Expanding Chapter 6 - Consequential
| Rating: T | Words: 3,675 | CW: None | On Ao3 |
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Branson
Music blares from within the house as they pull up. Teens and young adults, aged probably fifteen to twenty-three, spill out the doors and across the lawn - more than half of them with solo cups in one hand. The air is rank with the scent of cheap beer and even cheaper vodka.
Branson inhales it all, soaking it in and loosening his limbs that one centimeter more. It's been probably half a year since the last time he partied; his last family kept him on a leash so short it suffocated him. After school he was escorted home by another of their fosters who'd drunk their crazy Kool-Aid so he never has a chance to escape.
Heidi stops alongside the driveway and lets them out before pulling away to go park. Branson's head feels a little fuzzy and he stumbles but he catches himself on Smith's arm who cackles like a hyena as he pushes him away. They make their way up the drive to the house and shove their way inside.
Smith beelines for the kitchen, being handed a cup of god only knows what as soon as he greets someone. He's always been personable and makes friends easily, so it's not surprising that he's making nice with total strangers. Bransons not that way. He finds his way to what is likely the living room and spots an empty armchair where he plops down and observes the people around him.
A makeshift dance floor is filled with people grinding on each other; guys with their hands at girls' waists, rolling their hips against their asses, the girls reaching arms behind their heads to pull the guys’ faces closer. Most of the girls are wearing skimpy, sparkly, clubbing dresses that barely cover their bits and only get shorter as they dance. A few guys have their hands up the girls skirts, but they don't seem to mind. The guys wear shirts two sizes too small showing off scrawny biceps and ill-defined chests that have barely started sprouting chest hair, and their jeans are so tight Branson knows their balls have to be suffocating. About half of them have baseball caps on, some backwards and some worn right.
Either way they look ridiculous and he hates it.
As he's sitting there, a redhead he doesn't recognize prowls up to him with a cup in hand and a cheshire grin on her face. Sliding onto the armrest she purrs, “Hey handsome. Haven't seen you before.”
“Yeah?” He turns his gaze up to hers, expression blank.
“Mhm. So I thought I'd bring you a drink and introduce myself. I'm Madeline.” She holds out her hand to him like she expects him to kiss it. Branson doesn't take it and after a moment she wraps it around the cup with her other one. “What's your name, cutie? That's how introductions work. I told you mine, so now you tell me yours.” Branson's not nearly high enough to deal with this shit right now.
“Can I help you with something, Madeline?” He asks, tone level as he begins toying with a piece of thread that's come loose on the chair.
She leans closer. Her ample bosom is popping from her straight cut neckline crop-top. There's an outline tattoo of two hearts done in a single red line above her real heart. She squeezes her arms in a bit, making her chest pop even more. Beyond the smell of her overly sweet, likely cheap, drugstore perfume, Branson smells the soft haze of someone already a few drinks deep. It's not too strong, yet, but this lady definitely isn't sober. He does his best to keep his expression straight. She's just flirting a little and he doesn't want to upset her, even if he would rather drink straight up gasoline than taste a beer or whatever she's having.
Pursing her lips in what she likely thinks is a cute pout, but mostly makes her look like a duck, she says in a baby voice, “I dunno. I just want to get to know you. Is that a crime?” She runs a finger down his arm, her acrylics as long as her first knuckle and covered in fake, gold, rhinestones - dagger sharp.
“Nah. Not a crime.” He decides to play along a bit, even if he's not really interested in her. Lifting his hand, he sets it gently at her low back, just above the swell of her ass. He sneaks a thumb under the waistband of her low rise booty shorts she's got on. Her tanned skin is warm, and soft, but it's not doing anything for him. She hums happily and wiggles a bit closer, moving to put a hand on his chest. “Name's Branson.” He finally tells her, letting that same hand wander, trailing the curve of her spine up to her neck and then back down.
“Cute name for a cute boy.” She giggles. “How old are you, Branson?”
“Eighteen.” He lies. So he's not eighteen for another five months. She doesn't need to know that. He's close enough and he can tell, just by looking at her, that she's not in high school. She's been around the block a few times. “You?” She won't tell him, but he asks anyway.
