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heathendolan · 5 years

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Little Luke McIver (G.D)

Summary: Kindergarten teacher Grayson Dolan is the only one who can crack the shell of Luke McIver, your newest case in social work. So you’ll need him to stick around.

Author’s Note: Hi everyone, this is again a newer branch for me; it’s mainly focused on the relationship between (y/n) and luke and then luke and grayson instead of being complete romance. if that isn’t for you, i totally get it!!! but it was again fun to step out of my comfort zone and try something. extended author’s note

Warnings: PLEASE READ!!! child abuse, social work, a little bit sad. if any of this bothers you PLEASE don’t read, i really did my research to be as precise as i could be!! but it could still be triggering !!!!!

Word Count: 15.2K+ || masterlist

It hadn't changed a bit.

There, a hundred yards away, stood your beloved elementary school in its glory: chipping paint, rusted sign, and all. You weren't one to deny yourself of a smile. It had been eons since you'd visited this place, but it was still nostalgic and vivid and bursting with memories; you'd hardly stepped foot on the property and you'd already spotted the pole Caleb VanDyke stuck his tongue to in third grade.

You crept up the sidewalk with your binder tucked under your arm, hopped about in your heels, and narrowly dodged the forbidden obstacles--cracks--etching the dull pavement. Along the sidewalk were mementos, engraved and painted in the cement, dating all the way back to the early 1980s. It was tradition for the kindergarteners to add their addition with their teeny, tiny, creative brains, and you nearly gasped when you stumbled upon your own handprint, embedded near the benches, basking in the hot August sun. You slumped down to your knees and flattened your hand (now ginormous in comparison) to the shallow crater and marveled. Marveled at how quickly twenty years had slipped on by without you ever noticing the size of your hands.

"Crazy, innit?"

You jumped to your full height, wobbled under the instability of your heels, and smoothed out your pencil skirt with dusty hands. Tucking your hair behind your ears, you turned to face your attacker.

"Jeez Hun, I didn't mean to scare you!" the lady cried, pressing a hand to her heart and enveloping you with the other.

"Mrs. Hoffmann! Oh my god, I'm sorry I just-"

"No, don't apologize, that was completely my fault!"

"No, seriously, I am so jumpy that I just-"

At once, you both realized how unnecessarily kind and apologetic you were being and huffed a chuckle. "My, how you've grown," she simpered, cupping your face between two hands before tugging you into one of her famous bear hugs. You smiled into her shoulder and realized she hadn't changed that much, either; you'd seen her all throughout high school when she popped by the boutique you had worked at, and aside from a few more pairs of crow's feet and some greying roots, she was practically untouched, well into her late forties. She was kind and had a heart twice the size of anyone you'd ever met. And she was beautiful; she always had been. "You're so old now," she said. "Making me feel like some ancient ruin."

You giggled and shook your head. "Not a chance, you're still kickin'! It's going to be so weird counseling little mini-me's," you gushed, wrapping your arms around yourself. You stared at your feet and smirked at the handprints of classmates you'd graduated with. "I feel like I should still be wearing light-up sketchers, not these... death traps," you laughed, kicking your heel up.

She chuckled and slipped her arm around you and escorted you into the entryway. Almost instantly, your brain bloomed with memories upon memories upon memories. "Do you know where you're going, Honey?" she asked as the two of you pulled up to a fork.

You nodded and waved her goodbye with a promise to catch up soon, and then dashed away, beelining for your office.

Your office. What a phrase.

There, you frowned at the blankness, the blandness, the bareness of the walls and decided two things: one, that you had to redecorate this cell, and two, that you would be the best elementary counselor this world had ever seen.

Easier said than done.

"Luke, hi!" you cheered as Cory, Principal Larson, coaxed a boy, maybe five years old, into your office.

A few weeks had passed and your job, so far, had been less than flashy. You'd resolved tearful playground disputes and consoled cafeteria tantrums and, well, not much else. It was a blur of meetings, hissy fits, and really bad school coffee. You'd made a mental note to buy your own Keurig.

But Luke was different, and you could see that right away.

Cory hung in the doorway, nearly barricading Luke in as the kid fought his way around the large man. Luke already had tears sprung in his eyes, a pitiful frown, and an overall, seemingly permanent, aura that oozed with fear. His tiny hands were fisted by his sides and his curls dangled protectively over his big doe eyes and something painful, something piercing, poked at your heart when you realized Luke needed your help a lot more than any of those kids on the playground. Luke really, really needed your help.

So, you bounced out of your chair and scurried over to Luke and bent at knee level and swept a warm hand over his shoulder. "Hey Luke, can we talk for a little? Not too long, I promise" you pleaded softly, hoping to catch his eye. But Luke was staring at the floor, blankly, stubbornly. And a tear rolled off his nose. "I've got it from here, Mr. Larson," you whispered, nodding up at Cory.

You held onto Luke's hand as you shut the door, careful to make sure he didn't just bolt right out. "Wanna sit in the beanbag?" you smirked, thumbing to the cushy, plump seat tucked in the corner. It was every kid's favorite. Luke looked at it longingly before shaking his head, hopping on the rigid desk chair far, far away from you, and staring at the ground again.

Luke was small. Smaller than most of his class, you'd assumed, with his skeletal arms and equally skinny legs. He wore a grey Power Rangers shirt that practically dwarfed him and brown cargo pants that rode up his ankles. His shoes were a dull, gunky yellow with dozens of holes and, from the looks of it, Luke's feet were bare of socks. Luke was textbook poor.

And poor-spirited, it seemed as well. You'd seldom seen a kid so quiet. You were so busy studying him you'd hardly realized minutes had passed on the clock without a single word exchanged. No, Luke just sat there, cowering under your gaze, staring at the ground. Luke was well practiced in the art of silence.

And that just wasn't okay, nor was it natural. Kids had technicolor brains bursting with imagination and creativity and words. Kids would scream and shout and run amuck and yell; kids would talk--if you let them.

"Luke," you began, fumbling for words that could fill the dreary silence that suffocated your office. "Luke, what's your favorite color?"

Luke looked up at you with his big doe eyes and a quivering lip and sat on his hands. He kept looking at you, tears in his eyes, tremor in his jaw, and stared. Stared for minutes. Stared for hours, it felt like. You weren't going to rush him, Luke should take as long as he wanted.

But then he was sniffling, and a pitched, strangled whimper echoed from his mouth and you wondered how you could possibly fix this.

C'mon, you went to school for this. Speak!

"Luke, wanna know something cool?" you asked, leaning over the desk as he tucked in on himself. "This room? It's the safest place in the world."

To that, Luke's cries cut off. He was now just staring at you with his big, big brown eyes and waiting.

"I'm serious, this place is protected," you nodded.

In the smallest, most broken voice, Luke asked, "From what?"

You smiled your kindest smile and said, "Can you keep a secret?" He looked to either side of him, made sure the coast was clear before he nodded. "Luke, this place is protected by magic," you whispered. "Fairies and wizards. Swear," you said. Luke's doe eyes got even rounder. "So we can tell secrets and no one will find out. Soundproof," you explained with confidence, knocking on the wall theatrically. "Which is why I can give you this, and nobody will ever know."

You dug in your drawer and pulled out a sucker and tossed it his way, watching as he marveled at the little treat plopped in his lap. "Thank you, Ms. (Y/L/N)..." Luke breathed, stuffing the candy in his pocket.

"You can call me (Y/N)," you grinned. "But only my friends get to call me (Y/N), okay?"

Luke nodded, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

With the full understanding that these things take time, that Luke needed space--and by the looks of it, a lot of space--and that he would work his way up to trust, you asked, "Luke, can I see you in a couple days? Would that be okay?"

Luke didn't answer, he simply leaped from his chair and darted out the door, and left you with a low, low spirit.

"Hey," Cory mumbled, tapping on your door. "Get 'im to crack?"

You grimaced and shook your head. "No, I didn't. It's going to take time--and I mean time. He hardly breathes in the same room as me," you groaned, digging your fingers into your scalp. "Scares me to think about what might be going on at home."

Cory sighed. “Yeah, the kid’s a little... I mean, the teachers notice it, you know? I know you know, you’ve dealt with this stuff before,” Cory shrugged, frowning at his polished shoes.

But you hadn’t dealt with this stuff before. You were fresh out of your master’s with minimal experience. Your internship was borderline bogus.

“Yeah, I don’t know, stuff never gets easier,” you mumbled.

And that wasn’t entirely a lie. You imagined you’d feel the same way about Luke as any of the other kids whose shells needed cracking, whose homes needed relocating. No one wanted to deal with this stuff, this heartbreak of a job. But someone had to.

“Just... keep me updated, alright? Let me know if you need help with anything,” Cory said. “And I’ll let Luke’s teachers know what’s going on. I mean, it’s only kindergarten but you never know what tricks Mr. Dolan is pulling,” he chuckled, smirking to himself.

A thick glob of spit lodged itself in your throat at the mention of a ‘Mr. Dolan’, and you began coughing and wheezing and making a scene at once.

Growing in a town that size with a family as known as the Dolans were, there were only two possibilities for who ‘Mr. Dolan’ could be. Grayson, and Grayson.

