First is Worst
word count: 3,913
A fic I planned to be shorter but got a lil carried away with? Yep. It happened again folks -- Coltland Gentry + Driver fic where the boys get sick, and Court once again tries to handle it all. Definitely nooo eldest-child trauma was inflected on this, nope (I'm lying lol). Anyway, Court is around 16 here (they live with Uncle Holland and Healy, Court does not go to jail), Ryland and Colt are around ten, and Driver (called 'Casey' here) is five.
TW: illness (it's like a cold/flu but still), implied past child abuse/neglect, dubious medicine distribution (Court literally just pour some syrup in a cup and prays for the best, if that makes you nervous)
Fic below the cut and available on Ao3 <3 (@ harpie_raven).
AUTHOR DOES NOT USE AI, AUTHOR HATES IT ACTUALLY -- I JUST LOVE EM DASHES AND YOU CAN PRY 'EM FROM MY HANDS.
How much jello is too much?
It’s a question that Courtland never really thought he’d have to ask. But standing in the biting cold of the refrigerator aisle at the local food mart he can’t help but wonder. He has at least seven small individual cups of the colorful dessert tossed into a hand basket; two orange for Colt, one red for Casey, and four green. Only two of those four were technically for Ryland, but Colt would suddenly ‘change his mind’ on which flavor he wanted. To save himself the headache of having to pry the twins off of one another, Court would just get more than needed. Uncle Holland had increased his allowance a little recently (another crazy thing to ponder that he wasn’t thinking too hard about, even if it had been ‘enough’ months), he could afford this. Besides, it was for a good cause, and if he had to, he’d probably come up with a plan to be the first man to pull off a jello-heist.
He throws in one more orange, just to be safe.
Making his way towards the pharmaceutical aisle feels like it takes an eternity. The whiplash from the refrigerator aisle to the stale AC pumping through the store does nothing but add to his discomfort. He feels like that’s too much effort on the machine’s part, making him grit his teeth together to keep from chattering even a little. He focuses on that though, instead of the faint sense of warmth growing under his collar. It wasn’t at all as bad as it could be, he was fine – but damn, it was annoying.
Somehow Court always forgets how brutal brought-home-school-colds can be. Until it’s too late, and there are three sets of little eyes staring at him in the middle of the night to inform him that one of them (usually Colt, poor thing) just threw up.
It was the first time it had happened since they’d been moved to LA, though. If he had to guess, it was probably because his brothers were still getting adjusted to their new school. (So was he, technically, but he was decidedly not trying to think about that right now. And if the flitting thought made him throw some grape flavored cough syrup into the basket a little harsher than needed? Well, it was grape flavored. It probably deserved it.)
He’d gone out to get the supplies he needed as soon as the boys laid down for a nap. He did not like leaving them. The very thought had made him stall in the doorway, fingers tapping against the door handle anxiously. The only reasons he’d been able to justify it was that the food mart was down the street, he didn’t really have a choice, and he wasn’t leaving them there. He reminded himself of these things as he filed into line, to keep from groaning when he saw the wait ahead of him. Glancing at the clock mounted to the wall he reminds himself that he really hadn’t had a choice.
Uncle Holland and Mr. Healy had a new case. They’d been out all night on a stakeout, only stopping by the house that morning to check on the boys and grab whatever they needed to chase a lead. When Uncle Holland had asked how everything was going, if they needed anything, Court had of course debated telling them about the situation he’d been handling since the early hours of the morning. About a month into this new arrangement, his uncle had sat him down to tell him that he could bring up anything (“anything at all!”) he needed. He’d blundered his way through the explanation, but the sentiment had been nice. It just wasn’t as easy for Court to digest as either of them had hoped. No matter how genuine he found his uncle to be, he couldn’t form the words without hearing several unwanted words echoed back against his skull.
Weak.