Swatting him lightly in the chest she coo's, “It's impolite to ask a lady her age.” Drawing a finger up his chest she lifts his chin so he's looking up at her, eye level with her cleavage. “Enough about me. Won't you come entertain a girl and dance for a bit? I bet you're a great dancer.” She purrs and runs a finger over his lips. He suppresses a shudder. The buzz from the edibles is wearing off, and he needs another hit if he's going to keep pretending.
“If you go get me one of them edible cookies.” He replies, pinching her ass and pointing towards the kitchen where a bunch of edibles are stacked haphazardly on the counters alongside a fuck ton of liquor. She squeaks, stands, and turns a lightning bright smile on him. “Off you go.” He pats her buttcheek gently. Jumping dramatically she giggles again before turning and pushing her way through the crowd.
Branson sighs, long and suffering. He loves letting loose at these things but he hates playing the game of being interested when he's not. Never has been. He daydreams for the two minutes she’s gone, letting his mind wander nowhere before going utterly blank. He takes the brownie from her by rote and chows down on it in just three bites. Once it’s gone, he grabs her by the waist and pulls her down into his lap. He half expects some sort of protestation but Madeline happily cuddles into him, pulling her long, tan legs up towards her. Her lithe arms wrap around his neck and she stares into his eyes, licking suggestively along her lower lip. Leaning in, he presses a kiss to her mouth, driving his tongue inside just long enough that some of the brownie is transferred. He doubts that it’s enough to make her feel anything but he has a feeling she’ll pretend either way.
They kiss a while longer, Branson groping her as if by command; it doesn’t feel natural doing it. When they break apart she’s flushing, face a nice rosy tint and she’s got the tiniest smile on her lips. “Dance?” She breathes, pressing a feather light kiss against his cheek, then bringing his earlobe between her teeth, nibbling lightly at it. She’s grinding her hip into his groin, just a little. She’s going to be disappointed, but there’s nothing he can do about it. He’ll just dance with her and get it over with.
Pushing her gently off his lap he stands and takes her by the hand, dragging her into the throng of people. Gyrating bodies surround them as he turns her to face away from him and drags her closer until her back hits his front. He begins a slow sort of step and hip sway motion. One of the few good memories he has from childhood is watching his abuela teach dance at the local community center. She wasn’t all that good herself, but she was the most patient woman he’s ever met and her heart was made of gold.
Few things from his past make him want to cry. Remembering her is one of them and sets a bone deep ache inside his chest. He pushes it away, focusing on the way this random girl's ass grinds against him; the way her small hands grab at his hair and tug until he’s kissing her awkwardly from the side.
Branson loses time. He’s not sure how many songs they dance to or how many edibles he’s eaten. Everything is floating and without an anchor. When someone hands him a plastic cup, he takes it without thinking, Madeline hugging his side as they watch on the outskirts of the dancing. Hip-hop blares so loudly through the speakers mounted on the ceiling that it makes his skin vibrate. He drinks down whatever was in the cup, making a face at a flavor he knows he should be familiar with but isn’t. It doesn’t matter because it’s replaced with another cup which he takes and drinks down, too.
His head is fuzzy but he’s vibing. All is right in the world. Or so Branson thinks before he hears a door slamming open and an officer shouting, “LAPD, put your hands up!” There’s shouting all around him - fuck, god damn it, move, the police are here, I can’t get caught again. An endless stream of worries by people he’s not going to remember in the morning.
Shit. Where are Heidi and Smith? And Nikki? Has he even seen her all night? He shoves Madeline away and begins swinging his head back and forth which is a mistake. Nausea roils in his stomach and he tries to swallow it back but it’s too late. Turning his head, he manages to vomit into a pot of some sort, like the base of a fake potted plant. The fog lifts the smallest amount but now his mouth tastes like bile and… Shit. Alcohol. Someone had given him fucking alcohol. He wants to vomit again, but before he can move, someone has their hands wrapped around Branson’s wrists and is shouting in his ear to not move, to come quietly. He can’t help it. It’s instinctual. Struggling in the officer's hold he screams, “Heidi! Smith! Nikki! Where the fuck are you?” The officer zipties his wrists and it chafes but his mind is too cloudy to think about it. “That fucking hurts, let me go!” He knows he’s screaming because his throat burns but he can’t stop. “Nikki! Smith!” Moisture. His eyes are damp. “Heidi!”
Fuck, he’s crying.