You’d hardly been keeping tabs, but Ethan had boomed as a traveling photographer and Cameron was most definitely not a ‘Mr.’, and Sean was still the superintendent of the district (and had hired you). And, unless there was a new clan of Dolans in town, ones that weren’t half as gorgeous, you were very, very stressed.

You hadn’t seen Grayson since a small town, Christmas-break party. Limited interaction was how you liked it; Grayson made you (and the rest of the Long Valley population) clutzy, stuttery, and blushy—a few of your least favorite things to be.

It was nothing more than the fact that Grayson was gorgeous. And kind. And so, so polite. Every mom spent their Sundays praying their daughters would woo him and their sons would follow in his golden boy footsteps. He was Long Valley’s most beloved and there was no shame in admitting that you had also fallen victim to his spell; everyone loved Grayson, and that was that. But of course, that fucker picked something as absolutely adorable as Kindergarten education.

“(Y/N)? Are you okay? Here, drink some water,” Cory urged, patting your back and sliding you your water bottle.

Red in the face, you hacked before saying hoarsely, “All good.”

Not all good.

"Mrs. Hoffmann, hi!" you cried, stepping into the coffee shop and greeting her with a hug. She buried you in the warmth of he fur-lined parka and you accepted it with appreciation; this October had been particularly chilly in New Jersey with its barren trees and its frosted lawns, and cold meant the need for, well, coats. Your thoughts drifted back to little Luke McIver with his Power Rangers shirt and his brown cargo capris and his canary yellow, many-holed shoes. He needed a hug from Ms. Hoffmann and her big parka.

"Ugh, how are the roads?" she asked conversationally. "Are they slippery? This morning it was just pouring, I'm almost afraid it'll freeze over."

You nodded along. "No, yeah they were slippery. I nearly drifted pulling into Cozy Corner just now," you expounded, pointing to the entrance near the coffee shop.

She shook her head with disgust. "Guess you can't hope for a late winter here in Jersey. I'll for sure be getting a pumpkin spice latte with this weather."

And so, you sat down with your mugs in hand and huddled in the overstuffed loveseat and chatted for hours about the new boutique that had popped up on fifth street and the old bowling alley being torn down. She was, without a doubt, one of the kindest people you'd ever met: she bought your coffee and tipped 50%, offered up her coat as a blanket for the two of you, and complimented your very lazy outfit. This was no surprise to you; this woman was magical, and you'd known it since you were five. It felt like an honor to even sit and chat.

"So, I have to ask and I don't mean to offend, promise," she started. "but what exactly are you? Like, at the school? Do you work outside of the school too? I feel like such a loon, but I've really fallen out of the times-"

"Ms. Hoffmann, please," you snorted, laying a hand on her forearm that was dancing all about.

"And would you quit calling me Ms. Hoffmann! Call me Nancy, Honey."

"Okay, Nancy," you giggled. "I went to school and got my masters in counseling psychology and a bachelor's in social work. So, I work as both in the school. So, if a student were to be dealing with mental health issues, I could, you know, help them out as any counselor would, but if their problems are stemming from their home life, well then I move about and-"

"Hun, you know I'm in the system, right?" she smiled gently.

"What? You're kidding," you gaped. "You're a social worker?"

"Well no," she laughed. "No, I double-majored in elementary education and social work and then when I got out, I decided I'd just be a teacher for awhile and get my feet on the ground, and then I fell in love with teaching. I absolutely love the kids and after I got tenured, I just... I never went back to fulfill that part of the degree. I kind of wonder sometimes, what it would have been like, but I've never regretted it. Of course, it would have been fun if Steve and I could have fostered some kiddos," she smiled sadly. "Or had some. But, things don't always work out in your favor, I guess."

Her eyes glassed over and she clasped her hands tightly under the coat, fisting a wad of the material. It was a tragedy what happened to the Hoffmanns; a few years into their marriage, Nancy miscarried once, then twice. There was only so much gift baskets and get well soon cards could do. She was lonely without kids, that much was obvious. You supposed being a kindergarten teacher was as good as it could have possibly gotten for a woman with her circumstances, but they always left after nine months and change. It wasn't the same.

You grabbed her hand from under the coat and rubbed a thumb over her knuckles.

She laughed breathlessly and said, "Not that- not that we should delve into something so cynical, I-"

You lifted a hand to her to stop her unnecessary apology. "Mrs. Hoffmann-"

"Nancy."

"Nancy, this is my job, being a shoulder to cry on. Never apologize to me for such a trivial thing as uncorking your emotions. We all need to, sometimes. Be my guest," you urged.

And she did. She talked about the ache to buy Christmas toys and back-to-school supplies, how she ached when she received graduation cards from past students and Christmas cards from past families. Ached when people told her to 'get a dog, it's basically the same thing.' Ached when Steve played with little ones and looked so natural, so right. Ached when students accidentally called her mom.

"You're so good at this," she sniffled, wiping her nose with her macaron's napkin. "The words just come pouring out, I haven't told anyone this stuff in years."

You nibbled on your lip, feeling that certain pride that comes with intimacy. "Sometimes I can crack shells, sometimes I can't," you admitted. "There's a student, and I just... can't get him to budge. Not an inch."

She frowned and patted your leg soothingly. "He'll come around. Kids are weird, sometimes," she giggled. "Like Grayson Dolan was telling me about this girl, Piper Conrad, just flopping on the carpet and making a snow angel in the middle of class and- why are you blushing?"

Heat was boiling your face at the mere mention of Grayson Dolan. It was pathetic. "Blushing? I'm not, I'm- this pumpkin spice is just really seasoned, the nutmeg in it is just-"

"Grayson Dolan," she gasped, piecing the bits together. "Oh (Y/N), tell me about it. That man's a hunk. Didn't you graduate with him? I get it, I really do; if he weren't half my age and miles out of my league and I wasn't married I would just-"

"Nancy!" you cried with laughter, shushing her confession. "Nancy, I don't like him. There's nothing there, he probably doesn't even know I exist, it's been like, seven years since I've seen him."

She smirked and nodded sardonically. "But he will. Just you wait until we have a workshop day, oh you are so-"

"I am so nothing! You pipe down, missy."

"Right," she laughed. "Well, let me buy you another coffee for your troubles, listening to this old hoot cry a hurricane, and let's head on out. I think the roads are going to freeze over, after all," she frowned as looked out the window. "Hopefully this latte will keep you warm in place of Mr. Dolan."

On Thursday, Luke was again seated in his rickety, uncomfortable chair in the back corner, far as far could be from you. He was wearing his brown too-short pants and his grey too-big Power Rangers shirt and his ochre too-many-holed shoes again. No socks, big brown eyes, and a raw bitten lip—Luke looked about as sad as you’d think.

“Luke, how have you been the past couple days?” you asked quietly, approaching the subject as gently as you’d approach a tortured animal.

Luke looked tired. And lost. And cold; New Jersey’s lawns were crisp with frost on that October morning with a thick mask of fog settling in the air, and the school had yet to crank the heat on in an effort to save money. Of course, this typically wasn’t a problem—most kids had jackets, or at least sweatshirts. You suspected that might be a problem for Luke.

Luke didn’t answer you.

“Luke?” you coaxed.

He tucked his lips under his teeth and clenched his tiny little jaw and visibly fought back tears.

And he sat like that for the whole hour. You would have sat there the whole day with Luke, waiting, pleading with him to let you help him, but Luke had lunch.

When the bell chimed, he hopped off his seat and dashed towards the door, but paused. “(Y/N)?” he whispered, his voice crackly and dry.

“Yeah, Luke?”

“Mommy said fairies don’t exist,” he sniffled, hand on the door handle. “Mommy said you lied to me.”

Your heart wrenched deep in your chest, the physical symptoms of heartbreak bustling within you. Luke looked at you with his big doe eyes and you looked back with all the sadness in the world and then, then you noticed.

You noticed that the collar of his oversized tee had slipped down to expose his shoulder, which had an enormous bruise. It was green and violet and nearly theatrical in size; it was nauseating, this bruise on little Luke’s shoulder.

With a shaking voice, you asked, “Luke, where’d you get-“

Luke beelined out of your office and into the hall. You scooted out of your chair and crept behind him, desperate to just get this one secret out. That would be all it took; one admission and Luke could live such a better life.

But as you rounded the corner, you found Luke wrapped around the leg of Grayson Dolan, sobbing profusely into his dress pants. Grayson had a hand on his head, ruffling the curls that dangled above his eyes with the most sympathetic of frowns. And then, Grayson ducked to eye level and enveloped Luke in a bear hug—one as gentle as himself—and nodded along with his warbles.

“Luke, can you tell me what’s wrong?” Grayson pleaded, searching the boy’s eyes.

Luke grabbed ahold of Grayson’s tie and buried his nose into his chest and shook his head. Luke then heaved a deep breath, scrubbed his eyes of well-deserved tears, and bounded off to the cafeteria, grey shirt flowing behind him.

And Grayson stood and watched him scamper all the way down the hall. And then Grayson rubbed at his eyes and turned back into his classroom and closed the door.

Luke was sobbing, absolutely bawling in his stiff, creaky chair, and you had absolutely no way to help.