Through no fault or malice on their end, Mr. Healy and Uncle Holland could be a little busy sometimes. When his cousin was here, Court may have had an easier time, not saying he needed it, but letting her help him with his brothers. She was naturally assertive, and left very little room for him to protest, saying ‘no’ to a determined Holly March was not as easy as one would think. But, two months back, she’d gone off to college. Everyone had been so proud, emotions had run a bit high, but it wasn’t an absolute loss from her company, she still visits often – she was just getting adjusted to her new life. And, Uncle Holland was adjusting to her being gone.
So, Court could handle it. Not like he hadn’t before, and in much worse conditions.
By the time he finally got to leave the food mart, Court felt like his legs were starting to copy the consistency of the snacks in the bags. He was going to melt under the California sun. But, he took a deep breath, and started his quick (awful) trek down the road to the house. He knows the lady in front of him had practically bought the whole store, but surely the kids were still napping, right?
The sound that greets him when he finally fumbles the key into the door and swings it open proves him wrong immediately.
“Well I don’t wanna!” Colt protests somewhere within the house.
“An’ I do?” Ryland argues back – Court’s already rushing over.
He forgets to take off his shoes, and gathers up the plastic bag into his arms as he rushes over. He knows he should take them off, not ruin the house, he was running like a maniac he wasn’t supposed to do that, what kind of a man scrambles like this –
He follows the vague sounds of stuffy-nosed squabbling – and, concerningly what he thinks are tears – to the guest bedroom. The lights are off and the curtains are drawn, just as Court left them. But now that he’s closer, he can definitely hear someone crying, and flicks the lights on without warning.
Two things happen immediately. Colt and Ryland are sat up on their knees in bed, Casey laying between them. When the lights turn on, Ryland lets out a squawk and tries to cover his eyes. At the same time, Colt throws himself backwards, dramatically, onto the mattress. “My eyes!” He yelps, hands flying to cover his whole face.
It’s just so dramatic, but Court holds back the eyeroll. “Sorry,” he says, because he does actually feel a little guilty.
“No you’re not–” Colt’s complaints are muffled by the mattress as he rolls over. Court doesn’t respond, already rushed over to the bed. Casey’s the one who’s crying, eyes fixed upwards in what Court unfortunately thinks is an attempt to stop the tears.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Court tries, kneeling next to the bed while the twins squirm to check on their youngest. He can already feel the fever before he sets his hand down onto Casey’s forehead, and the five-year-old lets out another little cry. It breaks Court’s heart, and he starts immediately looking through the nightstand drawers for tylenol. If he can give Casey half of one, maybe it’ll go down before it becomes a bigger problem. Casey sniffles too, his nose very clearly runny.
“We tried to get him to blow his nose,” Colt says, sitting back on his legs with a sniffle of his own. “But it was not working.”
Ryland shakes his head. “And I…I really don’t wanna touch it!” He seemed to shudder at the very idea, despite the fact that he’ll probably be in the same boat soon. Still, Court can only blame himself for their discomfort, minor as it is. He could’ve been faster, after all.
Shaking his head gently he moves Casey into a seated position, already looking around for tissues. “Okay, okay,” He finds them knocked off the bed in an awkward upside down position not far from his foot. “It’s okay, I know it’s really gross.”
Colt hums in agreement until it seems like he might make himself cough, and Ryland, sensing the ‘danger’ of almost having to deal with the situation is over, settles back down into the blankets. He’s looking down at the forgotten grocery bag Court had discarded, like it’s just dawning on him, same as the shoes. Nestling into the blanket he blinks at his brother. “Did you leave?”
It’s a perfectly innocent question, but Court doesn’t miss the flash of nerves that cross Colt’s face, even as he cleans up Casey. “Yeah,” He nods, averting his eyes a bit, he knew he shouldn’t have left them. It wasn’t right of him, he never used to do that. “Yeah – but, I got stuff.”