Because more than anything he’s scared. He’s terrified of what Evan and Tommy are going to do to him when they find out he’s been drinking and smoking weed at a party held by some stranger four years older than him. They’re going to scream at him about how easily influenced he is and that he’s got the devil in him and that they made a mistake bringing him into their home. The tears flow more freely and he whimpers, stumbling as the officer prods him forward, asking him questions that he doesn’t have an answer to.
x-x-x
Branson
Sound, piercing and unwelcome. An incessant beeping and voices talking in hushed, harsh, whispers. The brightest lights possible piercing through his eyelids which flutter with the rapid eye movement beneath them. Groaning, he peels one eye open and tracks the space he's in. The outside facing wall is floor to ceiling iron bars, one of the panels is a door with a keylock on it. Outside what is, ostensibly, a cage, sits a desk with a computer monitor, keyboard and mouse on its surface and nothing else and nobody sitting at it. Blinking slowly, the light still like ice picks to his brain, he forces himself into a seated position, rubbing at the grit in his eye. He’s on a stone hard, empty, bunk. It’s more of a bench than anything. Sniffing at the air he holds back a gag. The space reeks of B.O and day old alcohol and stale cigarette butts. A hand covers his mouth as he swallows in rapid succession, trying to keep his stomach acid where it belongs. There’s nothing left in there to throw up.
The voices grow louder so he swivels his head to look at a group approaching what he’s ascertained is the drunk tank. Why there are no other teens here, he’s not sure. When his mind clears enough to recognize their faces he freezes, blood running cold.
Evan and Tommy flank an older black woman, a cop by her uniform, on either side. She’s not glaring necessarily, but her lips are turned down in a stern expression. She’s holding onto her utility belt as she stares him down, approaching slowly. The three adults stop at the bars and she asks, “So this is your boy, hm?” There’s an elegance to her voice, a certain huskiness. A voice that would soothe one's friends and make their enemies quake. Branson is unsure whether he’s a rabbit caught in the trap or the one that got away… So, in short, he’s beyond terrified. “Please tell me that you’re not trying to teach him your ways, Buckaroo. One of you is enough.” He hears exasperated fondness in her voice. Do the two of them know each other? “And you, Tommy. You’re supposed to be the one keeping him in line.”
Tommy holds his hands up with a cheeky grin as he says, “Athena, I stole federal property for him. Twice. My hands are tied.”
To Branson’s surprise, his utter shock at Tommy’s admittance playing second fiddle, the pretty cop guffaws and backhands his foster dad on the chest. He fake winces and rubs the spot, shooting her a kicked puppy look that comes off as slightly ridiculous on his rugged features.
“Hey, technically one of those times you stole a helicopter on Hen’s behalf for Athena and… and Bobby.” Again, Evan chokes on that name. Branson still doesn’t know what their relationship is. A friend? An ex? A parent? He doesn’t know anything about these people. “And ‘Thena. Quit abusing my husband. That’s my job.” She turns a sharp eyed glare on him, perfectly groomed brow in her hairline. “C’mon, you know I’m kidding. I’m the perfect gentleman to him.”
Tommy leans in close and whispers, probably hoping Branson won’t hear (but he does anyway,) “Except for in the bedroom. But at least there I’m asking for it.” Athena’s cheeks pinken and she scoffs but that stern downturn of her lips quirks into a fond smile.
“What the hell am I gonna do with you?” Looking at the ceiling she holds her hands out palm up around head height and prays, “Bobby, give me strength to not kill your son and son-in-law this day.” Shaking her hands, she prays silently to this Bobby person for a moment, mouthing the words, lord, help me this day. She’s smiling the whole time. Eventually though, the smile slips from her mouth and she rests her hands on her, eyes back on him. “Branson?” She says his name with that tone of authority that sort of makes him want to rebel, but he holds himself back.
“Yeah?” He groans, voice raspy from dehydration and his indulgences the night before. “Who are you?”
“Sergeant Athena Grant. And I’m here to spring you thanks to these two bleeding hearts.” His eyebrows shoot to the top of his forehead. “They’re lucky I was on duty last night because things would be looking a whole hell of a lot worse for you than they are right now if I hadn’t been.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” There’s an edge to his voice that he wishes he could get rid of but it’s ingrained him. Authority is to be fought against at every turn, even if they’re there to help.
Help always came at a price.