And you felt like such an idiot, because you went to school for this damn it. Seven years of education in counseling psychology and your first patient wouldn't even talk to you after four sessions. But he was crying. And you were doing nothing.

Panic rose in your throat as you realized how useless, how absolutely incompetent you were sitting there, watching Luke wail in his seat. You'd tried; he had stumbled into your office by the guidance of Cory once more and promptly sobbed. You asked him gently, then firmly, why he was upset, what was wrong, how you could help but Luke was deaf to your pleads and questions.

With hardly any direction, you did something thoughtless. Completely, ridiculously senseless.

You hopped from your seat--abandoned Luke in your office--and sped to Grayson Dolan's room down the hall.

You weren't thinking (clearly), you were just doing, acting, hoping something, or someone, could tear down this child's indestructible walls. Because you hadn't stopped thinking about that bruise--that monstrous bruise--since you saw it, and you wanted him to get help. You wanted this kid to have all the love in the world.

So, you clacked down the hall in your heels and scampered up to Grayson's door, knocking tentatively and then urgently. From outside the door, you called, "Grays- Um, Mr. Dolan, I- I know this sounds crazy, but-"

The door swung open to reveal Grayson a pair of wide eyes and a slackened jaw. "(Y/N) (Y/L/N)? Is that-?"

"I really need you to just, just come with me," you begged, verging tears, grabbing ahold of his forearm and tugging him behind you.

Grayson stumbled behind you, his shoes slapping the linoleum, and rushed up to your side. "Damn, you can walk fast in those heels," he panted to your left. Panicky tears sprung in your eyes and you curled your hand into a fist tight, tight, and pinched yourself a painful distraction. "Hey, what's going on?" Grayson murmured, slow and deep and warm.

You scrunched your face unattractively and pinched the bridge of your nose. "I- Mr. Dolan-"

"(Y/N), it's me. Grayson," he muttered sternly, grabbing your arm and halting the two of you.

You pulled at his hand and said, "No, we need to keep going, I-"

"(Y/N)." he commanded, sternness wired hard in his voice.

You whined oh-so-pathetically and shook your head. "You're going to think I'm such an idiot because I can't do my own job, like I'm over here asking you to do my-"

"You work here?" Grayson asked with a knit in his brows.

With exasperation, you sighed, "Yes. Yes, I'm a counselor and Luke McIver is sitting in my office and-"

"Luke McIver?" Grayson breathed. Without hesitation or a need for any explanation at all, he encased his hand in yours and dragged you down the hall, wordless and worrisome. Tailing behind Grayson (who was obviously handling this much better than you were), you snuck into your office and watched with wonder as he folded himself smaller than Luke, who was still gasping for breaths. Grayson tucked himself up by Luke's side, wrapped his hands around Luke's forearms and rubbed soft circles in his boney flesh, and said, "Take a deep breath, we aren't going anywhere."

Luke's jaw clamped shut and the last few tears rolled down his rosy cheeks and he nodded his head. Luke felt safe.

His eyes, as doe-ish as they typically were, were soft around the edges. They were usually pried wide; his eyelashes tickled the tops of his brow bones and his beautiful brown irises drowned in a sea of white. He looked alert, always, and his blinks were few and far between. Now, Luke just looked tired. Like he'd never had a chance to just relax. And vulnerable, too. In a good way.

Grayson smiled to him and Luke smiled back. "Luke, we need to talk to you, and we need you to talk to us," Grayson murmured, rubbing a hand down Luke's shoulder.

Luke nodded. Grayson peeked over his shoulder at you and gestured vaguely for you to join them in their little huddle, so you slipped next to Grayson and fell on your knees and left your hands in your lap, far away from Luke. You weren't going to push your luck.

"Luke, how did you get that bruise on your shoulder?" you asked softly.

Grayson grabbed ahold of Luke's shaking hands. Luke said, almost robotically, "I was on the monkey bars and-"

Grayson shook his head. "Luke, please don't lie to me."

Luke's lip quivered and his face crumpled and he collapsed on Grayson's shoulder, burrowed his head into the crook of his neck and cradled himself, let Grayson hold him and just cried. Cried like he deserved to, cried like he wanted to, cried like he had to. Cried so long you had to sneak into the main office and call for a substitute teacher for Grayson's kindergarten class. And that was okay. Luke needed this.

You slinked behind your desk and clicked your pen, dug out your notepad and waited. Waited for Luke to calm down and unfold himself for you--for Grayson.

"She doesn't like when I come here," Luke muttered into the cloth of Grayson's dress shirt.

"Come where, buddy?"

"(Y/N)'s," he whined. "I told her, I told her that it was protected by fairies and wizards and she- she hit me right- right here," Luke blubbered, tugging on his Power Rangers shirt and exposing the battered skin of his skeletal shoulder. Grayson's face fell even more, his eyes downward and his face low. "And she- she told me that- she told me that (Y/N) lied to me and she took my sucker and she stomped on it and- and- and-"

"Luke, is that the only time she's hit you?" Grayson whispered.

"No, Mr. Dolan."

Your throat bobbed with emotion as you scribbled down notes furiously. Your handwriting was godawful and your hand was cramping but you wouldn't stop writing this child's story for the world. Even if it really, really hurt.

"She doesn't like when I come to school, either. She said that- that I shouldn't get all this food and all this heat and that I don't need to be away from home for seven hours. And she-"

You shoved all that emotion down and took the validity out of his words and just wrote. Just wrote, detached and factually.

Grayson had to suck up all the tears, had to soak in all this tragedy first hand. Luke was staring at him like he had all the answers to the world, like Grayson could solve his problems with his bare hands. And Grayson had to act like he could.

After hours of cries and admissions and a whole lot of heartbreak, the final bell chimed in the hall. Grayson turned to you in question, a tear slipping from his eye.

"Luke, can you sit in here for just a second? Just a quick second, we'll be back," you asked, looking at the boy with a cautious smile.

He nodded and you slipped into the hall, beckoning Grayson as you went. Shutting the door as gently as you could, you turned to find Grayson with his head guarded by his hands, his shoulders shaking. "He can't go back," he croaked with a crack in his voice. He lifted his face and it was blotchy and red and tear streaked and he said, "He absolutely cannot go back to that monster."

"I know, I know," you muttered, staring at your heels. "I- I need to make some phone calls and talk to some foster cares around the-"

"No," Grayson interrupted, steel in his tone. "This kid needs someone he can trust. I'll take him."

You laughed in disbelief, shaking your head. "No, that isn't how this works. First, I have to call Morris County human services and have them head over to Luke's house and take his mom into custody, and then I have to go over to Morris County Human Services and find him a caretaker for the next 72 hours.”

"So what, we just drop this kid off? Leave him completely alone? I just told him we wouldn't go anywhere," Grayson growled, flaring his nose.

You pressed your hand to your face with frustration and sighed. "No, I- I couldn't do that to Luke. I don't think I can take him into custody for too long because I'm a conflict of interest, but I'll take him until we can get a judge to sign off on a permanent foster care or a-"

"Luke doesn't need a temporary family. Luke needs a home," Grayson hissed.

Irritation built in your chest and you pinned him with a hard glare. "Do you think I don't know that? How do you think these things work, Grayson, we just throw him into a house, no legal document, no nothing, and send him off?"

"Well, of course not, I don't know what-"

"You're right, you don't. I might not seem like I know what I'm doing, and you've been the best help, but I know what to do now," you spoke evenly. You reached for your office's door handle but Grayson flattened his hand against the wood.

"So what, you're just ditching me? I can't help Luke through this? Last time I checked, I was the only one who could get him to talk, (Y/N). And I just told him I wasn't going anywhere," Grayson fumed, his voice low and cold.

You glanced at your toes and let the wheels turn in your head, round and about, until you sighed and threw caution to the wind. "Okay. Listen, you can... you can come check on him later tonight at my place and whatnot, you can even come to the court hearing. But if he finds a new home, I don't- I can't promise anything, Grayson. This isn't up to me; if it were, I'd just give you the fucking kid."

He breathed a sigh of relief and wrapped a hand around your shoulder, warm and firm and big. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," you muttered. "Here's my phone number... and my address..." you mumbled, rifling through the packet of notes you'd scribbled down while listening to Luke and tearing out a stray paper, jotting down both messily. "Now, I really need to get in there and make some phone calls."

There you stood, in Morris County Human Services, hand in hand with little Luke McIver. He was willing to hold your hand, which in itself was a feat, but distantly; the two of you were connected by the full lengths of your arms apart. He was staring at the kid's corner in the waiting room, watching an eight-year-old rumble around with dozens of colorful blocks longingly, frowning. Just as you were about to invite him to go play, a county social worker peeked their head out from the hallway. "Ms. (Y/L/N), come with me, please,"

You looked down at Luke and tugged on his palm, tilting your head towards the lady. "C'mon Luke," you encouraged, taking a step in her direction.

The two of you followed her into the narrow corridor, shuffling behind her as she led you past dozens of rooms. "Luke, you can take a seat in this room," she smiled, popping open a door. Inside was a room abundant with toys, games, and books galore. It was prismatic and bright and Luke looked at it with a glint in his big, big brown eyes and hurried inside. And then Luke plopped on a chair in the center of the room, sat all still, and the social worker shut the door before you could promise Luke that he could play with those toys.

