gmybw 2- feelings, feelings, feelings
continuation of the little oneshot i wrote last night bc we've built a whole universe around it and i MUST do that universe justice by bringing it onto the page (screen)
if i write enough of this universe i WILL transfer it to the archive
.....
Medda Larkin firmly believed that the difficult, frustrating intricacies of the foster system needed to be spoken about more often.
She had to endure the longest three months of her life as she and Hannah waited on permission to become foster parents, and they were sorely unprepared. Becoming foster certified wasn't the issue-- sure, there were countless classes and home safety checks, too many interviews and loopholes to count-- but that was easy, run of the mill stuff. All of the difficulties came from the actual process of transferring Jack from one miserable foster family to her own (hopefully better) house. The system refused to budge, and through it all, Medda watched Jack Kelly fall apart bit by bit. She felt sort of like she was falling apart, too. Every new bruise and scrape he wore created another fracture in her heart, and she wanted nothing more than to save this kid.
Of course, Medda did what she could and provided Jack with a place to escape to. He was always welcome in her theater or her townhouse and he knew as much, but it was a rare occurrence for him to actually turn up on her doorstep. Still, there’d been three or four nights when Jack Kelly spontaneously graced her humble home, and she and Hannah acted accordingly. Medda also found herself picking up meals for Jack during her lunch breaks and offering them to him during rehearsals, where he’d developed a habit of sitting in the house next to her and doodling on an old sketchpad she’d given to him. Medda adored the kid. He was real rough around the edges but he loved hard, passionate and talented and brimming with emotion and potential. Jack Kelly was a sweet kid, if not a little misguided, and he’d wormed his way into her heart with his easy smiles and his hidden depths.
Summer was ending and that meant Jack would be starting high school, still trapped under the oppressive fist of a foster parent Medda knew frustratingly little about. She’d done her research on Mr. Alexander Snyder and found little to nothing incriminating about the man– just the fact that he worked as the lead campaign manager for the state’s current governor. That little tidbit of information had led Medda to wonder just how many CPS calls directed towards this man had conveniently slipped under the radar, and a protective fury lit like a bonfire within her.
Every second of every day when Jack wasn’t under her care made her more and more anxious, dreading the newest bruise on his young face or badly concealed limp in his step. Time couldn't have passed more slowly.
Then mid-August hit, and suddenly the Larkins were state-certified foster parents. Medda Larkin looked at Jack Kelly and said, ‘I have got to see that child safe and happy’. Once her intentions were made clear, a mess that would haunt her for the rest of her life kicked into action. Snyder didn’t want to give Jack up. He was furious. Started spewing lies to the case worker about how close they’d become and how good Jack was doing under his care. Medda was fighting tooth and nail for Jack, who didn’t seem very excited about the whole situation, and mid-August showed Medda a new, furious side of Jack Kelly.
He cooperated with her, with his caseworker too, but he was sharp and snappy and moody. Brimming with a rage she just couldn’t understand– a rage that was sometimes directed towards her.
Jack still visited the theater with Racer, oftentimes covered in new bruises and cuts and swamped in one of the three hoodies he owned, but he was a glowering, brooding mess of a boy that was prone to snapping. The glimpse of the funny, sweet kid she’d seen before was stamped out by a miserable, obviously terrified child, and Medda didn’t know what to do. She could only hope that getting him away from Alex Snyder would fix things.
Still, within all of the bad moments, there were glimmering bits of goodness.
During the month before Medda began her custody attempts, Jack grew more at ease within the theater during every passing day. Everyone seemed to take a liking to him. He could be bright and charismatic when he wanted to be, and Medda watched countless others find themselves tugged into his orbit. One of those was one Spot Conlon, Medda’s lead set designer.
Sinead (nicknamed Spot because of the countless freckles covering every inch of her skin) had been working with Medda since she was a child, moving set pieces and operating power drills better than any of the boys her age— and she did all of that with a stoic, all-business expression. Medda watched the girl grow up and perfect her craft, and was proud to see Spot gearing up to start freshman year of community college as a welder. She was strong, independent, and smart as hell, and Medda loved her like one of her own. Spot was, coincidentally, the mastermind behind their Sound of Music set, and she took an instant liking to Jack. They had a rough and tumble sarcastic sort of relationship, but Spot was good for Jack. She was down to earth, grounded, and no-nonsense. He needed someone that would shut down his stubbornness as bluntly as Spot could.