Casey tilts his head curiously, his tears still rolling down his cheeks a bit. “Yeah,” Court insists, and looks between their faces. “Your bellies still feeling weird?” He’s met with three little nods.
He throws away the used tissues in the waste basket nearby, rushing to wash his hands in the bathroom, rushing back. Lots of rushing, but it was okay, it was nothing he wasn’t used to. Even if the pressure build up behind his eyes is making the normal run-and-go increasingly uncomfortable. While in the bathroom he roots around for the thermometer he thinks he saw there, and again, for the tylenol. Surely this house had tylenol, Uncle Holland fell off a concerning amount of high surfaces, it had to be a staple.
He makes sure the three of them are still in the bed with no intention of leaving before heading to the kitchen. “Stay put, I got a surprise,” He’s calling, knowing damn well only the jello was a surprise. Ryland might actually fight him over the cough medicine, he’s realizing.
Still, with slightly shaking hands (adrenaline, he tells himself), he grabs three colorful spoons, and a little cup. Hopefully his undignified method of “little sips, guys” will help. He knew it wasn’t what he was supposed to do – he’d just been doing that for so long to break away from something the boys understood at this point seemed wrong. They still probably, no, they did, deserve better.
Coming back into the room, he’s already pouring the dark purple goop into the cup, just a little to cover the bottom. To his exact expectancy, Ryland shoots upright. “OH no!” He declares.
“Ry it’s gonna help you.”
“No!”
“Yes, actually, that’s how medicine works.” Court already knows he’s going to lose this battle, but he will try, damn it. Casey sees the cup and whines, frowning deeper than any five-year-old had the right to. Colt, thankfully, doesn’t seem to mind at all.
“I won’t drink it!” Ryland wraps himself up in the blankets, as though burrito-ifying himself will get him out of this. Court doesn’t say anything, because if he does speak it will come out so much harsher than he wants it to. Instead, he reaches into the grocery bag and pulls out the jello cups.
“Well, how about a treat?” Jello was just about the only thing he could remember their mother giving him when he didn’t feel well. Way he saw it, it was cold, easy on the stomach, and therefore practical. And, easy to give someone and walk away. Not that he was going to do that last part.
Colt’s eyes widen and he grins, his slightly flushed face making him appear rosy and a little younger. “Orange!” He exclaims, and clamors forward a bit. You say that now, Court thinks as he hands it over along with a spoon.
“Red?” Casey asks quietly, first thing Court’s heard him say all day. He nods and opens it for him before handing it over,
Ryland has not emerged from his burrito pile. Court takes the green cup out anyway and holds it upwards. “C’mon,” he tries to coax him. “It’s good, and’ll make you feel better.”
“Uh uh.”
“Ry-guy, c’mon out.”
“Uh uh.”
Court’s eye twitches and he has to squeeze them both shut to keep from making any solid facial expression. Normally he’s much better about being pragmatic for this, but…he’s running a little low in reserves now. “It’s…” He takes a deep breath, still holding it up. “It’s green…?” He tries, hoping that works.
After a pause (in which Colt and Casey have already started slurping their jello down), Ryland’s blonde tufts poke out from beneath the blue fabric. Holy shit, that actually worked.
The older boy gets to his feet and walks to the other side of the bed, holding it out to him. “See?” Ryland’s suspicious eyes study him from behind his glasses, and he really must not feel good, because he gives in way too easily.
That’s how Court finally finds himself in bed, giving very small sips of medicine to his brothers and watching them eat their jello. He finally, mercifully, found the tylenol, giving the appropriate dosage to all three of them before allowing himself to settle back into the bed with them. Ryland had fought him at first, but maybe he’d sensed how desperate Court was, unintentionally and openly pleading with the ten year old. So, he took at least a couple sips, squirming and kicking through it the whole while. Thank god though, for small miracles.