"Ms. (Y/L/N), I'm Emily Bradshaw and I have some terrible news," she hushed, leading you down another hall, and then another, halting at a dead end in a secluded corner.

You weren't in the least surprised.

"Luke... has some bad luck, to put it lightly."

I know.

"There's no one we can put him in for custody. His dad's out of the picture, Uncle's a crack addict, Grandparents are dead, his other Uncle's in jail for felony charges and... well, we can't give him back to his mom, obviously. Not after what you told me," Emily murmured. "We don't have a single--and I mean, not a single--person available for this little guy."

You touched your forehead with heartbreak. "No siblings, right?"

"Nope."

"I- Emily, can I take him for the night then?" you asked, biting down on your lip nervously. "He's so fragile, Emily. He hardly trusts me, and it took weeks to get him to even talk in front of me. I don't want him with anyone else, he'll be absolutely scarred."

"(Y/N), I'm afraid you'll have to. Obviously, you can't take him longer than 72 hours, you're a-"

"Conflict of interest, I know. I- I'll look through the records and see if there's anyone in the system worth calling. This is just terrible," you breathed.

"You're telling me. I know this stuff happens all the time, but it never gets easier. God, poor kid," she whistled, scuffing her shoe on the linoleum floor. "You've got him until Monday, cause we can't collect him on Sundays. So, Monday at... 5:00 PM. Just- I know you don't need to be told, but just take care of him, okay? Kid's been through more than we know."

With that, the two of you walked your way back to Luke's playroom and knocked on the door, creaking it open. Inside, Luke sat on his stool, the room left completely as it was.

With a frown, you and Emily crept over to him and squatted to his level. "Luke, I'm going to take you to my house for the next couple days, is that okay?" you asked, tucking the bulk of your hair behind your ear.

He nodded, slipped off his chair, and grabbed your hand.

"Luke, just for tonight, we need to go get some PJ's for you, okay?" you offered, glancing in your rearview at Luke, who was strapped in the middle seat of your car.

"It's okay, I can sleep in this," Luke mumbled, playing with his fingers and glancing out the window. He was talking about his massive grey Power Rangers shirt and his teeny brown cargo pants.

You winced and stared at the road again. "Nope, we're getting you some super fuzzy PJs. And hot cocoa."

"What's hot cocoa?" Luke asked.

You shrugged a shoulder and grinned in the mirror. "You'll have to wait and see, Luke."

Inside the store, you stood in the kid's section, ogling the quality of each fleece lined item. You surfed through nautica-inspired, dinosaur patterned, and hot-wheel styled pajamas, entirely lost on what Luke liked best.

"Luke, which design's your favorite?" you asked tentatively.

"It doesn't matter," Luke mumbled, not even bothering to look from where he sat in your shopping cart.

So you grabbed all of them. And a huge, sherpa blanket, and a set of socks and underwear, and then it dawned on you.

"Luke, we're getting you some new clothes, too."

Ignorant to his declines, you ransacked the whole department of hoodies, long enough pants, tees, and finally, a new pair of shoes. And then, you wheeled him to the checkout, paid, and left for home.

Maybe: Grayson: It's Grayson, I'm coming over.

You: Bring hot cocoa I forgot to buy some at the store.

Grayson: Okay. On my way!

Your house was oddly fit just for a kiddo. You'd know; you grew up in this house.

Your parents, after a few decades of living in a town as quaint as Long Valley, wanted a little more excitement and up-and-left to New York City once you dashed off to college. They used this house as a summer home, seeing as they'd paid it off, and spent their springs and falls and winters in the boisterous, cluttered metropolis of NYC. You'd only ever be willing to visit.

It wasn't that you hated the city, no, most certainly not. But it was loud. And cramped, yet so big. You loved the familiarity, the peacefulness, the home-ishness of your little Long Valley. So, after completing your masters, you headed back home and paid your parents what they'd take and redecorated your old childhood bedroom.

At the kitchen island, you sat with Luke, bowls of Kraft Mac n Cheese in hands, forks shoveling the noodles by the mouthfuls. It was alarming how fast Luke was eating his dish; he hardly left time for breathing.

"Luke, there's more in the pot, you don't need to-"

You cut yourself off when you realized he was not listening, just eating his meal anxiously, like you'd take it away at any second.

The doorbell rang throughout the building and you hopped off your seat and slipped into the foyer. Greeting Grayson, you said, "Hey, did you bring the hot-"

"Already got it," he said, waving a family-sized tub of the powder. "And some games. How's he doing?"

Glancing at the hallway that led to the kitchen, you shrugged. "Can't really tell. It seems like he doesn't know what's going on, so he's fine. I took him to the store, bought him some new clothes, got him some PJs. But I forgot about the hot cocoa I'd promised him, so thank you for bringing some," you finished, stealing the container from his hands.

"Well, that was nice of you..." Grayson mumbled behind you, following you out to the kitchen.

"What, you think I'm some heathen?" you smirked, eyeing him over your shoulder.

"Mhm, don't act like you weren't the one who put twenty boxes of Orbees in the school's swimming pool our senior year," he snickered, lifting a brow.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, a flame licking the back of your neck. "I can't believe you reme-"

"Hey Luke!" Grayson called, scooting past you and pressing his elbows against the kitchen island.

Luke was sitting there, staring at his empty bowl of mac n cheese in a melancholic state. "Hi Mr. Dolan," he said in that raspy, weak voice of his.

"Luke, you want more Mac n cheese? And some hot cocoa?" you prompted, grabbing the bucket of pasta. Without an answer, you scooped a helping into Luke's bowl and paraded to the refrigerator for some milk to heat. "Gray, you want some?"

Grayson looked your way with a funny grin and said, "Yeah, I can just eat it from the pan."

You shook your head and repressed a smile. "You are gross."

"Why!" Grayson defended, laughing. With a shrug, he said, "I'm saving you a plate, and I'll definitely eat the rest, anyway."

Once you had fixed everyone a mug of hot cocoa, you ushered the boys into the living room where Grayson excitedly dug out a hodgepodge of games, toys, and books. Spreading everything out on the rug, Grayson prompted, "Alright Luke, I was thinking I could teach you how to play Candy Land. Is that okay?"

Luke looked at you, and then at him, and then nodded.

"Cool. So basically Buddy, you get one of these little guys," Grayson said, gesturing to the colorful figures lying dormant in the container. "And you hop on the color of the card you draw, and we go back and forth, and we see who wins. Okay?" Luke nodded. "And there are traps. So, when you draw a card like- like this one," he explained, grabbing a piece with a lollipop on it, "then you get to move to the spot that has the lollipop on it. Which can be good, unless you're ahead of that spot, then you have to move back. It's really fun," he gushed, folding his legs crisscrossed. "I think you'll like it. What'd'ya say?"

Luke looked at the board, studied it hard, and then nodded his head. "Okay."

Gleefully, Grayson shuffled the deck of cards and plucked two characters from the cardboard box and you realized, almost instantly, why he became a kindergarten teacher. He was a kid at heart.

"(Y/N), are you playing?"

You thought about all the things you had to do, all the paperwork you had to fill, all the phone calls you'd have to make for tomorrow, and said, "Yes."

Grayson smiled at you eagerly. "Perfect, three makes it way more competitive anyway. The more the merrier, you know?" he said, reaching for his mug of hot cocoa.

You looked over at Luke's mug and realized he hadn't drunk a drop of his treat. "Luke, you can have some of your hot cocoa if you haven't yet," you smiled, edging his cup towards him.

He looked at you long and hard, his eyes blown wide, and glanced between you in the drink. And then he looked at Grayson, almost for permission, and lifted his skinny arms and grabbed the mug with both hands. He lifted it to his mouth, oh-so-cautiously, and took a tiny sip.

And then he smiled, grinned comfortably.

"This stuff is- this stuff is really good," he said, setting it back. "Thank you."

You looked at Grayson with confusion and said, "Luke, you can have the whole cup if you want."

"I can?"

"Yeah," Grayson smiled, rubbing a hand down Luke's back. "Drink up, Bud."

And Luke did. And you three played Candy Land for hours, Grayson and you both being far too competitive and Luke hanging on for the ride. You won once, Grayson won twice, and Luke won at least five times. Luke's smile just kept growing.

"Alright Luke, I think it's bedtime for you," you said after a bit of celebratory hot cocoa.

"Want some help getting into your PJs, bud?" Grayson offered. Luke shrugged a lame shoulder, his eyes flickering between the two of you.

"Hey, give me some skin," you giggled, bending at the knee and raising your hand for a high-five from Luke. Tentatively, he lifted his hand to yours, smacking it feather light. "You killed it in Candy Land today."

"Sure did," Grayson laughed. "We'll play again soon. C'mon Luke."

And off they went, into your guest bedroom.

You crept back into the kitchen and grabbed your binder full of documents and splayed them all out on the table, organizing them into piles. You loved this job. You realized it when Luke's big wide eyes lit up at the sight of a Licorice Lagoon card and his character clobbered all the way across the board and he just looked happy. Happy like you'd never seen him. And that made all of this heartbreak a little less awful.

