Fledglings After Dark
I Don't Know Where This Drabble Came From.
Summary: Grian is Jimmy and Martyn's cousin who is living with them for the summer for some reason. the adults won't tell them and Grian is shy and quiet, wary even. Martyn doesn't know what to think of the kid, but Jimmy's bonded to him already.
One night, when the two are being rather annoying about bedtime, Martyn decides to give the fledglings a rather intense visit from the tickle monster.
_____________________________________________
Grian arrives on a Tuesday.
It’s humid and overcast and the air feels heavy enough to swallow. A social worker stands on the doorstep with a clipboard and careful eyes. Behind her, Grian stands small and stiff, clutching the strap of a faded duffel bag like it might try to run away without him.
Jimmy is practically vibrating.
“That’s him?” he whispers loudly to Martyn. “That’s our cousin?”
Martyn elbows him. “We know that’s our cousin.”
They don’t, not really.
They’ve seen him twice before—once at a tense family barbecue years ago, once at a funeral where everyone spoke in hushed voices and avoided each other’s eyes. He’d been smaller then. Quieter, somehow.
Now he looks… haunted.
Their mum kneels in front of him on the doorstep, voice soft in a way Martyn doesn’t hear often. “Hi, Grian. I’m—”
“I know,” Grian says quickly, barely above a whisper. He doesn’t look at her face. His gaze is fixed somewhere around her hands
There are papers. Signatures. Words Martyn only catches pieces of.
Temporary placement. Court order. We’ll reassess in three months.
Jimmy steps forward like he can’t help himself.
“Hi,” he says, grinning. “I’m Jimmy. You can have the top bunk if you want.”
Grian blinks at him, startled.
“…Okay.”
That’s it. That’s all it takes.
Jimmy beams like he’s just won a medal.
~~~~~~
The adults don’t explain much.
Only that Grian will be staying “from now on.” Only that his parents “aren’t able to take care of him.” Only that there are “things being sorted, but he stays.”
Martyn overhears more than he’s meant to.
He hears the words neglect and investigation and bruising in low, tight voices late at night. He hears his mum cry once, quiet and angry, saying, “I should’ve tried harder to reach out.”
He doesn’t know what Grian’s life was like before.
He only knows the way Grian flinches when someone moves too fast.
He only knows how Grian stands near exits.
He only knows how carefully he eats, like food might disappear if he’s not fast enough.
Jimmy notices too.
Jimmy responds by dividing everything exactly in half.
Two biscuits. Snap. One for him, one for Grian.
Blanket on the sofa? Tug it so it covers them both.
Controller? “You can go first.”
Martyn pretends not to watch how Grian starts hovering closer to Jimmy by day three.
Pretends not to notice how Jimmy has already decided that if the world so much as breathes wrong at Grian, he’ll fight it.
~~~~~~~
By week three, the house sounds different.
There’s laughter in it.
Small at first. Careful. Like Grian is testing whether he’s allowed.
It slips out unexpectedly one afternoon when Jimmy trips over absolutely nothing and windmills into the couch.
The sound freezes all three of them.
Grian’s hand flies to his mouth like he needs to shove the laugh back in.
Martyn doesn’t comment.
He just says, “Ten out of ten dive, Jim. Truly majestic.”
Jimmy bows from the floor.
Grian laughs again.
This time he doesn’t hide it.
~~~~~~~~
Bedtime is the one battlefield that never improves.
“Five more minutes,” Jimmy insists, upside down on his mattress.
“You said that fifteen minutes ago,” Martyn replies from the doorway.
Grian is sitting cross-legged on the top bunk, pretending not to be involved. He is absolutely involved.
They are whisper-shouting about something deeply important. Frogs, apparently. The ecological significance of frogs. At nearly ten at night.
“Lights out,” Martyn says, firmer.
Silence.
Whispering resumes.
Martyn exhales slowly.
“You wouldn’t,” Jimmy says, eyes narrowing.
Grian looks between them. “Wouldn’t what?”
Martyn steps fully into the room.