With the weight of his brothers against him, Court was starting to feel a little drowsy. Well…drowsier. He didn’t mean to, honest. He’d fully intended to stay there and watch them – check their temperatures again, get The Bucket if he had to (please no), administer more medication when need be. He had to make sure they had enough tissues – oh god, he had to make them real lunch, jello wasn’t a substitute for lunch, not while sick. He’d been up with them since the early morning and he still hadn’t even done everything yet. Always rushing, wasting time.
Casey settled into his side, resting his head against his stomach as Colt coughed into his arm, laying to the left of him. They were warm – normal warm? Hopefully? Ryland had pulled up the blankets around them, and Court was just going to rest his eyes for a second. He still had to do all of that and more, but his head hurt, he felt spent, comfortably warm and still like he was outside – he just needed to close his eyes for two seconds. Just two seconds…
Court didn’t know when he fell asleep, all he knew was it felt like he got hit by a truck when he woke up. Somehow the build up in his head had increased to the weight of a brick, pushing down uncomfortably on his nose, making even opening his eyes something far too daunting. He wanted to groan – but that would just make his throat hurt, maybe.
He shifted to the side slightly, pulling the blanket up towards his shoulders. He needed to drown himself in it, soak into the warmth so he could stop feeling a shudder in his bones. Colt was a furnace, always, that could be good in this situation. He was cuddled against him last he checked, Ryland by his legs and Casey to his other side. He reached out a little, eyes still closed, just to make sure the blanket was tucked around them all. It took a minute of padding his hand around the bed to realize…he should accidentally be hitting someone by now. He moves his hand down, but there’s nothing there.
No soft hair, or baggy t-shirts, no stuffed animals of dinosaurs or even the stray toy car Casey tended to hoard in bed. He reaches behind him – still nothing but empty air. He makes a sound he thinks might be a whine, it’s pathetic, and starts to open his eyes. The lights are off again, and he’s laid down fully against the bed. More alarmingly, though, is not a single one of his brothers is in bed.
Through his haze alarm bells start ringing. Maybe they went off to go get some more medicine and accidentally took too much. Because of him and his poor planning, they never really knew what the correct dosage was. Or maybe they’d gone out to try and make some food, because he’d been awful at making their actual lunch on time, and accidentally hurt themselves with a knife. Maybe their father was going to run into them, and be upset that Court had let them out of the room, that they were sick, if Casey started crying again Dad would just get mad, and Court was stupidly sleeping through it like an idiot. He throws the blanket off of himself and calls out for them. “Colt? Ry? Case?”
He shouldn’t have fallen asleep, or left them alone when he went to the store, or ever thought it was okay to let them take medicine like that, what kind of a caretaker was he? They needed him, and he fell asleep?
He takes a second to stabilize himself before going to get out of bed, just as the door creaks open. His hair sticks to his forehead in sweaty strands as he makes eye contact with the door – his chest is already heaving, great. There was very little commendation for pretending to be brave, especially when whatever reaction he was about to receive, he probably deserved.
Instead of their father’s scowling expression (he knew this, he should know this, it had been months since he’d seen that face) peeking through the door, Uncle Holland comes into focus. He doesn’t look upset, just – concerned, maybe? If Court had to put a word to it. “Hey kid,” he starts, nodding in Court’s direction. “What’s your hurry?”
Seems like a silly question, Court’s always in a hurry. Even if it doesn’t seem like it, there’s probably something to be done that he’s forgotten. “I…” He starts, instead suddenly at a loss for words other than a small, frazzled sounding, “My brothers?”
Uncle Holland probably expected that answer. He nods his head to the left, out towards the hallway and eventually, the living room. Through the stuffiness of his ears Court thinks maybe he can hear the sounds of the TV being on, now that he thinks about it, and the twins’ voices here and there. Oh. They were just in the living room. “With Healy,” Holland confirms, stepping into the room. “Think they’re watchin’ Scooby Doo or something. I was gonna come check on you anyway cause I can’t stand that show – it’s always the real estate manager, I tell you.”