You were ruffling through your binder for names of available foster carers with your pen wiggling between your teeth when Grayson tiptoed into the kitchen. "Hey, how was-"

Your voice fell silent when you looked up to find Grayson crying, feeble with his arms tucked tightly around himself.

"Gray, what happened?" you asked hesitantly, twisting your body and giving him your full attention.

He whimpered pitifully and glided over to you, clearly shameless when it came to crying. He laid his forearms on the kitchen island and looked at you through his soaked eyelashes and screwed his eyebrows together and said, "I don't think I can forget that."

You reached out and carefully laid a palm on his arm. "Forget what?"

Grayson wheezed a deep breath and shielded his face with a hand. He mumbled, "There's a reason he wears that giant shirt every day." Grayson wiped the tears from his cheeks and said, "It was like I wasn't even taking off a shirt. It's like, an outline of the shirt, made of bruises. Tan lines, but instead of pale skin it's just green, and blue, and purple."

Unconsciously, you dug your fingernails into the firm flesh of his arm and clenched your jaw, willed yourself from tears.

"And that's no exaggeration. I don't think there was a spot untouched on his skinny, skinny body. His whole torso is just-" Whine. "Covered. I thought I was going to be sick. And he turned around, and his back was no different. It was like this- this fucking monster he calls 'mom' knew exactly how to hide it. Give him a t-shirt big enough, and it'll cover all the marks. God fucking damn it," he sobbed, his voice thick with emotion.

You pinched at his skin, nails deep enough to really hurt, and lowered your head and cried. Let the tears fall with the realization that no number of board games and no amount of hot cocoa could make up for his trauma, physically, mentally, or emotionally. Luke McIver was a punching bag and a kicking post.

You sat there with Grayson and cried quietly. You prayed Luke couldn't hear you; he deserved all the sympathy in the world, but he looked up to Grayson, and you hoped he didn't give up on himself with how sad his circumstances were.

Grayson walked around the island and engulfed you in a hug. You'd hardly registered how strange this might be, hugging a guy you'd barely known since you needed one so bad. You can't just watch these things and shut everyone out. You would start to see that kind of darkness in everyone.

"I'm sorry," Grayson said, his jaw working against your shoulder. "But I really needed a hug."

"It's okay," you said, your head bowed into the crook of his neck. "I really needed one too."

"Can I stop by tomorrow?" Grayson asked.

Yes, he could.

Tomorrow meant Friday, and Friday meant school. You didn't have a whole lot of direction when it came to getting kids off to school, but you figured you would do what you typically did; had him hop in the shower, laid out his clean clothes, and fixed him a bowl of cereal. After a few minutes of thought, you packed him a lunch, just in case his lunch account had frozen along with the rest of his mom's assets.

"Luke, are you okay with a turkey sandwich? Or do you want salami?" you shouted into the refrigerator, raiding the drawers for your lunch meat.

After a few moments without a response, you called out, "Luke?"

Panicky, you pulled yourself out of the refrigerator and hurried off to check on him in the guest room. Inside, he stood sopping wet, dripping on your carpet with a towel wrapped around his shoulders. Upon your arrival, he twisted to look at you. "Where are my clothes?" he whispered, looking around the room.

You pointed to the pile stacked on a chair near the bed. "Right over there, Silly," you giggled.

"No, my clothes," he said.

"The grey shirt and the brown pants?" you asked.

He nodded.

"Do you wanna wear those instead? I thought you'd like to wear something warmer, I have a hoodie and some cozy sweatpants on that chair cause it's going to be pretty chilly today," you elaborated, beginning to stress. It was far too cold to wear that Power Rangers shirt and that Power Rangers shirt alone, and you hadn't bought Luke a jacket. You made a mental note to do so.

"But those aren't mine," he said.

"Yes they are, I bought them for you."

"All of those?" he gasped, his eyes bugging at the outfit. And that was just sad.

"All of those, and a few others, too. Now, come on! We gotta get going to school, do you want some help getting into your clothes?" you offered, walking over to the chair and grabbing the stack.

Luke shook his head and you gave him the pieces, leaving the room and fixing his turkey sandwich. By the time you'd packed everything, Luke was waiting silently with his backpack taut on his shoulders. The hoodie was a bit big, but Luke was tiny for his age. The sweatpants looked about right, and the shoes seemed to fit okay. He hardly looked the same in different clothes.

"Ready?" you asked.

Luke was.

As your lunch break neared, your foot began pedaling faster in place. You worried about Luke on his first day back: did he miss his mom? Did his clothes really fit? Did he even like turkey sandwiches? After a plethora of anxiety-ridden questions, you hopped from your seat and dashed off to Grayson's classroom.

You knocked on the door softly and waited with a bitten lip. Grayson creaked open the door and you found that the classroom was, in fact, empty, excluding the six-foot tall man hovering in the doorway. "Oh," was all you said. "I thought maybe Luke was here."

Grayson grinned toothily and said, "No, they just went off to lunch and recess, but I'm glad you stopped by."

He opened the door and ushered you in, shutting it and following you inside. "Ramen?" you asked, scrunching your nose as you noticed the cup of noodles sitting next to his school-issued desktop. "How can you eat that after college?"

He smirked and grabbed it, loading a forkful of the stringy, golden noodles into his mouth. "Never get sick of it," he said through bites.

"Charming," you laughed, rolling your eyes. "How's he doing today?"

He munched for a second before nodding, setting the cup of noodles down and sitting on one of the very tiny desks with his legs stretched out comfortably in front of him. "Good. Great, even."

"That's good!" you exclaimed, smiling big.

"It is good," he agreed. "He even talked to a few classmates, which is new for him. They said they liked his shoes."

You weren't sure whether you were devastated that Luke hadn't any friends or ecstatic that he was trying, and that the other kids liked his shoes. That was a personal achievement. "I've been told I'm a fashionista," you drawled, flicking your hair over your shoulder.

"I can tell. You're always wearing those pretty skirts of yours," Grayson smirked, cocking a brow.

Butterflies burst in your stomach and you prayed a blush didn't stain your cheeks. But, judging by Grayson's obvious smugness, you looked just as bashful as you felt.

"Thank you. Um..." you squeaked, not knowing what else to say.

Grayson chuckled at your discomfort and looked out the window. "It was really nice of you to buy him all those clothes. It's too cold to be wearing those- those rags he was wearing before."

You nodded, following his gaze to the gray, gray sky that was brewing something awful outside. "I didn't think he'd fit in one of my sweatshirts," you joked.

Grayson looked at you and grinned kindly. "I don't think he'd look half as good, either."

Your face broke out in a smile and you said, "Okay, stop, you're doing this on purpose," with a laugh.

"Oh definitely, you're cute when you blush," he pushed, enjoying the upper hand far more than he should.

You stared down at the floor and begged the warmth in your cheeks to subside before saying, "You always were a flirt in high school."

Gobsmacked, Grayson gasped. "Me?" he asked incredulously. "No, you're thinking of Ethan, my twin idiot."

You shook your head. "I don't think so, you had everyone at your beck and call..." you trailed off, giving him a lopsided smile.

"Again, Ethan."

"No, it was you, I know that for certain. Grayson Dolan: Long Valley's Golden Boy," you teased, your hands dancing in the air. "Everybody loved you."

Grayson scratched back of his neck and shrugged his shoulders, flattened out his tie. "Yeah, maybe, but I've closed the yearbook. Now I'm just a kindergarten teacher; don't think that makes me too popular," he chuckled, clamping his hands in his lap and grinning up at you.

"You're definitely popular with the kids--if it weren't for you, I wouldn't have a little kid sleeping at my house tonight," you said.

"That's way better than homecoming king," Grayson smiled, all warmth and honey. "Knowing I saved a kid from some garbage parent like his."

You nodded thoughtfully, staring back at him. In an effort to preserve the lighthearted mood floating through the air, you joked, "Can't be better than scoring the game-winning touchdown against Rocori though, right?"

Grayson's head fell back with a laugh and he shook his head. "Nothing could be better than that. Should've seen their head coach's face when I caught that ball," he smiled with his teeth full in display.

"I guessed so," you giggled back.

"So what, did you keep tabs on me in high school or something? That's a pretty particular thing to remember, Ms. (Y/L/N)," he smirked, running a hand through his fluffy mane.

Though you were painted in pink, you rolled along. "I already said everybody loved you, Grayson."

The door busted open, dozens of kids flowing through its tiny entrance, clambering about with their squeaky shoes and their uncoordinated legs. "Does everybody include you?" Grayson asked over the roar of the children.

You shrugged a shoulder and grinned with mischief. "Mind if I stay for a bit? I still have half an hour of my lunch and I kinda wanna see Luke in his natural habitat."

"Be my guest," Grayson smiled.

Luke ambled in last, a little pep in his step and a boy jabbering off his ear. Grayson looked as surprised as you.

"Everyone get in your seats, please," he instructed, working his way over to his desk. Glaring playfully at you, he said, "I didn't even get to eat my ramen."

"A shame."

Dropping his styrofoam cup in the garbage, he dusted off his hands and hurried to the front, rolling his dress shirt's sleeves up to his elbows. Without much to do, you slinked your way to the play area and seated yourself in a comically small chair, one clearly fit for a five-year-old.

