to long for what he's lost. You want to shout it, stop the proceeding dead, scream about what a monster he is and beg people to just listen to you for once, to strip this farce of its pomp and circumstance and address the situation for what it is.
But of course that's not what any of this is.
Dave never bothered with character witnesses. He never had to. His lawyer tells the judge how you absconded in the night with his client's child and neglected to inform the father where you'd taken him. He calls it kidnapping. When the judge asks if that's true, you admit only what Mr. Lutz told you to, that you took Davey to a DV shelter.
It causes quite the stir within the assembled group. They murmur amongst themselves now, scandalized, even as Dave's lawyer seems unsurprised by this news.
Judge Ruben seems to have had no such warning. "A domestic violence shelter?" he asks shrewdly, eyeing Dave under a new lens. "You do know those are for victims of domestic violence?"
Hope bubbles in your chest, fragile and thin. "Yes, your Honor."
"And are you?"
"Am I?"
"A victim of domestic violence."
"Oh, uh - yes, your Honor."
"Was a police report ever filed?"
"No, your Honor."
The lawyer stands up, the drumming of his fingers upon the table interrupting the judge's retort. "Might I remind the court that Washington state's limitations on whether a parent needs to be notified on the location of their child is only valid in the event of a police -?"
"I'm aware of the law, thank you, Mr. Harper," the judge snaps. Turning to you, he asks, "Do you have any evidence of this domestic violence?"
"I have a character witness statement," you supply in a tone too bright for the situation. You make as if to bring it to him, but the bailiff stops you with a raised palm, crossing the distance to take it from you instead.
Judge Ruben opens the envelope with a sigh, scrutinizing the letterhead with a pair of thick readers perched precariously on the tip of his nose. "I was wondering why he was here today," he eventually murmurs before handing the letter back to the bailiff, who begins to ferry it toward Dave's table. You're about to protest when Judge Ruben's focus shifts to the crowd, a heavy fist beckoning someone closer as he calls, "Chief Swan, approach."
Heels clack up the aisle behind you, at odds with the stomp of boots you've come to associate him with. He's wearing his dress uniform today, you note, as he comes into view. Charlie doesn't look at you, but for a moment, you can only look at him, completely blindsided by his presence. You hadn't asked him to come. Had barely spoken to him since insinuating you'd possibly like to be more than friends. He'd never said he would be here, yet there he stood, answering questions from the judge as if it weren't a massive favor he were extending.
Enough of one that Dave's lawyer immediately takes objection.
"Your Honor, this is highly irregular," he starts, but Ruben only waves a finger at him. Behind Harper, Dave is reading over Charlie's statement with a worrisomely deep scowl.
"Chief Swan," Ruben begins, fixing Charlie with a glare from over his glasses. "Your statement describes an incident that took place nearly two years ago, is that correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"And in it, you don't actually depict an incident of domestic violence, would you agree?"
"I believe I've depicted an incident of neglect," Charlie counters, chin tilted almost defiantly toward the judge. "Which is certainly no less relevant to the issue at hand today."
If Ruben is surprised by Charlie's attitude, he doesn't show it, simply tilts his head contemplatively as he continues. "I agree you did witness an incident of neglect," he cedes. "Which begs the question: why wasn't a report ever filed?"
Eyes trained on Charlie, you catch the immediate doubt that crosses his face, actual, manifest worry building within you for the first time as he considers his words carefully. Without Charlie's testimony, you've no real case at all, but in your determination, you'd refused to believe it wouldn't be enough. Faced now with Charlie's doubt, your own begins to build.
"If I can speak candidly, your Honor, the family seemed in no position to afford a legal battle."
Shame spills hot in your gut, roiling with the heady cocktail of anxiety and doubt. You think of how you must have looked to him, trailer trash, just barely getting by; no phone, no car, and a kid you couldn't do right by. It smarts, knowing that he's not even wrong. If he had acted the sheriff that day, nothing would have changed except for the worse. You would have stayed with Dave, and the two of you would've slipped further between the cracks, your lives so intertwined you would have never been able to leave.
