CW: Blood, Injury, Implied child abuse
AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28.
Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster @mr-orion
"Hi, Mom," Elo says to the short, dark-haired, nondescript woman who answers the door of the nondescript house on this nondescript, not-quite-suburban street.
Elo watches her Mother's expression as Oakrose takes in the state of her erstwhile foster daughter, with a gaze that swiftly travels from surprised joy to deep suspicion and finally ends in parental dismay.
"Oh, Love. I think you'd better come on in," her Mother says with a sigh.
Elo follows her Mother through the dark and narrow front corridor, past the huge coat rack filled with every conceivable boot, jacket, outerwear accessory, bag and Personal-Protection-Equipment that could be thought of, and into the central hallway beyond as her Mother bellows for the first aid kit. Elo narrowly avoids tripping over an abandoned toy train, only to knock into the tall filing cabinet and be attacked by the spider plant that lives on it, as her Mother yells for a child to come clear the train and its tracks away. Then they pass the telephone table, with its pot of half-dead pens, hair ties, treasury tags, and stack of notepads, and into the kitchen.
Her Mother pulls out a chair and bids Elo sit, as a young girl with long brown plaits, freckles, and huge brown eyes walks in slowly, holding a red box out to Oakrose like it's a shield.
"Thank you, Dimple," Oakrose says to the child as she takes the first aid kit. Elo makes a pained noise peeling her ruined jacket off, and the child scampers back, hiding behind the burnt-orange door frame.
"Dimple's new," Oakrose says to Elo, then to the child, "This is Elowyn. She's one of my oldest kids. Don't worry, she's nice. Come in and say hi."
Elo gives the child a lopsided smile and tries for brightness as she says, "Hi there."
"Hello," the girl whispers from behind the door frame, eyes wide and wondering.
The smell of freshly baked cookies eases Elo's spirit as her Mother bustles around, making demands: "Take off your shirt. Raise your arms. This is going to sting, so don't flinch– I said don't flinch. This is a bit more than 'first aid', my Love. Really, you need to go back to hospital, I reckon… What in the name of the Green Goddess did you even do?"
"Fell off my bike," Elo says, hedging the truth so as not to cause more worry. "I guess I pulled the stitches, huh?"
"And then some," her Mother murmurs.
"You can fix them, though?"
Oakrose snorts. "I've been patching you and half the neighbourhood up since you were just a wee little thing like Dimple. You really should go to the hospital."
"I can't. My health package won't cover it."
Her Mother raises an eyebrow. "Child, you will be the death of me. Tell me you didn't come all this way for free medical treatment?"
"No, I did this on the way over. I left a message I was coming?"
"Which kid?"
"Ishaan, I think."
Oakrose clicks her tongue and mutters, "Boy needs a reminder on telephone etiquette."
"I came to look for some old notebooks. I need them for a case."
"Ah," Oakrose murmurs. "Something to do with little Evie Strucker's murder, I'll wager."
"Sharp as ever, Mom," Elo replies.
Then there's no time for more talk as Oakrose sets to repairing the damage done by that damned Continental. Without the strong painkillers from the hospital, her Mother's stitches hurt more than the doctor's, and Elo bites down on the more vitriolic curses, shouting the names of vegetables instead.
By the time Oakroase is finished and handing Elo a shot of something strong and alcoholic, all the other children have fled outside. All except for little Dimple, still hiding with wide eyes behind the door frame.
"That sounded like it hurt," Dimple whispers, as Oakrose putters about, tidying her equipment away.
"It did," Elo says.
"How do you not cry?" the girl asks. "I cried every time my bad mom hit me. Sometimes it made her hit me more."
Something pinches in Elo's chest at Dimple's words.
"I shout and curse instead," Elo says. "But that's just me. There're a lot of different ways to let pain out. Crying is one way, and so's shouting. And that's fine. Different people need different things."
She wants to make a point to this timid little thing that Dimple isn't broken for crying. Maybe Elo's also trying to make a point to herself that she's not broken for not crying.
"We all deal with things in our own way." Elo shrugs, aware that their foster Mother is watching the exchange with a careful eye.
Dimple creeps out from behind the door frame and to the edge of the kitchen.