"Alright everyone, could you please grab a pencil from the center of your desk? We're going to learn about shapes," Grayson announced, his eyes drifting around the room.

Your eyes flickered to Luke who in return was staring at you with his big doe eyes. Nervously, you waved a hand, worried of boundaries once more, and felt a certain sense of pride when Luke waved back to you.

"So guys, let's practice. Can anyone tell me what this is?" Grayson asked, gesturing to the giant triangle fixed on the smart board in the front.

Nearly all the kids' hands shot up, excluding Luke's. There he sat, towards the back, with his hands tucked in his lap.

"Kyra?" Grayson called.

"A triangle!" she cheered, dazzle in her eye.

"Very good, Kyra," Grayson smiled, tapping the board and switching the shape. "And this one?"

Again, Luke sat statuary.

"Tyler?"

"A square!"

You couldn't help but frown as you stared at Luke, lonesome and quiet with his big brown eyes staring blankly at the screen.

"And this last one? Luke?" Grayson asked, eyes weaving through the sea of hands to find Luke.

Luke sat quietly, his chest rising and falling quickly. After a few seconds, all of the students twisted in their seat to stare at him with beady, pressuring eyes. Almost reflexively, Luke spun and looked to you for help. 'Circle,' you mouthed, breathing out the word inaudibly.

"C-C-Circle," Luke spat, grabbing the sides of his desk.

All of the kids turned forward once more and waited for Mr. Dolan's confirmation. "Awesome job, Luke," he said with the proudest of smiles. "Now I have a worksheet for you all and I want you guys to bring it back to class on Monday after this weekend, signed by your parent."

Luke again strained his chin over his shoulder and you nodded back, assuring him you'd sign it, or help it, or just be there.

Your Fridays were typically reserved for wine night at your friend Carina's house, but you had no such plans with a five-year-old sitting on your couch. So, you were a little lost on what to do.

"Luke, do you want a snack? I'm not sure what we have in the cupboards, but..." you trailed off, bounding into the kitchen.

You had no use for pudding cups or fruit snacks up until this point, and to your knowledge, all you had was a ginormous can of hot cocoa. You scoured the pantry and found some surely stale Reese's Puffs and prayed he didn't notice once you doused them in milk.

Luke eyed the bowl skeptically, glancing between you and it before eventually scooping the cereal into his mouth. After that, it was a race to drain the bowl, and he was slurping away at the milk. You hardly cared about manners.

Grayson: Can I come over?

Instantly giddy at the idea of Grayson being in any close proximity, you texted him and assured him that would be fine. Luke was still tongue-tied, and you assumed it'd be that way for a long time. Perhaps he'd never grow out of his shyness, and that would have to be okay with you.

Looking at the little boy sitting on your couch, chomping on a spoonful of cereal like it could be his last meal, your heart broke. There was so much you didn't know about him, so much you didn't know about what he went through. You doubted anyone would ever know the full truth besides him and his 'mom.' Just thinking of her in a maternal sense made your tummy lurch sideways; she should have never even considered kids.

But, in some twisted light, you were so glad she did. You'd take a bullet for this little guy on your couch. And you didn't even know how that happened so quickly.

Grayson's knuckles rapped against your front door and you jumped from your spot on the couch beside Luke to allow him in, but by the time you'd gotten there, Grayson was already standing in your foyer in a pair of joggers and a hoodie. It was somewhat strange seeing him out of his office clothes. Frowning, you said, "How did you get-"

"You should really keep this door locked all the time," Grayson said sternly, abandoning his shoes on your welcome mat. "For your safety, and for Luke's."

You rushed over and locked the door behind him, feeling a little naive. "Luke's upstairs, I was going to start on that worksheet you gave everyone today but now that you're here, you can do all the hard work," you grinned.

He rolled his eyes playfully and elbowed your side. "I work all day with little kids and I come back to your place to slave away?"

"Exactly," you laughed. "besides, bold of you to assume I know my shapes."

Grayson chuckled and swept past you, hurrying over to Luke. You heard them greet one another, Grayson's excitable baby voice echoing throughout your house. Content with their situation, you whisked away to your room to raid your closet for something more comfortable. Then, you returned to your kitchen and began searching in your big stack of files for names in the system that would qualify to give Luke the home he needed.

G. Hammend... R. Harick... I. Helpin... Your finger followed down the column, each name seeming drearier and more hopeless.

"Mr. Dolan?" you heard from the other room.

"Yeah, kiddo?"

"Is (Y/N) your girlfriend?" Luke asked.

Grayson promptly began coughing uncontrollably, hacking and wheezing, and a chill ran up your spine, heat baked the back of your neck. No, you weren't Grayson's girlfriend and his flirting was harmless, but you were curious to know what he'd say, so you leaned in closely and listening keenly to Grayson's next words. "Uh, um, uh Luke it's- it's more complicated than that," Grayson spoke, his voice raspy and cracking.

"How?"

Yeah, how?

"Well, um, I- I don't know how to explain that, Luke."

"Why?"

A giggle escaped past your lips at Luke's determination and Grayson's obvious struggle. "I- I, um,-"

Grayson's stuttering was cut short by a soft rumble overhead followed almost immediately by a burst of lightning. You frowned and glanced at the window, fully aware of the forecast but hopeful that it would blow over. From the looks of the blackened sky, it wouldn't be disappearing anytime soon. Soft pellets of water began showering your room and it's thin shingles, heavy enough to pierce through the silent air. And again, another bit of thunder rolled in.

"(Y/N)?" Grayson called. "You okay?"

As if you'd be in any harm in your own home during a thunderstorm. "Yeah Gray, I'm good. Are you okay?"

There was silence and then a shuffling of footsteps. Then Grayson walked up behind you and said, "We have a problem."

You wheeled around in your chair and furrowed your brows. "What?"

"Luke's afraid of thunderstorms," he whispered, avoiding your eyes.

You slid off your seat and padded into the living room to find Luke tucked in the cushions of your couch, tears streaming soundlessly from his big doe eyes. Your heart wrenched beneath your ribcage and you hurried over, sliding into the spot beside him and grabbing his hands that were shaking in his lap. "Hey Lukey, you doing okay?"

Luke nodded robotically, his nose bouncing and the tears rushing down his face.

"Luke, how can I help?" you asked, stroking the side of his head.

His body went rigid and he shook your hands off him, scooting a few inches away. You felt rejected.

"Hey Bud, do you wanna keep going with our math? Get your mind away from all this noise?" Grayson offered, lifting up his worksheet.

Luke shook his head, tucking in on himself and wrapping his own frail arms around his own frail legs.

"We could maybe watch some TV?" you proposed, cocking your head towards the flatscreen. It seemed like Luke's ears might have perked up at this. He stared at you silently with his big brown eyes and asked for permission, even though you'd just offered. "Yeah, we can watch some TV," you said. "Do you like cartoons?"

Luke just stared, but you got the message. You'd learned his mannerisms over the past twenty-four hours. Flicking on the television, you surfed through the channels in search of a good cartoon before landing on Scooby-Doo.

"Have you ever seen this show?" Grayson asked, nudging Luke.

He shook his head, and you three fell in silence, watching the show chase across the screen.

Lost in thought, you began to wonder if this would be the case for every kid, or just Luke. Would you always take the kids in for 72 hours? Or was Luke just special for you? How often would this happen? Was Grayson always good with the little kids? Could he be a reliable source if you couldn't get them to budge?

Probably not, you decided. You felt incompetent and useless and downright stupid caving and fleeing to Grayson for aid. Not that you regretted it.

Would Grayson ever talk to you after this? Was this just for Luke, or was there some friendship between you two? Or maybe something more?

Probably not, you decided again. Sneaking a glance at him, engrossed in the show, you decided, definitely not. He might not be Long Valley's golden boy any longer, but he was still far, far out of your league.

"It's definitely the bank teller," Grayson said with complete certainty. "He's hijacking his own bank so he can take all the money but remain seemingly innocent."

You stifled a giggle and eyed him incredulously. "For sure, Gray."

"It is!" he whined, pointing at the screen excitedly. "You just wait and see."

"Luke, who do you think it is?" you asked, bumping him with your elbow.

Luke looked between the two of you and then said, so quietly, "Whatever Grayson said."

As the night dragged on, so did the storm. Eventually, the power surged out and left the three of you sheathed in blankets, surrounded by candles, and playing Candy Land in the dim glow. Conversation was limited and gentle; Luke was exceptionally scared, though he was too nervous to voice his concerns. So, he just sided up next to Grayson and shielded himself under Gray's big, long arm.

"Grayson, there's no way you're driving home in this weather. You can't," you said with finality, craning your neck to sneak a glance at the buckets of water blurring the sky.

Grayson nodded in agreement, moving his figurine several spaces forward. "Yeah, I don't think so either. Can I sleep on the couch?"

After a moment of thought, you nodded and hopped from your spot under a mound of blankets to fetch him a few pillows. Glancing at the clock, you noticed it was nearing the bedtime you'd given Luke, so you waddled on down to the living room to deliver the mournful news. "Lukey, it's time for bed."