Spot did exactly that on a muggy August day, when Jack was refusing to speak to Medda. He looked an awful mess, hood tugged down over his brow and arms crossed over his chest. A nasty cut sliced open the bridge of his nose, and he’d refused to let Medda bandage it in a fit of stubborn false independence. Medda had to drop the argument, fearing that she was being too pushy towards the kid because of her slow-growing frustration. He was obviously struggling and he was thinner than ever, nothing but a twig of a fourteen year old boy who might not’ve been getting fed at all at home.
Jack was sitting silently in one of the plush audience seats, an empty chair between him and Medda. Spot strolled up to them, arms crossed, and stopped in her tracks in front of Jack. She raised one eyebrow, radiating a strange mix of confidence and judgement. “Jack Kelly, you look like a mess.”
“Shut the fuck up, Spot.” He muttered, tucking his nose further into the fabric of his hoodie.
Spot only smiled one of those scary smiles of hers (she rarely ever smiled, and she only had two smiles– a close-lipped, terrifying one, and an even rarer full-teeth, bright and happy, genuine one) and propped her foot up on the arm of Jack’s chair. He glanced at her paint-splotched work boot and Medda barely resisted the urge to laugh at his expression of textbook teenage petulance. “Let me do your hair.”
“What?”
“I wanna redo your cornrows.” Spot said simply, reaching out and tugging his hood off. He growled in frustration and tried to bat her hand away, but she was four years his elder and much stronger, so she rubbed her palm over his hair with ease. He was due for a rebraid, little frizzy curls escaping from the already messily done hairdo. Medda could tell he’d braided it himself— his cornrows were uneven and they were different sizes, inexpert and rushed. “C’mon, Kelly, we gotta get you fixed up.”
“You really think my foster dad is payin’ for a barber?” He sneered, trying to sound rude and accusatory but coming across as hurt instead.
Spot only raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest. “What, and you think I can afford a hairdresser? I’m poor as shit, Jack. I do my own damn hair. You ain’t seen me lookin’ a mess one time, either. I’m offerin’ to do yours for free, so why don’t you just man the fuck up and let me?”
“You’re the worst, Conlon.” Jack muttered, though he seemed more annoyed at her insistence than offended. That wasn’t a no.
A toothy grin took over Spot’s freckled face and she patted Jack’s cheek, whipping around to face Medda with the same smile turning her eyes into crescent moons. “Medda, can we go to yours?”
“Absolutely. What d’you kids want for dinner?”
Spot looked at Jack, eyebrows raised up to her impeccably styled edges, and he almost sheepishly met Medda’s eyes. “I guess if you don’t mind making lasagna…”
“I don’t mind at all, honey.” She rose to her feet and carefully brushed her hands off on her trousers, gently patting Jack’s bony shoulder. Medda didn’t miss how he leaned into the contact for a split second despite his still-stormy expression. “Can you handle some garlic bread too, or am I pushing it?”
Jack smiled a lopsided little smile, dimpling his right cheek as he rolled his eyes almost fondly. That was what Medda wanted to see. Comfort. Ease. A version of Jack Kelly that felt like he could smile. If things went how she wanted them to go, Medda hoped to see this smiling kid without all of the cuts and bruises.
Four hours later, Medda was pulling a steaming pan of lasagna out of the oven while Hannah tossed a salad in the ridiculously pretentious salad bowl they’d received as a wedding gift. The kitchen smelled lovely and Medda was honestly glad to have a reprieve from the constant anxiety she’d been feeling all summer. Jack was in the upstairs bathroom, safe and happy with Spot. Their conversation was an unintelligible murmur from downstairs, but the point was that he was safe in the house with Medda and away from that sickeningly evil man.
Hannah’s snort of laughter pulled her from her daze, and Medda turned to her wife with curiosity written all over her face. “What?”