"I saw your picture in the newspaper," she says. "Oakrose says you helped a lot of people."
"Yes. That's my job."
"Is it hard?"
Elo thinks about it – thinks about the Master of Commerce, and about Snotgrut and Legnok. "Sometimes," she says. "Sometimes there are people who don't seem like they deserve your help. But they do. Sometimes they need it more than others."
"Oh." Dimple chews her lip, staring hard at the ground. Then she looks up and takes another step into the kitchen. "Do you get hurt a lot, as a policeman?"
"Specifically me, or policemen in general?"
Dimple raises one shoulder in a slow shrug.
"Generally, no. As long as you're careful and have a good partner, it's reasonably safe."
Dimple stares, as if expecting Elo to say more, but Elo is not about to admit her reckless self-endangerment to a child.
Behind them, Oakrose closes the bin with a touch more force than might be necessary. "Dimple, can you put the first aid kit away for me?"
Dimple edges forward and comes up on her tippy toes to grab the red box from the table. She stops on the way out of the kitchen, turning back with seriousness in those wide brown eyes.
"I think I want to be a policeman too, when I get older," Dimple says with such quiet conviction that Elo feels that nameless something pinching in her chest again.
"It's lots of hard work, and you have to be all kinds of smart, but I bet you'll be great at it," Elo says, and wonders if this is how Alexis felt the first time they met, and Elo pronounced her vengeance for all to hear.
"All right, Dimple," their foster Mother says. "Sergeant O'Toreguarde has work to do. Run along now."
Dimple gives another one of those serious nods and walks, quiet and unhurried, back into the house to put the first aid kit away.
Mother and daughter watch the child go, and then Oakrose hands Elo a black t-shirt with some band name emblazoned on it. Elo's shirt is already in a basin of cold water and lemon juice, her suit jacket at the top of the laundry pile. The shirt probably can't be saved, but if not at least her Mother will have some new rags.
"It's Lieutenant now, by the way," Elo says as she pulls on the t-shirt.
Oakrose gives her a careful smile. "Congratulations." It comes out as a hesitant question.
"It's okay – you can be proud," Elo says with a chuckle. "Everyone seems convinced it's supposed to keep me out of trouble, not get me into more."
And then her Mother beams at her. "I am very proud of you, my darling. But if they think an increase in rank and responsibility is going to keep you out of trouble, well." She shakes her head. "They've clearly never met you."
"Thanks, Mom," Elo says with a roll of her eyes. "I should go make myself look a little less banged up and call a tow for my bike."
Elo's getting off the phone with Evans at City Hall about retrieving her bike when the doorbell goes. She hears her Mother cry out with joy and assumes that Farren and Irvine have turned up.
By the time she's finished, her Mother's settled the two men around the kitchen table with a coffee and a slice of spiced apple cake. There's one set out for Elo as well, and really she's too impatient to eat, but she'll never turn down her Mother's cooking.
"So where am I likely to find my notebooks," Elo asks, ignoring the way Farren is considering her attire.
Oakrose taps a fork to her lips. "Probably the shed. We had to clear out a lot of stuff when I converted the attic and basement into more rooms. A lot of things got bundled into boxes and moved down there." She eyes Farren and Irvine. "I've been meaning to sort through them for ages. Maybe you boys can give an old woman a hand?"
"Of course, ma'am," Irvine chirps.
Elo has to cover a snort at the way her Mother is hamming it up, which turns into a cough as she catches Farren's grinning eye roll.
The day is still fair as they make their way down to the shed. The children are scattered on the large lawn; one is holding a tea party, offering mud pies and pretend tea to various dolls and stuffies. Elo tips her head in thought. If it stays nice, perhaps she can take His Nibs for a picnic…
Then Oakrose is unlocking the shed, and Elo is the first to step inside.
It is an old, dusty thing. Still sturdy and watertight, but most things in here have seen better days; a mower upturned with no blades, a bike with no tyres. Elo winces as she leans over the bench to pull open the window shutters, as Farren follows her and gives a questioning frown. Dust floats in the air, picked out in sunlight and raised on small updrafts of air. The light reveals yet more clutter and confusion – forgotten pickles, yellowed and stained newspapers, a handful of miscellaneous fixings scattered over the bench.