It seemed Luke was unordinary in every sense because he didn't fight you on it. He simply unwrapped Grayson's arm from around his shoulders and glided past you to the guest room.

"He's a quiet one," Grayson noted, tugging his blankets tight on his body.

"Yeah," you agreed quietly, staring down the hallway Luke had slipped through. "I don't know if that'll go away or not."

"I'm going to go read him a bedtime story," Grayson said, his voice gentle and kind.

As he trailed after Luke, Where the Wild Things Are in hand, you decided that maybe everything about Grayson was gentle and kind. You saw it in the way he talked to children, the way he never raised his voice, the way he laid a hand on any person he talked to, his palm huge and warm and soft, just for reassurance. Grayson was a gentle giant with his intimidating stature and his ginormous muscles; he'd never hurt a fly.

You listened to Grayson's voice float through the air, speaking of monsters and trolls tucked in the thickets of trees, and felt a flutter in your chest.

At last, you heard Grayson mumble his goodnights and the creak of footsteps on your hardwood. He hobbled his way to the couch, plopped down, and patted this seat beside him. Sheepishly, you tiptoed over and flopped into the space next to him, your blanket tightly secured around your figure. After a few beats of silence, of you two just staring at each other, you said, "I don't know who is worthy of taking in that boy."

Grayson shook his head, his lips pursing for a moment. "I don't think anyone is. Well, anyone besides you."

You stared down at the cushions with their plain brown fabric, scrunching your brows together. "I don't think I'm very good at this, actually." He snorted about you and you shot him a glare. "I'm serious."

"Maybe, but you're wrong," he argued loftily. "I don't think that kid has ever felt so much love in his life."

You shrugged a limp, lame shoulder. "Probably not, but that's just because any love is better than none. I just don't think I'm handling this well. I'm not sure he really likes me."

Grayson smiled crookedly and cocked his head to the side. "I think he likes you. You guys can talk without even speaking," he noted.

A smile worked its way onto your lips. "Yeah, there's that. But... I'm not trying to take it personally, the kid's been through way more than we know. But I just wish he liked me. It feels like he just tolerates me," you breathed, scratching at your arm.

"Well, he agreed with me that you're pretty, so there's that," Grayson smirked, watching you duck your head in embarrassment.

"Well that's nice of you two..." you muttered, tugging your sherpa around you tighter.

"No, it's just a fact. You're pretty, (Y/N)."

Suddenly, your blanket was entirely unnecessary, because your body was overheating with this romantic attention from Grayson Dolan himself. His eyes burned your skin and his body, a few inches away from you, was like a furnace. "You're pretty, too."

It came out croaky and strangled, but you meant it. You had eyes, after all.

Grayson chuckled, his dimples full in display. "Thank you," he whispered.

Then, you were sharing an awkward beat where he was looking at you and you were staring at the ground with complete determination. And then, you were hopping from your spot and hurrying into the kitchen to grab your binder, ignorant to Grayson's laughter.

"You need to help me find someone worthy of fostering this kid," you breathed, discarding the blanket altogether.

And so the two of you sat there well into the night, flicking page after page, name after name, hopeful to find a soul kind enough for a soul as vulnerable as Luke's.

It had to still be night when you awoke, startled, to the shadow of a boy standing in your doorway. You'd seen enough horror films to know that this meant imminent death, but after rubbing your eyes once, twice, you noticed it was just Luke.

"Hey buddy?" you called out, folding yourself upright. "What's up?"

Luke was holding the blanket you'd purchased for him a few days ago in his tiny hands, his knuckles white. "The storm," was all he whispered.

The storm. The wind was whooshing and swirling in every which way, tossing branches into each other and smattering rain against your rooftop. How do you fix that? You couldn't just ring up Mother Nature and tell her to calm down.

"Um," you mumbled, glancing around the room. "Do you- do you want to sleep in here?" you offered, patting the spot beside you. Luke stood and waited for about a minute before slowly creeping toward the empty half of the bed, hoisting himself up on it and peeling back the covers. He turned his back to you, crumpled his knees into his chest, and lied there silently. You had half a brain to screen him with his blanket and tuck it around his small, small body, and then the two of you went to sleep.

Slow like a sloth, you opened your eyes and blinked slowly, lazily, letting them adjust to the sunlight pouring through the windowpanes of your bedroom. You'd hardly registered that your jaw was tucked on top of a little boy's head, or that your arm was secured around his tiny frame. He fit perfectly in the cave of your belly, the two of you just a large ball in the middle of your bed, blankets and all.

You lifted your head to see Grayson standing in your doorway, his shoulder pressed against the door frame easily, a smile on his lips. "Morning."

Grayson Dolan standing in your doorway when you first wake up. Now that was a concept high-school-you would have snorted at.

"Morning," you whispered, careful not to wake up Luke. "What time is it?"

"Almost eleven. I was thinking we could all go and get breakfast at the Gingerbread Café," Grayson offered, still gazing warmly at the nest in your bed.

"God, that sounds amazing. Okay, let me get dressed and-"

"No! You have to go in your PJs! That's like, law," Grayson argued instantly.

You glanced down at yourself in your reindeer, well-worn pajamas and shrugged. There was no use arguing; you'd never get out of those pajamas unless absolutely mandatory.

You nodded and unraveled yourself from Luke, shook his shoulder gently, and then zipped out of your home, into the Gingerbread Café and played the best game of iSpy over bacon and eggs.

Again that afternoon, you sat on your coach, rifling through sheet after sheet of names of foster carers.

"I don't even recognize one of these names," you whined, flipping a page.

"Me neither," Grayson agreed.

Luke was tucked in the corner of the living room, legos crowding the floor in a clutter. He'd actually been playing with them, to both Grayson's and your astonishment.

"And you don't have any like, social worker friends? Nobody that you know?" Grayson asked, lifting a brow.

"No, I'm brand new to this, Grayson," you defended. "Literally the only person I've met in this town that knows anything about social work is Nancy Hoff-" You dropped the book of files you were holding, your blood surging through you. "Nancy Hoffmann! Oh my god, how could I forget Nancy! Oh my god, oh my god," you squealed, jumping to your feet.

"Nancy Hoffmann does social work? No way," Grayson gasped.

"Yes! Yes, she said she's in the system, go look, please, please, go look!"

"N. Hoffmann, right under I. Helpin," Grayson grinned, gazing up at you with hope, hope, hope in his eyes. "Are you going to call her?"

"Yes," you stated, digging out your phone and beelining for your room. "I'm going to call her right now."

And you did. And Nancy was so excited to take care of a little one, especially a little one like little Luke McIver, that she started to weep. And you started to cry. You could have flooded the whole room with your tears. And you absolutely hoped and prayed Luke's life would look up.

Later that Saturday night, once Luke was in bed and you and Grayson sat tight on your couch watching reruns of vintage Scooby-Doo episodes (and trying desperately to guess who the villain was each time), Grayson turned to you and asked, "Wanna get ice cream sometime?"

His words alone sent a chill down your spine, cold and then hot, warmth sticking to the back of your neck. "No," you blurted.

And you could see the hurt flinch on his face, the emotions vivid in color on his sleeve. But there was a problem.

"I feel- I feel like it would look... unprofessional, right now, to date a coworker, especially after I royally fucked up with this whole Luke thing. Call it a Fluke," you giggled nervously, biting your lip. "I- Grayson, you know I would love to, you can probably tell how nervous you make me, but this seems just... It just seems unprofessional, especially when I still have Luke in my custody."

Grayson's eyes softened. "Well, what about when Luke's out of your custody? Can we get ice cream then?"

Your hands twitched nervously in your lap. "I... we would still be coworkers, Grayson," you whispered, holding onto your willpower by a thread.

He inched forward, invading your space in a way that left you gulping.

"We would, wouldn't we? We'd be coworkers just like half of the teachers in this school that are married to other teachers," he murmured, inches from your face.

His body heat radiated onto yours and you worried for a moment that you'd melt right into that sofa. "You think about it," he finalized, smirking and rising from his seat. "Or, sleep on it. I'm heading home."

He thundered into the foyer and slipped on his shoes and glanced back at you, who was hiding behind the hallway's bend. He grinned, shucked on his hoodie, and headed outside.

Were you just going to let this go?

Certainly not.

You dashed out behind him, waving your arms in the headlights of his car manically, acting like a real loon. You skipped over to his car and waited for him to roll down his window, itching to just spit it out. "I don't have to think, I'd love to get ice cream with you, coworkers be damned."

"I was hoping you'd say that," he chuckled, grinning up at you. "I'll see you tomorrow to introduce Nancy and Steve to Luke. Sleep tight, (Y/N)."

You awoke again with Luke cradled under your arm and a knocking at your door. Grayson was undoubtedly up at the crack of dawn every day, which would explain why he was pounding on your door at eight in the morning. Both groaning, you and Luke rolled out from under the covers and padded lazily through the halls, separating at the living room where Luke crawled into the nest of blankets jumbled on the couch as you traveled to the entryway to let Grayson in.

"Hey," he announced when you dragged open the door. Glaring at him, you wordlessly spun on your heel and shuffled into the living room. "Don't tell me you're mad because I woke you up," he laughed, on your heels.

You opened your mouth to protest when Luke said, "Yes."