Not until they'd taken the baby from you, at least.
The judge doesn't see it the same way, catty as he motions to the assembled parties. Rhetorically, he asks, "And do they seem in a better position now?"
Charlie surprises you, voice steady and firm as he responds anyway. "Yes."
Behind Charlie, you think you hear the lawyer snicker, and you sink in on yourself, imagining what he sees.
Ruben fixes them both with a stern glare, gaze flicking between the two, seemingly debating which one is irritating him more. You know you've miscalculated when Ruben drops Charlie's title.
"Mr. Swan, I must say you're lucky you're not the one on trial here today. If I had some sort of material evidence of your testimony, we might be in a different situation, but as it stands, your gross negligence makes none of this relevant -."
"Not relevant?" you squawk, chair squealing across the linoleum as you stand. "I was only asked to collect character witnesses. Would this account have been dismissed if Chief Swan were anyone else? Someone incapable of -?"
Charlie's hand on your shoulder stops you in your tracks, the hold authoritative and professional, given his position, though his grip is gentle and guiding. You glare at him, livid, but he just shakes his head at you, murmurs something about hurting your case.
Ruben waits until you've been seated again, requests you restrain yourself from further outbursts, and the realization of your mistake churns the shame and anger in your gut.
You're going to lose your kid.
"Now, let's review the facts as they're presented: We have a mother who stole her child away from a stable, if impoverished home, who is currently living under the shelter of the state, and whose employment prospects are dubious at best, versus a father who clearly still wants access to his child, who owns a home, and has assumed sole responsibility of the bills therein for the last two years. Have I missed anything?"
"There are allegations that the child was made to sleep on the floor of the bus station as well, your Honor," Harper helpfully reminds the court, and you add your voice over the wave that follows.
"A stable home is also a bit of a stretch," you counter. "I may have only had a job for a few weeks, but that's longer than David Beck has ever lasted with any employer."
Ruben turns to the man in question. "Is that true?"
Doing his best to look trite, Dave answers. "I've held the same position since living alone, your Honor. Not to play the blame game, but it could be difficult maintaining a schedule while sharing a car."
You don't even know you're speaking until Charlie's hand squeezes your shoulder in warning, and then you feel it, the harsh rattle of raw emotion in your throat. Vindictively, you hope the words were worth it. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.
Ruben just shakes his head, exasperated. "I've heard enough." He addresses you, unimpressed. "Are you currently in line for temporary housing?"
You think of all the forms piling on your tiny coffee table back at the shelter, filled out and ready to submit, just waiting on a day you weren't left lethargic and dragging your feet after a long overnight. It really was a shame social offices didn't cater to the desperate crowds who worked the graveyard shift.
"N-not yet, your Honor."
Ruben looks unsurprised, which hurts almost as bad as his next words.
(Irresponsible, unworthy mother. Nothing more than the sum of your upbringing, just another stat.)
"Right, well, until such time as you prove you can provide a stable roof over the boy's head, and manage a household, it is my ruling that the child should remain with the father. Where is he now?"
Dave is quick to respond. "Outside with my mother."
"Very good. I'm asking you both return in four weeks time, at which point I'd like to see some progress made with each of you. That means housing on your end, and proof of stable employment on the half of Mr. Beck. Dismissed."
The gavel rings like a gunshot, disables you just as effectively. There's a commotion of movement around you, but you hear it as if from under water, like the current you've been caught in ever since leaving Dave has finally pulled you under, beaten you against the rocks. You're vaguely aware of Charlie still stood beside you, his broad palm heavy as it skirts awkwardly between your shoulder blades, trying to steer you out the door. Like you're no better than that man Pernell had taken away, but that's not right.
He's supposed to be treating Dave like this.
Your situation comes rushing back to you when you spot your baby in his grandmother's arms, waiting by the door for her son. You break free of Charlie's grip and push through the throng of people filing out, faces you once counted among your friends turned ghoulish and gaping as you shove your way through. Sharon does her level best to ignore you, even as you stand in front of her, reaching for your baby. You hadn't realized you were crying until you hear your voice, ragged and torn.