"Start with those crates in the corner there," Oakrose says, pointing. "I could do with those tarpaulins, too."
Farren passes Elo the tarpaulins. "I didn't know you liked Cryptic Goat?"
Elo swallows. "I like their inventive use of industrial furniture." And it's not technically a lie, because Maddy's played her enough of the band's music that it's a genuine opinion.
Farren harrumphs and turns away to start hauling down crates.
The tarpaulins are spread out on the lawn, and Elo unpacks each crate, methodically searching for her notebooks. While she's unpacking, Oakrose starts sorting the contents into piles of similar items so she can repack them and label up the crates. As they work, Elo shares her idea for the picnic with her Mother and the two women scheme.
By 11:20, all the crates have been turned out and they still haven't found the notebooks. Elo is starting to despair of finding them before she must go home for a fresh suit and collect King Storri for lunch.
Oakrose, as patient as ever, digs out some clothes for Elo to borrow. Elo takes herself up to her Mother's room to change. The blouse is a bit more bouffant than she would pick, the jacket tight around her arm muscles and the trousers a little too short, but she's sure it'll be fine.
Her eyes wander the room while she fusses with the collar. Her distracted gaze settles on the little set of shelves next to the bed.
A clumsily crafted cup, made by her in-another-world-twin Ashbury. Wickerswitch's archery trophy. A giant manual on home brewing, owned by Grandpa Birchwick. Ten small journals, decorated with flowers and leaves. A tall, slim reference guide on local flora from her Mother's old friend Turnip. Wickerswitch's trophy for a prize-winning marrow. Elo's Police Academy graduation photo.
Elo blinks.
Ten small journals, decorated with woodland motifs.
With a whoop of delight, Elo collects them up and pounds downstairs.
"Farren, Irvine! I found them!" she calls, coming into the back garden.
"Hurrah," Irvine says, smiles all over as he comes out of the shed to put the next crate away.
"Finally," mutters Farren, stubbing out a cigarette. "Where were they?"
"In Mom's room."
Farren gives Elo a long look, considers his cigarette, and relights it.
"I'm sorry. I would never have guessed they'd be there."
He looks again like he's about to ask after her change of attire, but Irvine is already plucking a book from her hands and opening it.
"My gods! Your handwriting is terrible!" Irvine says, holding the book out, twisting it as if that will make her writing legible.
"Yes, thank you, Cobbleskater, I am aware," Elo snips back.
"But how do you even read this? It's like a half-dying spider drowned in ink and pulled its way over the page to-"
"Thank you, Cobbleskater!"
The little man blinked. "I only mean to say, Lieutenant, how did you pass through the academy with your handwriting this bad?"
"I worked very hard."
"But–"
"I taught myself calligraphy, if you really must know, and applied the principles of that to my police work."
"But why is this so bad?"
"Because I spent seventy per cent of my time writing in glyphs, not the Latin alphabet."
Irvine looks from the page of glyphs to the page of translations. "Ah, yes, I see."
"If you're done, Cobbleskater," Farren says, "our LT's got someplace to be, remember?"
"Well done for finding them, love," Oakrose says, coming out of the house. She hands Elo a list. "I've got most of what we discussed sorted, but I'll need you to pick up a few bits."
"Thanks, Mom."
The two women share a short embrace and then Farren is loading her and the journals into his car.
With Irvine ensconced with the journals on the backseat, already absorbed in learning the translations she has highlighted, Farren glances at Elo as he drives.
"So what happened?"
"I swear I was being careful."
"But?"
"Some asshole tried to run me off the road. Trashed my bike in the process."
"You get a plate?"
"No–"
"Let me guess – distracted cuz you popped your stitches?"
"It was a dark blue Lincoln Continental with tinted windows and probably a wrecked undercarriage, considering it drove over my bike. I'd know if I saw it again."
"D'we need to divert to a hospital instead of the market?"
"No. Mom fixed me up."
"Cuthbert's Scales, Bug…"
"I said I was being careful, didn't I? It's not my fault the universe has it out for me."
"I'm sorely tempted to take you back to the station and stick you in lockup."
"And you'd start another international incident with the Icelanders. Just go to the market."