Court thinks he’s nodding but he’s not sure why. Sometimes it was, other times it was the greedy oil execs.
“But, you don’t gotta worry about them,” Court isn’t sure when his uncle made it to his side of the room, but before he knows it Holland’s next to him, gesturing vaguely to the bed. “We already got ‘em dinner, and they’re still scarfing down that jello you got them. Good call, by the way. I’ll have to remember the flavors, since Healy’s fuckin’ color blind, I swear.” As he rambles, he’s started gathering up the blanket, already pulling it up on Court’s legs again. He pauses a moment to give him a look Court doesn’t want to call ‘scruitinizing’, maybe…’puzzled’?
“Did you go out and get all that, by the way?” He asks. Court thinks he doesn’t have to answer. Private investigator or not, it’s obvious. Uncle Holland nods as though he’s received confirmation, and resumes his tugging on the blanket. “You know you didn’t have to. We coulda picked it up on our way home, or hell, come home earlier and got it ourselves then.”
Court wants to argue against being slowly maneuvered back into the bed, but really, he’s too tired to argue. He lets himself be laid back a bit as Holland haphazardly drops the blanket against him, still covered enough to not be unbearable. “You guys had a case…” He says instead. “I-I coulda handled it, you didn’t have to come home…” Piss poor job he did of that. He’d fallen asleep and not even noticed his brothers had left the bed.
Holland takes a set near his legs and clicks his tongue. “Nah, we finished up earlier anyway – lead was a bust and so was the whole case,” He told him, sighing a bit in disappointment before his expression turns a bit serious. “But even if it wasn’t…you know we’re still the adults, right?” he asked.
Court wants to argue, again, but is cut off by his uncle’s calmly raised hand. “I know you’ve had to do…a lot of stuff, that you shouldn’t have to worry about at your age. And it’s probably been real hard to train yourself out of. But, you boys are our responsibility, okay? Gettin’ sick is irritating as shit, but normal. All you had to do was let us know, and not run yourself ragged. No more of that.”
Against his better nature, Court almost whines with the effort it takes not to snap out. He has to, it’s not easy, those boys are his responsibility, he has to look out for them why does no one understand that, if he doesn’t then what will happen? What will happen then? Instead of saying all this and freaking out like he wants to, he bites his tongue. He’s so tired…he’s so tired he can almost fully believe Uncle Holland. So, he nods, his eyes stinging.
And of course, he knows his uncle picks up on it. Luckily for him though, it seems that’s all the Parental Wisdom Holland has at the moment. He sighs just a bit, and pats Court’s leg before getting up. “I mean it. You’re…you’re okay to just, be a kid, Court.”
He adjusts the blanket one more time and nods, satisfied with his work. “Get some rest, we’ll be around when you need something, okay?”
Court just nods. He can still faintly hear the sounds of Ryland and Colt – probably arguing over the jello, now. Healy’s low grumble of a voice comes shortly after, and though they’re broken up by little coughs or sniffles, he can hear the twins giggling. They’re safe, they’re alright. Skepticism aside, he knows Mr. Healy and Uncle Holland wouldn’t do anything to them, wouldn’t let anything bad happen to his brothers.
Seeming satisfied with Court’s response, Holland starts to leave. “Love ya, kid.” He says as he leaves, leaving the door open just enough for Court to still hear the sounds of the family, just enough for some light to poor in from the hall.
Court loves him too. He just hopes that one day soon he can let it all go like the man wants him to. Believe that he does not have to jump through every hoop that presents itself. He just hopes one day, he can just…be. Maybe he can, while he’s there. Until then, he decides, maybe he should take up the offer of ‘rest’. He pulls the blanket up over his shoulders again and rolls over, closing his eyes and letting the faint sounds from the living room lull him to sleep.
Sick or not, his brothers sound happy, then. They don’t need him right now. Right now he can just close his eyes, and sleep.