"Davey, baby, c'mere, let me see you."
He reaches, but Sharon turns him away as she addresses her son coming up behind you. "David, honey, how'd it go?"
"Judge saw reason," Harper announces, the mere sound of his voice sending a lance of anger through your chest, a throb that grows as you watch Dave take your baby from his mother's arms.
"Sole custody for the foreseeable future."
Sharon mumbles something about justice, no doubt, but you ignore her in favor of turning pleading eyes on Dave. They used to work, sometimes, and you hope against hope that the time away has made him nostalgic, eager to please, the better to keep you under his thumb.
"Can I hold him, please?" you beg, an uncontrollable sob escaping when, for a moment, he doesn't seem amenable. But then he gives in, gaze trained somewhere above you, but you're too focused on the baby leaning eagerly toward you to bother checking.
"Hi, baby," you coo, sniffling back tears in an attempt to enjoy this stolen moment. "Did you have fun out here with Grammie?"
It breaks your heart when he answers honestly, "Yeah."
For a moment, you black out all the commotion around you, nasty whispers shoved aside, your pride forsaken so you can be with your baby just one moment longer. He doesn't understand, but he seems to feed off you, whines building as you babble promises you're unsure you'll be able to keep. That you'll visit every day and that he'll see Ally again soon. Davey latches onto key words he knows, repeating them back as if asking for vows: Ally, tubby, eat. Even as you hold him, it feels like he's being torn from you, taking your heart along with himself. You'd let him have it, if you could, would die without either's return, anyway.
"Dave, please, he's never been away from me," you beg with the baby clutched close to your chest, as if you could absorb him through sheer force of will. Marsupials had the right of it, you think, hysterically, but the thought gives you no joy.
Cruel even now, Dave just reaches for his kid. "Time to go."
"No!" you shriek, trying to turn away from him, but Sharon is there, immune to your tears, and she's reaching for the baby too.
"Please, no! Please, he's never been away from me," you sob again, unable to voice what you really mean:
You've never been away from him.
That person, from before, idiot child without a purpose, that wasn't you. That was no one, a shell of a human, waiting to be filled, aimless, latching onto the closest thing she'd ever had to stability and clinging tight. Motherhood had changed you, given you purpose. Helped to guide you onto a better path, not for your own sake, but for his. Without Davey, what were you even doing? Who would you even be?
Would you be anyone at all?
"I'll come back," you sob, clinging to Davey despite the growing number of hands reaching for him. You lock eyes with his father above all their heads, senses and shame abandoned. "I'll come back, I'll be good, just let me -!"
For a second, you see his eyes glitter with triumph, everything he wanted falling right back into his hands, and then Sharon's voice cuts through your pleas, stern in that way her son has always feared.
"I've heard enough," she hisses, and she grabs you by the chin to tilt your gaze back toward the courthouse, where a line of officers mill about. "See them? Hand over the baby like the judge ordered, or we'll really cause a scene."
"Alright, hands off." Charlie. He's still here?
Sharon is not a woman used to being told what to do. Every man in her life has always bent to her will, a ruthless resolve she'd given to her son. Like him, however, she also knows when to fold to keep the court of public opinion on her side. Sharon eyes Charlie's badge, notes the tone of his voice, and steps back, just enough to let Dave crowd closer.
"Dave, please," you beg one last time, your tears sparking matching sobs from the baby. If he'd ever loved either of you, he'd show it now, be moved to sympathy. "Please, please. I can't be without him."
His fingers are cruel when they pry between your flesh. Hard, too hard. Davey -!
"Should have thought of that before."
A/N: Is it too on the nose to say this hurts me more than it hurts you?
bella was lucky she didn’t have a cell phone of any kind because you know ya boi edward would be blowing up that phone 24-7 going “saw a snail today…. effervescent” or some shit equivalent
"Is that a duck?" you ask him, moving his fingers until he can trace the little illustration's lines. "Duck?"