“I just can’t believe Mr. Pulitzer gave us this. It wasn’t even on the registry.” She snorted, holding up the salad bowl to examine the less-than-tasteful designs on the porcelain. This conversation came up every single damn time they used the bowl, and it never made them laugh any less. Medda could feel herself snickering already at the memory of how shocked they’d been when they unboxed the gift, two twenty-eight year old newlyweds with eyes nearly bugging out of their skulls at the sight of the strangest salad bowl they'd ever seen. “He’s one of the richest goddamn men in this city and he got us this salad bowl I’d find in my Minnesotan grandma’s house!”
Soon they were devolving into laughter, and Medda had to move away from the burning hot lasagna in order to keep her skin safe. “Oh, God, I can still remember the look on your face when you saw it!”
“He couldn’t have gotten us a coffee-maker? Or even a nice set of china?”
“Hey, baby, at least it has matching salad servers!” Medda just barely managed to crow through her own laughter, which made Hannah burst into a round of cackling as she held up the aforementioned matching forks.
As Hannah held on to the sauce-covered salad servers, laughing so hard that tears were beading in her pale-blue eyes, Medda grabbed onto the counter for stability and experienced a brief flash of adoration so extreme that she felt breathless for a moment. There was no one in the world she’d rather raise Jack with. Hannah was her person. Her rock in an incredibly turbulent sea. Medda had no idea what she’d do without this incredible spitfire of a woman, wo'd been by her side for months, researching loopholes to try and get their boy home faster.
Her wife’s laughter died and their eyes met for a second. Hannah’s expression softened for just a moment before her brazen personality returned full-force with a grin. “You getting sappy on me?”
“No, no.” Medda chuckled despite herself, because she most certainly was. “Just admiring the view…”
“Well, admire it another time. Why don’t you go tell those kiddos it’s time to eat before I devour this whole damn pan by myself?” Hannah pecked Medda’s cheek in a soft, appreciative kiss as she brought the salad to the dinner table. It was one of those kisses that conveyed just how much she loved Medda and all her sappiness, and Medda Larkin was reminded of just how excited she was to spend the rest of her life with this woman.
Still, Hannah was onto something. Medda was hungry. She made her way up the stairs and gently rapped her knuckles against the wood of the bathroom door before cracking it open and smiling at the sight of the two teenagers. The room smelled sweetly of hair-care products. Jack, sitting cross-legged in front of the toilet, looked very much at ease. Spot was perched on the toilet itself with a comb balanced between her lips, a look of concentration furrowing her brows. Medda noted, with fond amusement, that she was making the same face she always made when she worked on a particularly challenging set piece. Her fingers moved nimbly, twisting Jack’s dark hair with expert precision.
Jack smiled at Medda, and her heart swelled with fondness at the sight of him, hair nice and clean and nose bandaged. “Food smells good, Mrs. Medda.”
“I sure hope it’ll taste good, too.” She crossed her arms and leaned against the door, all of the love in her chest making it hard to do anything but look at her kiddos. “You two getting along in here?”
“Yes ma’am.” He responded carefully, not even wincing when Spot tugged the little curls at the nape of his neck into the braid she was finishing up. She’d almost finished his entire head, and Jack’s scalp was decorated with precise, even cornrows that had been braided into a nice design. Medda knew there was nothing like the happiness one felt after getting their hair redone, and she was sure it felt ten times better for a kid like Jack who hadn’t had the luxury in years, maybe.
She felt an uncomfortable clench of anger as she thought about the bastard who was supposed to be ‘caring’ for Jack, who hadn’t even attempted to send the poor boy to a barber in two damn years. Jack probably had to do his own hair, which was surely a difficult and time-consuming task for a kid who might not've been taught how. Medda tried to push those thoughts to the wayside; she was just happy to see him smiling on her bathroom floor.
Spot chuckled, swiveling the comb in her mouth to rest between her teeth. “Good thing Jack ain’t tender-headed.”
“If I was you’d prob’ly be pulling harder.” Jack joked easily, cheeks dimpled.
“Yeah, you're prob'ly right.”