“Branson.” Tommy’s voice is razor sharp and his name coming out of the man’s mouth drags across his skin like broken glass. In the months he’s been with them, they’ve never once raised their voices above slightly annoyed, and even when they looked ready to strangle him, they always reigned it in. This is the first time one of them has spoken to him unfettered and it’s a bit of a shock. His mouth hangs open as his mind reels. “Sergeant Grant has pulled a lot of strings tonight for you since this is the first time you’ve been arrested for underage drinking. I’m telling you, kid, that you don’t want an arrest like that on your record.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose!” He defends himself, hopping to his feet and regretting it, taking two stumbling steps forward until he falls into the bars, using them to support himself. “I fucking hate beer, and liquor, and alcohol. It’s fucking stupid.”
“That doesn’t matter, Branson. You got caught with alcohol on your system off of your own private property without your parents present. The percentage was low which is the only reason that things aren’t worse, but it was still there. Not to mention how much marijuana showed up on your test results.” Evan’s got his arms crossed and he’s standing like a teacher scolding his student, brow furrowed and everything. “What were you even thinking? Weed might be legal but you’re not eighteen yet and too much of anything can kill you. You could’ve overdosed last night, do you understand that?”
“I just wanted to relax.” He protests, bottom lip jutting out in a pout. His eyes sting but he won’t cry. He can’t. “I fucking hate it here. I just want to be left alone.” The tears get the better of him and one slips down his cheek. He wipes furiously at it, hoping they don’t see. By their softening expressions, he doubts it. There’s still an electric cloud hanging over his foster parents' heads, but it’s mostly thunder now, and less lightning. Sniffing he says, “I didn’t want to drink. I swear. I just wanted to relax.” He rests his head against the bars, wiping at his nose with the sweatshirt he still has on from yesterday. It’s going to have to go in the trash. It smells rank. Worse than a dumpster.
“Yeah, well, I think you need to find new ways of letting loose.” Evan firmly states. There’s something in his tone that makes Branson resign to whatever punishment he receives because he knows he deserves it. Slowly but surely he’s coming to understand that these two are trying to put his best interest at heart, even though he’s resisting for seemingly no reason. “Now. Let’s get you out of there. Athena isn’t letting you off Scott free and you’re going to listen to her every word. You won’t have a free weekend for a while so I’d get used to being bored.” Branson nods and sniffs again.
There’s a beeping of a keypad and a moment later the metal door swings open. Inching closer step by step, he’s eventually free. To his shock, the moment he steps into freedom, he’s wrapped up in a bone crushing embrace from Tommy. He can feel Tommy’s heart rabbiting against his chest and, Branson’s not quite sure, but he thinks he can feel dampness on his shoulder. Tommy is crying. For him. “I swear to god, kid. Don’t you ever pull this shit again, you hear? I… I can’t lose anyone else, and we’re only just getting to know you. Please don’t try to leave us so soon.” Branson’s face crumples and he can’t help himself. He wraps himself around Tommy’s large body and sobs until his eyes are puffy and red, and there’s snot dribbling down his face. Evan comes up behind him at some point and wraps that comforting hand around his neck once more.
“Alright boys, I’ve got things to do so let’s finish up. Process him. And get him the hell home.” Athena’s voice is gentler, her expression softer. Tommy pulls away and nods, clapping Branson on the shoulder at the same time.
One by one they file into Athena’s office on the other side of the bullpen. Branson is given thirty hours of community service, to be completed by the end of the year. On top of that, he’s required to take an educational course, in person, on the dangers of recreational marijuana use and how underage drinking affects the human body. She’s putting him on six months of informal probation - he’s to check in with her once a week with one or both adults present. She’ll check in with them on her own intermittently. Finally, his cellphone, keys, and backpack are returned, and with a final warning from the sergeant, the three of them are off.
On the ride home, Branson still waits for one of the men to explode, to lose their temper, but the ride is quiet. Evan and Tommy hold hands over the center console in the front seat, and the dad rock Tommy prefers plays one a couple of notches above mute through the speakers. Guilt eats at him as he stares out the window, watching as the LA skyline goes by. He’s never felt like this before; never wished he hadn’t done something that caught the eye of a foster, but he’s drowning right now. His sky high walls are crumbling, each day breaking off larger chunks at a time, and more and more he wishes to stay. Wishes for these two queer men to accept him as he is and take him in.
More and more every day he wishes he was really their family. Their son.
But each and every day it becomes a further and further away pipe dream.