"Tuck," Davey whispers, the congestion he's been fighting clicking in his throat. He has his father's allergies, the damp of Forks a persistent struggle that only gets worse as the temperatures drop heading into winter.
"That's right. And this is a -?"
"Whore!"
You don't settle into a routine at the shop so much as you stumble and fall into some approximation of one. Aside from a trend of overnights, you take on too many shifts to rely on a set schedule, and time ticks by on a cycle that leaves you groggy and disconnected. The hardest part is the hours that get shaved away during the day, all the time you could be spending with your child, the time you'd thought you'd have when you were no longer running around job hunting. When you'd pictured your life at the shelter, you'd thought you'd have evenings with him, nights to snuggle and shower him with kisses. You'd thought you'd be able to read him bedtime stories and eat breakfast with him and pawn him off 9-5 like all the other women you knew, from before. Instead your cycles have fallen out of sync, getting the baby ready for bed even as you shower and dress for the day.
Still, your new schedule has some perks. You like knowing that there's less vying for attention with overnight childcare. Not that he needs it, generally. Davey does very little other than sleep when you're at work, but it's nice to know that should he have a nightmare or something, someone will be right there. Generally, you also enjoy how quiet the shelter gets in the evening, a calm backdrop that puts you in a good headspace as you get ready for the day. It's atypical, but it fits within this new life you're building, and Davey doesn't know any better yet, content to spend his days learning colors and numbers with you, or playing with Ally's kids.
After the baby's tubby is your shower, often cold and bracing as the water heater struggles to accommodate two people. It suits you fine, wakes you up properly for the commute you have to suffer through. The late hour is convenient as well, Davey usually being a sleepy lump on the couch who doesn't get up to much while you're indisposed. You normally leave yourself a few minutes to just enjoy his company after, a moment often spent reading him a story of some sort, the closest you can get to a bedtime ritual when you spend most nights away from him. Cuddled to your chest, Davey's uncoordinated hands follow along as you read, testing out words as you point out their corresponding pictures.
"Is that a duck?" you ask him, moving his fingers until he can trace the little illustration's lines. "Duck?"
"Tuck," Davey whispers, the congestion he's been fighting clicking in his throat. He has his father's allergies, the damp of Forks a persistent struggle that only gets worse as the temperatures drop heading into winter.
"That's right. And this is a -?"
"Whore!"
You leap from the couch quicker than you would have thought possible, Davey tucked safely into the cushions as you go. Instinct has you checking the apartment, but the shout - and the ones that follow - are clearly coming from outside. There's a racket of fighting in the courtyard, shrill voices you can't quite make the shape of. You're on your way to the window to check out the commotion when you hear the first voice again, deeper, irate. Out of place and exceedingly unfamiliar.
Your view from the window is still obscured by the handrail outside, the angle down into the courtyard too severe from your second story apartment. Sparing a glance for Davey to ensure he's in no immediate danger, you rush out the door and collect with your neighbors on the landing there, watching from on high as Jerry wrangles with a screaming stranger, absorbing wild haymakers with a series of grunts as he works to get the man's hands secured with zip ties. The women in the courtyard have all shrunk back along the walls, one among them shaking more than the rest, though she's kept far back in their midst, a protective gaggle ringing her that Clara works to herd up the stairs even as she barks into a phone. The strange man screams insults the whole time, horrid words that make the woman he came for shriek and cry. Jerry manhandles him to the ground once his wrists are secure, a firm hand slamming his knees to the cracked concrete.
There's a beat of relative silence, another - and then all hell breaks loose as the residents all clamber for answers, whispering to each other and shuffling from door to door as they begin checking on one another. Deeming it safe enough, you retrieve Davey from your apartment and step back outside, bundling him into a blanket as you go. You nod to your neighbor, a woman you've never spoken to before, and wordlessly, she knows your request.