They shared a giggle– or rather, Jack giggled and Spot exhaled harshly in amusement, because that was about as close as she got to giggling. Medda watched her fingers twist and dart about, finishing the last cornrow up at the nape of Jack’s neck. She’d done an impeccable job. It was the neatest Medda had seen Jack in the three months she’d known him. Maybe even the happiest, too.
“Alright, shithead, I’m done.” Despite Spot’s words, the older girl’s tone was brimming with affection as she gently slapped the back of Jack’s head and stood from her wide-legged perch. Spot brushed her palms off on the thighs of her classic work overalls as Jack clambered to his feet, making his way over to the mirror.
There was something about the way his face changed that tugged at Medda’s heartstrings. The tiniest smile seemed to blossom on his lips as those dark eyes flicked across his own expression, and he looked happy. Medda could tell Spot was having some big feelings too with the way she was looking at Jack, uncharacteristically soft, comb clenched in loose fingers.
The moment was sweet as honey, and Medda let it linger until Jack finally broke the illusion by carefully, almost reverently running his hand over his hair. He grinned, toothy and dimpled and ridiculously bright. “I like it, Spot.”
“Good, ‘cause my fingers are killing me.” She teased, unable to take a compliment, and lightly shoved his shoulder on her way to wash her hands. Jack continued to grin at his own reflection as Spot rinsed product off of her fingers, rolling her eyes at the loveable bastard squeezed into the space next to her. “Don’t get a big ego, casanova.”
“I’m not.” He shoved back, obviously unable to stop his smiling. “You’re the one with a big ego.”
“Yeah? Well I got every right to it.” Spot smirked at her own reflection and flexed both arms in the mirror, her rolled up sleeves highlighting the impressive muscles in her forearms. Jack gave a massive eye roll and ducked under one of her arms, headed straight towards Medda instead.
“How’d you put up with her for twelve whole years?” He asked, running a hand over his hair once more as if he couldn’t quite believe how neat and clean it felt.
Spot fell into step right behind him. “‘Cause Medda Larkin is an angel. She puts up with your sorry ass, too.” Jack laughed, loud and unabashed, as he left the bathroom and jogged down the stairs. Spot stopped right next to Medda, uncharacteristically smiley. “I’ll clean your bathroom up after dinner, Medda.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She smiled and carefully took Spot’s hand, squeezing gently. “You did a good thing tonight, sweetheart.”
“Yeah, guess I did.” She shrugged noncommittally, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. Spot’s pretty natural hair was half-up in a bun and half down, hanging around her shoulders in lovely curls. She was still paint-streaked from the theater, but she radiated a confident, grown-up ease that Medda often saw in young adults when they hit this age. Adding to that was the happiness that came from helping out a good, wayward kid like Jack Kelly. Spot was almost smiling. Almost.
As she headed downstairs, Medda thought, warmly, that they would have looked like siblings to the untrained eye.
The next week was rough. The custody change was close to becoming official and because of that, Snyder cracked down hard on Jack, who disappeared entirely for five painstakingly long days. Medda was almost beside herself with anxiety, constantly annoying Jack’s case worker with her pleas to just transfer his goddamn custody already. They’d completed all of the necessary steps, but Snyder was fighting hard against the system. Or maybe the system was with him and Medda and Jack’s caseworker were the ones fighting, but either way, it was taking too damn long to get that baby somewhere safe.
The caseworker, an elderly man that Medda knew only as Mr. Kloppman, meant well. He was just too damn strict about the laws and rules, always wearing a suit and refusing to consider any loopholes. He seemed to care about Jack and his safety, but then he’d say things like, ‘Jack’s got a violent history– are you sure?’ and, ‘he’s been in and out of foster homes for a while. Just be sure to make an educated decision’, and Medda would see red. What was so damn hard about putting this child somewhere he wouldn’t be hurt? She didn't care about his past. If she never learned Jack's backstory, so be it, as long as he was happy.
Just when she’d started to really and truly worry for Jack’s safety, she received a call from Kloppman. The relief hit her so hard that she nearly cried, because Jack Kelly was going to be fostered by the Larkins, and she’d won a three month long battle against a crooked man and his government ties.