“You two seem to have forgotten something. Well, Jimmy is. Grian hasn't met it yet.”
Jimmy gasps dramatically. “No.”
Grian’s shoulders tense. His fingers curl into the blanket.
Martyn notices.
So he doesn’t lunge. Not yet.
He creeps forward exaggeratedly slow, hands curled like claws. “It appears,” he says in a terrible ominous voice, “that the Tickle Monster has been summoned.”
Jimmy immediately collapses into giggles before he’s even been touched. “Nooo—”
Martyn swoops, hauling Jimmy into a mess of blankets and scribbling fingers into his sides. Jimmy shrieks, half outrage, half delight.
Grian stays very still.
Watching.
Martyn keeps it loud. Silly. Over-the-top. No grabbing too hard. No pinning.
Jimmy kicks and wheezes. “Traitor! Cousin, help me!”
Grian blinks.
Martyn glances at him.
Their eyes meet for half a second.
Martyn softens his grin—makes it less predator, more invitation.
He releases Jimmy dramatically. “Hmmmmmmm. One fledgling subdued.”
Jimmy rolls off the bed bonelessly, giggling.
Martyn turns to the top bunk.
“Oh dear,” he says. “A second little fledgling detected.”
Grian freezes when Martyn steps closer.
Martyn stops a full arm’s length away.
He raises one eyebrow. Wiggles his fingers once.
Very slowly.
“Investigation required.”
Grian hesitates.
Then—almost defiantly—he drops his shoulders.
Martyn understands the permission for what it is.
He reaches up and lightly scribbles at the sole of Grian’s socked foot.
The reaction is instant and shocked—a sharp, startled laugh that seems to rip free before Grian can catch it. He jerks back, eyes wide, like he can’t believe that sound came from him.
Jimmy pops up from below. “He’s ticklish! I knew it!”
“Timmy,” Grian squeaks, mortified—and laughing.
Martyn keeps it gentle. No sudden grabs. Just light, teasing scribbles at Grian’s ankle, his knee, and his sides, always slow enough for him to dodge.
“Illegal levels of low giggling,” Martyn narrates gravely. “This house has standards.”
Grian tries to glare. He fails spectacularly because he’s dissolving into breathless laughter, clinging to his pillow like it’s the only stable object in the universe.
Jimmy scrambles up the ladder and joins the chaos, poking at Grian’s tummy and earning a squeal.
“Traitor!” Grian peeps, but he’s smiling so wide it looks unfamiliar on his face.
For a moment, the room is nothing but tangled blankets and laughter and the soft thud of knees against mattress
.
Martyn is careful. Always careful.
When Grian’s laughter tips from bright to overwhelmed, he stops immediately. Hands up. Space given.
Grian notices that too.
The tension doesn’t snap back into place.
It just… settles.
Eventually Jimmy flops sideways, utterly spent.
Grian collapses next to him, hair mussed, cheeks flushed pink.
Martyn flicks the light off and sits on the edge of the lower bunk.
“You’re both menaces,” he says quietly.
Jimmy mumbles, half-asleep already, “You love us.”
“Debatable.”
There’s a pause.
Soft breathing.
Then, from the top bunk, barely audible:
“You’re not… mean.”
Martyn looks up.
Grian is staring at the ceiling, not at him.
It takes Martyn a second to answer.
“Good,” he says finally.
A small rustle. Then Grian shifts—climbing carefully down the ladder instead of staying up top.
He hesitates only a moment before curling up on the lower bunk, pressing into Jimmy’s side.
After a second more, he leans back slightly—just enough that his shoulder brushes Martyn’s arm where he’s still sitting.
Testing.
Martyn doesn’t move away.
He nudges Grian’s hair once, light and brief.
“Go to sleep, fledgling.”
Grian huffs softly.
But he closes his eyes.
And for the first time since he arrived on a humid Tuesday with a duffel bag and nowhere safe to stand—
He doesn’t look like he’s waiting to run.
He just looks like a kid.
And this time, he sleeps.