"Yasmine's ex," she starts, nodding to the woman down in the courtyard who'd been pushed back against the wall by the others. Clara stands with her now, offering tissues and a shoulder to cry on as the poor girl tries to collect herself. "I guess he came right over the fence? Thankfully it seems he didn't even see her until after Jerry was already on him."
With a shrug, she moves onto the next person in line, trading whispers and nodding along excitedly as she hears more sides to the story. You spot Ally making her way up the stairs toward you, middle kids in tow, and move to meet her, shoving your way through a collection of women who swarm at the end of your wing.
"You guys okay? Where are the others?"
"With Anika. How about you? You weren't downstairs, were you?"
"No, we were safe inside."
"Oh, good, I was worried you'd have been on your way to work."
In a wash of gratitude, you pull her into a hug, the nerves you hadn't realized had been building finding their release in how tightly you squeeze her. It had been a while since you've had to worry about it, the suddenness with which your sense of security could be ripped out from under you with the temper of just one man. Shaken, you take your comfort where you can and remind yourself that you'll have to stay vigilant now - forever, maybe. For Davey's sake.
Ally grunts, but accepts this new development with ease. "It's okay, mama," she murmurs in your ear. "Everybody's fine."
Your eyes are watery when you pull away, vision blurry. You rub at them quickly, but the image still makes no sense, everything painted in abstract light -
and then the unmistakable woop of police sirens announce their presence and suddenly you understand, the cherries on deck casting erratic beams of blue and red across the shelter courtyard.
"Should we go inside?" you ask, your question underscored by the sound of two car doors closing decisively out front.
Ally just smiles mischievously. "And miss the show? Of course not." Despite her words, she sends Max and Dillon back to their apartment, ignoring their whines. She waits until she sees them open their door before turning back to you, chucking Davey under the chin and cooing even as her words are directed at you. "Don't worry, I doubt they'll want to talk to us. Probably just here to collect the guy and get statements from Clara and Yasmine. Want to go see if we can get a good look through the fence?" She offers, chin tilting in the direction of a group of people collected at the very spot the man supposedly came over.
"But the guy..?"
"Jerry's got him. We'd be safe."
You shake your head. "I'm good up here."
Ally sighs disappointedly. "Fine. Let's hope we can hear 'em from up here."
For a moment there's nothing to hear besides the general din of gossip bubbling. You hold Davey closer, your breath visible in the evening air.
"Red," he murmurs sleepily, pointing at the wash of lighting on the far wall.
"That's right baby, red. And is that blue, too?"
But whether or not he agrees upon the color palette, you don't know, as he simply tilts his head in close for a kiss and watches the lights dance on the wall while your own gaze roves lower, catches on Clara and the cops she has in tow as they exit from the office. There's two of them, tall and imposing in their uniforms, thick coats making them look broader than you know them to be: Chief Swan, and that insufferable rookie he's been driving around with.
The man on the ground kicks up more of a fuss when he sees them, his screaming turning violent in his impotence. You cover Davey's ears against them, willing Charlie to take the man away quickly. The two cops exchange brief words before Charlie slaps Jerry on the shoulder, the security guard handing control of his detainee off to Pernell as Charlie says they've got it from here. Pernell leads the intruder off quickly, his shouts echoing across the courtyard the whole way. You can hear when he exits the office on the other side, the street ringing with his curses right up until the moment Pernell shuts the car door on him. The sound of it makes you jump, a violent end to his tirade you hadn't expected. You're not the only one, a wave of skittish women ready to bolt at the sudden thud.
In the vacuum of silence that follows, you can hear Charlie clear his throat. "Sorry," he mumbles, awkwardly, and the breath returns to the assembled group.
Charlie sets about getting to the bottom of things with Clara first, giving Yasmine a few more minutes to settle. It's possible it's coincidental, but it feels intentional, the routine lived in and established. It occurs to you that he's gentle in this - though no less efficient. There's an economy about his movements, much as you can't quite hear the words he says, that speaks to years of experience. You watch him avidly for a few moments, so much so that you don't notice Pernell's return until he makes a production of it, his voice echoing across the courtyard as he calls attention to himself.