The next day, Jack stumbled out of Kloppman’s beat up Honda Civic holding one singular duffle bag, looking more miserable than Medda had ever seen him. Kloppman even looked more tired than usual, his typically lanky body almost slumped with exhaustion. His suit was rumpled and his circular glasses sat slightly askew.
Jack was tense with anger and covered with enough bruises and cuts to make Medda feel properly nauseous. She remembered holding Hannah’s hand like a lifeline as the impossibly broken, small child made his way up to the townhouse’s stairs and wordlessly stopped in front of them. Jack was furious. His anger felt like waiting for a thunderstorm to begin, when the energy seemed to buzz and hum in the air, and the clouds filled everyone with a constant sense of foreboding. It was palpable, tainting the air between them as Kloppman stood a few inches behind Jack and read off some useless reminders that only Hannah would listen to.
Medda desperately searched Jack’s face for anything but anger and was disheartened to see fear in his wild, dark eyes, badly masked beneath his furrowed brow. She didn’t understand, but she knew at that very moment that they were about to embark on a difficult journey, and she’d have to be a sturdy pillar of love and understanding for this child that’d lacked both of those things for far too long.
“Well, Jack?” Kloppman said, with an awkward sort of tenderness that was meant to be reassuring but came across as tired. “You got everything from the car?”
“Yeah.” Jack bit out, voice gruff and low as he wrapped his arms around himself.
The older man hummed, obviously sensing tension, and even more obviously unaware of what to do about it. He sighed a long-suffering sigh and awkwardly patted Jack’s shoulder. “Well, be good, kiddo. Call if you need anything.”
Jack said nothing in response, eyes flickering between Hannah and Medda as his case worker made his way back to the car. The engine spluttered to life on the sidewalk across from them as Hannah carefully opened the front door, giving Jack one last look of intrigue before carefully squeezing her wife’s shoulder.
“You wanna head inside, Jack?” Medda asked, making her voice as warm and loving as humanly possible. “I can patch you up, honey.”
He only seemed to tense up even further, that terrified anger practically rolling off of him in waves. Medda was at a loss, so she just decided to head inside and prayed that Jack would follow. After a moment of quiet contemplation, he did, lugging his duffel up the stairs with him. He paused at the threshold of the doorway, glancing back anxiously at Mr. Kloppman’s retreating car. It sputtered off into the distance, and Jack seemed to grow tenser with every second that the car grew smaller. Once it rounded the corner and disappeared, Jack stared at the interior of the townhome he’d been inside of countless times before, clutching the strap of his duffle like a lifeline.
Medda couldn’t begin to understand what was racing through his troubled mind. To be fourteen years old and to have suffered so much was inconceivable to her. Sure, she’d had her own struggles, growing up with a single mother and being a black woman in a country that was nothing if not unkind and unfair, but Jack had been through so much more and he was less than half her age. Just seeing him standing there in his too-big clothes, injured and angry and broken, made Medda break as well.
He was looking at her, and there was genuine fear in his eyes. Her words lodged themselves in her throat and she could do nothing but stand, still and open, and pray that he’d remember to trust her.
Eventually Jack stepped inside, looking between the two women like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. It took a moment for Medda’s brain to work again, but she eventually remembered common sense and took a step forward, smiling softly at the boy she’d grown so fond of. “You want anything specific for lunch?”
“No.” He ground out, fingers flexing and tightening further.
Medda nodded, feeling nothing but patience and confusion. “Alright. Hannah was thinking we’d do grilled cheese and tomato soup. How’s that? Then we can fix up those cuts."
He nodded, eyes boring into hers with a strange, scary intensity.
She smiled, because despite her lack of understanding, she was still happy. Relieved, too. "I’m glad you’re here, Jack.”
Jack blinked at her, brow furrowing imperceptibly. She watched anger twist his mouth into a frown and barely registered his noncommittal shrug before he was storming past her, a flurry of unrestrained adolescent emotions manifesting in loud footsteps on the stairs and the echoing slam of the guest bedroom door. The house seemed to shake with the force of his anger, and Medda realized that she’d only won a small battle when she finally got custody.
There was a war to fight, and God damn it all, she was going to fight that war with so much patience and love. She was going to give Jack Kelly the life he deserved, even if it took him ages to see that he really did deserve it.