"Well… evening, ladies."
To the credit of all assembled, no one gives him so much as a courtesy laugh, falling into a stony silence so deep you can almost hear Charlie's eyes rolling, let alone the sharp hiss that follows.
"Go sit in the car."
It shouldn't be hot. It shouldn't even be permissible, really. Much as you don't like him, Pernell is his coworker - a subordinate - and shouldn't be spoken to like a misbehaving child. And yet, there's no mistaking what the tone of his voice does to you, nor the way Pernell turns tail and flees without so much as one last lingering glance around his captive audience.
"Love a man who doesn't need to raise his voice," Ally murmurs next to you, and you can't really help humming in agreement.
That was all it was, surely. That and the thoughtfulness. And the cheekiness.
And fine, maybe the moustache, too.
There's a quiet wave of laughter that follows Pernell's exit, a hushed movement you can't help but join. It catches Charlie's attention, dark gaze rising to the upper level that surrounds the courtyard, for the first time taking in the size of the crowd that surrounds him. You watch, baby cuddled close, as his focus shifts - north, east -
And south, eyes locked on you for long moments, flickering all over as if taking inventory of you, your kid, before darting back to Clara, all business.
"Do you know him?" Ally asks, far too perceptive. No doubt you've done yourself no favors, either, the restless bouncing of your baby growing more animated.
So there's that, then. Now he knows the extent of your situation. No secrets. You'd expected to feel shame, but it's relief which bubbles in your chest. At least now you wouldn't have to find the words, should it ever come to that.
"Kinda," you admit. "Not really."
"Shame," she gripes. "Was gonna ask you to introduce me."
You startle, turning to her. "How can you even think of dating right now? Here?" you ask, but the question feels hollow, guilty.
"Who said anything about dating?" Ally scoffs.
And there is that, for all that you've felt no inclination since, well… Davey, maybe.
As if she can read your thoughts, Ally knocks her shoulder against your own. "Perhaps it's time to get to know him a little better?"
"But he's a cop," you hedge, your biggest insecurity coming to light. You know better, know all else being equal you wouldn't give him the time of day. Hadn't, once, even before you knew this side of him. Had that been instinct? Should you listen now?
But the truth was, not everything was equal. The truth was, you hadn't had good sex in years and for better or worse, there was no denying that you'd been feeling so inclined ever since that night Charlie had teased you about your choice in trashy reading material.
(Longer, maybe. You'd been reading them for a reason.)
"It's not ideal," Ally grants, considering Charlie as he moves onto questioning Yasmine, voice soft enough that it's little more than a bass hum to your ears. "But then, a lot of stuff about our situations aren't."
"Cops are like the number one perpetrators of DV," you remind her, as if she needs it, but even as you say it, it rings hollow. For whatever else his position might stand for, you know Charlie wouldn't hit you - or the daughter he'd been so worried about.
"So don't move in with him," Ally shrugs. "Look, I admit me being a repeat customer here casts a pall over my advice, but I do firmly believe in: one, casual sex; and two, no man, however evil, is gonna start beating your ass on the first date."
"I can indeed spot some flaws in your logic."
Ally holds her hands up, exasperated. "I did say my reputation isn't stellar," she admits. Then, softer, "Do any of those flaws apply here?"
No. Probably not, at least.
You just don't know.
"I have to get to work," you grumble, and as you pick your way toward the daycare center, you feel more than one set of eyes upon you, Charlie's gaze glued to you the whole way even as he takes Yasmine's statement.
***
It's a bit of a struggle to check your phone back with security the next morning. The desk is manned by a new face, Jerry for once relieved of his seemingly endless vigil after the exciting events of the night before. You ask about him, but the rent-a-cop on duty only gives you curt answers. He's fine, uninjured, he'll be back tomorrow. He holds his hand out expectantly for your phone and you can't help but hesitate, wondering if you should step back outside, the brief conversation from the night before left unanswered still. Phones are not something you're used to. It's a habit you'd gotten out of the last few years, for better or worse. Even now that you have one, it's not like you keep in contact with anyone other than your case worker, or the odd automated emails from social programs trying their damndest to keep you afloat. Your phone isn't something that sits heavily in your pocket most nights, a siren call of distraction from the long, lonely shifts.
Yet last night, it was far more seductive than the smutty romance you'd brought along.
The biggest problem was, you've never had cause to manage notification alerts. You were only about two hours into an eight hour shift when your phone chirped, an incoming email at an hour far too late for the average state worker.
Average, being the key word.
You never filed a report.
More words were exchanged, few and far between as you both pretended to work through the night.
I don't like cops.
Well cops don't really like your ex, either, so enemy of your enemy, or whatever.
Is that what you are? A friend?
I can be.
You're still mulling it over, miles on the bus back passed with thoughts of loaded statements. You'd never responded, presumably for the same reason he gave you the out in the first place:
You don't quite know what you want from him yet.
With a sigh, you relent the device, acknowledging that distance will probably do you good.
You're keyed up enough that you briefly debate picking Davey up now and forgoing your morning nap, but the hour is still very early. Davey is still probably asleep himself, and you know if you don't get some shut-eye, the crash that will come later will turn you into a useless lump on the couch, watching blearily as the baby entertains himself. You can do better for him, even if you have to fight sleep tooth and nail the whole way.
And you do.
Being back in your rooms turns your thoughts to the previous night, to the anxiety of seeing a strange man in the courtyard and the immediate relief of Charlie's presence. He'd been so calm about the situation, unshakable even as the assembled women clucked like worried hens. He'd been so sure and firm as he took charge of the situation, and yet lacked the cruelty you'd come to expect from cops. You'd seen pieces of it in Pernell's demeanor, flexing as if fighting his detainee just to strut for the gaggle of women. And his joke, tactless and haughty.
You giggled to yourself, alone in bed, remembering the way Charlie had scowled at him.
It was that more than anything else that did it, had you burrowing deeper into your covers. Charlie's strength and bearing was something you could admire, objectively, but if you were being honest with yourself it frightened you, too. Possibly, it was that which scared you more than anything else, and you were just clinging to his title as a way to avoid addressing how thoroughly Dave had ruined men in general for you. It sounded viable, but you didn't want to think about that now, preferring to let your thoughts linger on what you did like about Charlie - those places Dave couldn't haunt because he couldn't touch: reliable, self-assured, witty. You liked how he could deal with most issues with only a look.
Like Alley'd said, we love a man who doesn't need to raise his voice.
Charlie is someone you can needle without fear. He does it with you, too, joy in harmless teasing. You think of what it would be like to push him just a hair too far, watch his face turn stern and exasperated and not know fear. It sets something loose in your tummy, alive and wriggling, and yet harmless. You sit with it a moment, find the shape of it, and sigh contentedly as you let your touch follow it down, down.
For an awkward moment, it's hard to know how to begin, to keep your thoughts from circling back where you don't want them - can't have them. You've only ever been with Dave, and much as the sex had fallen off a cliff after the baby, it wasn't always bad. Used to be, on the rare occasions the instinct would strike while indulging in a long hot shower, the scarce few minutes of alone time you could ever muster, you would usually think of him. Of the early years when his touch could spark excitement, stolen moments in the back of his truck or bent over the counter of the trailer, back it was freshly yours, and a symbol of potential, more than the box you'd rot away in. But those memories don't belong here, in the shelter he's driven you to, and they leave a bitter taste in your mouth, besides.
So you let instinct take over, overwriting the muscle memory of efficient, mechanical sessions designed to take the edge off more than anything else. You have time for more now, and the guilt doesn't wrack you even just to think about it.
And you do.
You think of awkward smiles, and the odd contrast of confident movements, as if he too is resettling into this dance. You think of quiet words exchanged with Yasmine after the incident, and a firm hand on Pernell's shoulder, directing him away with ease. It's not hard to imagine Dave in his place, spitting mad and hurling insults as Charlie handles him, competent and efficient. It's embarrassing, how well that does it for you, the fingers toying with your pantyline sinking deeper, testing. Wetter than you'd thought, and as if disbelieving, you cricket your legs and feel that familiar slickness more clearly now, the flex of your thighs giving you something to rock minutely against. It makes you feel like a teenager, your thoughts and your touch so chaste, and yet it's working so you don't question it, let sex be what it can be for now, and let healing and time take care of the rest.
Indulging yourself, you allow the fantasy to unfold, the incident painted more dramatically as it's fueled by all the romance you'd been reading. There's Dave in all his terrifying glory, his anger dull and harmless when you can control it. You think about him breaking in here, now, seeing you like this, think of how pathetically he's always clambered for every ounce of your sexuality. Owed. You can almost see his face purpling, apoplectic in his rage, but then there's Charlie, snatching the hand he raises to you from out of the air just to pin it behind his back.There would be a scuffle, easily handled, with Charlie pinning the smaller man against the wall, Dave's face held in place so you can watch the anger reduce until it's nothing more than pathetic, a front easily disassembled and dealt with by strong hands.
(And maybe, just a little, you think of his fingers busted and broken in the altercation, a middle finger that creaks when the rain lets loose to match your own.)
Then he's gone, sent away with a barked order from the chief. Charlie would turn to you then, see the state of you in all your need. You wonder if he'd call you baby, or maybe honey. He seemed like the type for something outdated. He'd murmur it then, whatever it was, and kneel on the edge of your bed, broad palms wrapped tight around your calf to keep you splayed for his inspection. You think about just making him watch, your fingers finding a long-lost rhythm you want to teach him. You can practically hear him panting, dark eyes trained on the font of your pleasure, cunt pulsing around nothing. Charlie has thick fingers. You wonder how they'd feel, stuffed inside you as he prepares you to take his cock, the pad of his thumb working circles over your clit; or holding your hands as he laps at your cunt, low groans of a starved man mingling with the breathy sighs you pull form yourself now; or cradling your jaw as he fucks you from behind. Your free hand chases the ghost of his touch there, wondering if you could let him. Wanting to.
The admission tilts you over the edge more than anything else. It surprises you, almost as much as your orgasm, the knowledge wracking through you alongside it. It's more than just the act, you know, it's the idea of healing and moving on. Of finding your sexuality outside of the influence of your ex.
Sleep takes you easily after that, a quick nap all you need to set you straight. You wake up feeling different, new, although you know you're being silly. Thinking is not the same as doing, but there's no hurry on it. The important part is you can see yourself growing past it, working towards finding yourself.
Emboldened, you slip away before picking Davey up, offering Jerry a bright good morning as you find him returned, grabbing your phone just to walk the minimal distance requested just to fire off a quick reply.
"With Anika. How about you? You weren't downstairs, were you?"
"No, we were safe inside."
"Oh, good, I was worried you'd have been on your way to work."
In a wash of gratitude, you pull her into a hug, the nerves you hadn't realized had been building finding their release in how tightly you squeeze her. It had been a while since you've had to worry about it, the suddenness with which your sense of security could be ripped out from under you with the temper of just one man. Shaken, you take your comfort where you can and remind yourself that you'll have to stay vigilant now - forever, maybe. For Davey's sake.
Ally grunts, but accepts this new development with ease. "It's okay, mama," she murmurs in your ear. "Everybody's fine.
"
Your eyes are watery when you pull away, vision blurry. You rub at them quickly, but the image still makes no sense, everything painted in abstract light -
and then the unmistakable woop of police sirens announce their presence and suddenly you understand, the cherries on deck casting erratic beams of blue and red across the shelter courtyard.
Next two chapters are drafted and scheduled because I'll be busy the next two weeks but I cannot TELL YOU how hard it is to resist the temptation of the instant gratification just hitting post would give
vaporwave
ellievsbear
romaincrisis
discoholicmusic
pixelskylines
theartofmadeline