You and Grayson exchanged a look before bursting into laughter. "Luke has spoken, and I agree. Yes, Grayson."

You hobbled over to Luke and curled up next to him on the sofa, stranding Grayson alone to stand and watch.

"What time are we all heading over to Nancy and Steve's?" Grayson mumbled to you, eyeing Luke cautiously.

You sucked in a breath and decided that this was a good time to introduce the idea to Luke. "Lukey," you announced. "we think we found you a good home for a little bit, okay? Would it be okay if we met with them later?"

Luke looked at you uncertainly and said, "No more sleeping with you?"

Your heart dropped into your stomach with the reality that Luke may have gotten too attached--that you may have gotten too attached. "No more sleeping with me," you mumbled, your lower lip jutting out reflexively. "I- but Luke, I'll still visit all the time, promise. And we'll still have our weekly counseling sessions, and-"

"Will Mr. Dolan still visit?" Luke asked, staring at you, his eyes flickering momentarily to Grayson.

"I..." you trailed off, unwilling to make that promise.

"You know it, Kid," Grayson said, squatting to Luke's height. "I'll be over with Candy Land all the time."

"So what do you say?" you asked, grabbing for Luke's hand.

Luke squeezed back and said, "Yes."

And so you went to Nancy's.

The Hoffmann's yanked open the door before you could even knock, dressed in their best formal gear, and you glanced down at your jeans and hoodie and winced. This was why you weren't very good at this stuff. "Welcome!" they cheered, ushering the three of you inside. Nancy gave you a sidelong look as Grayson filed in behind you, a glint in her eye.

Luke was holding onto your hand tight, tight, tight, and you bent down and picked him right up, setting him on your hip. "Luke, this is Mr. and Mrs. Hoffmann," you introduced, pointing to each of them respectively. "Mr. and Mrs. Hoffmann, this is Luke McIver." Luke clung to your sweatshirt's fabric, fisted the material and pulled himself closer. "Don't be shy Luke, say hi," you said.

They waved brightly, big smiles on their faces and Luke waved back.

"Everybody can come to the living room, we have fruit snacks and pudding cups," Nancy said.

You knew they'd be better than you already.

On Monday, the five of you (Luke, Grayson, Nancy, Steve, and you), caravanned to the Gingerbread Café with a court document in your briefcase with plans to head over to court after, skipping school entirely, much to Luke's (and your) excitement. Once you arrived at the courthouse, you met with Luke's assigned social worker, Emily, the judge, and that was it.

Standing in the echoey area, the judge asked, "Are all parties present?"

Glancing around at the tiny, tiny group, you giggled. "Uh yes, Your Honor," you said with complete seriousness.

"Who is the legal guardian in question?" she asked, scanning over her document. "Is Alexa McIver here?"

You bit on your lip and said, "No, Your Honor, she's currently in custody."

"Alright," she nodded. "Who is the present carer, and the preferred foster carers?"

"Um, I'm the current carer and Steve and Nancy Hoffmann are the foster carers," you said, pointing to the couple standing beside you. They waved giddily, hardly pressured by the legalities.

"Okay," the judge said, a lack of formality in her tone. "Let's get this show on the road."

The judge handed over a packet, 'In the matter of the welfare of Lucas McIver: CHIPS/EPC' titling the top. Beneath it was what seemed like hundreds of documents, all waiting for their own special signature from their own special foster parents, Nancy and Steve Hoffmann.

And after half an hour of "sign here"s and "initial here"s, the judge turned to Nancy and Steve and said, "By the law of Long Valley, I formally grant Steve and Nancy Hoffmann full foster care custody of Lucas Christopher McIver. Court, dismissed."

And you turned to Nancy and found her with tears in her eyes and you turned to Luke and found him with one big, toothy grin.

"Time for ice cream, everybody!" Nancy squealed, throwing her arms around you tightly.

You shared a smirk with Grayson and said, "Definitely."

"(Y/N)," Luke said, tugging on your pants.

"Yeah Luke?" you said, ducking to his level.

Luke leaned in close and cupped his hand around your ear. "My favorite color is yellow."

You sat at Moo's with a cone of cookie dough ice cream in hand, chatting with livelihood with the group. It was, by definition, perfect. Grayson kept sneaking glances at you, looking away when you caught him, dimples dotting his cheeks. Nancy and Steve demanded--and more miraculously, received--a full autobiography from Luke himself, as shy as he was. What his favorite class was (which, to Grayson's dismay, was not any of his, but instead gym class), what his favorite animal was, and so on.

Luke offered you a taste of his delicious cookies 'n' cream ice cream (in exchange for a lick of your own, of course) and grabbed for your hand a few times. It was bittersweet to have him be so affectionate right as you were about to let him go.

When five o'clock rolled around, the Hoffmanns said, "Staying true to our legal work, we are removing Mr. McIver from your custody," with all formality and then some.

Giggling, you nodded. "Take 'im away, coppers."

Luke turned to you and wrapped his arms tight around your neck and you kissed his cheek and willed yourself not to cry. This was so, so good for him.

"Do you guys need a ride home?" Steve offered, seeing as you all banded together to get to court and Moo's.

You opened your mouth to graciously accept when Grayson said, "Nah, we can walk."

Looking at him excitedly, you clamped your mouth shut and nodded, a ditzy grin on your mouth.

"Right," Nancy chuckled. "Well, we'll be on our way then, bye everyone!"

"Goodbye Luke, see you tomorrow!" you cheered, waving him away.

Watching the car zip out of the parking lot, you sat beside Grayson, your senses heightened with anxiety. "And then there were two..." Grayson joked, leaning back in his seat. "Ready for our date?"

You turned to him and shook your head, gleeful and nervous. "Yeah, I could use another cone," you giggled. "Even if it's freezing out and we have to walk home now."

"I'll keep you warm," he smiled, propping his chin on his fist.

You were sure the butterflies bursting in your stomach or the blush staining your cheeks was more than enough to keep you steaming hot.

As you walked down the pavement, slow as snails, Grayson tangled your fingers together. It was adrenaline inducing, holding hands with Grayson Dolan. You had your third helping of ice cream in your hands, licking stripes of it and scuffing your shoes down the sidewalk.

"What is that?" you asked, pointing to the cone in Grayson's hand.

"I don't know, actually," he shrugged, swiping his tongue across the treat. "I couldn't read some of the names so I just pointed to whatever looked promising."

"What do you mean, you couldn't read the names?" you giggled, your brows furrowing. "They're right on the glass."

Grayson nodded, fully aware of that. "I know, but I have dyslexia, I can hardly read at all," he snorted.

"You have dyslexia? I didn't know that," you said, licking a long dribble of ice cream.

"Yeah, why else do you think I teach kindergarten? I'm constantly relearning the alphabet," he joked, snorting and smiling to himself.

You giggled and said, "Well, I don't know, maybe just to make vulnerable elementary counselor's swoon," taking a jab at flirting smoothly.

He looked at you with a blush and a grin. Silence fell over, but not the uncomfortable kind. You could walk sidewalks as the sun set and eat ice cream for the rest of your life with Grayson. The thought alone stirred the frenzy of butterflies in your belly.

"You know, I always thought you were gorgeous in high school," Grayson murmured, his eyes avoiding yours.

"Oh, shut up, no you didn't," you groaned, smacking him with your shared fist.

"No really, I did! And you went to prom with Alec Jenson and I was so mad," he moaned, throwing his head back for dramatics. "I beat myself up over it for like, a month."

You shook your head, gazing far off in the other direction. "You're a terrible liar."

But Grayson wasn't lying, and he made sure you knew it. He halted in place, tugging you back to him. "I'm not lying, I'd be an idiot not notice someone like you," he breathed. "And I definitely know that now."

You bit down on your lip to contain an enormous grin, one the size of the sun glowing in the distance, and looked into Grayson's soft honey eyes. Time slowed down, the world dimmed around Grayson, and all those other cliches. And then, he was dipping in close and kissing you with sugar-sticky lips and soft and gentle, just as you'd imagined. Absent-mindedly, you went to weave your arms around his neck and then realized you had dropped your ice cream in order to do so.

"I-" you panicked, eyes wide and glancing down at the ground. Grayson's shoes were splattered with your cookie dough ice cream, wet and sticky. "Oh my god, I'm so-"

A boom of laughter sounded from Grayson and he shook his head. "They're already messy. Now get back up here, I'm not done kissing you."

You were more than happy to oblige.

A year and change later, you tapped your foot outside of the Hoffmann's home, Grayson by your side with party hats adorning the crowns of your heads. You had a cake in your hands and Grayson held four gifts, each stacked wonkily on each other. "Think they went out for his birthday?" Grayson asked, his breath fogging in the chilly December air.

"No, they told me they'd be here! God, it's fucking fr-"

"Hey!" Nancy greeted, pulling open the door. "Sorry, the oven was going off and Steven couldn't find the-"

"It's okay, don't worry," you giggled, stepping inside the home. "It wasn't too cold." Grayson leaned over and pinched your side, confronting your lie. "Where's Lukey?" you asked, your head moving about to look for him.

"He's in the living room surrounded by presents. Steve and I went kind of overboard," she chuckled.

You wandered into the living room after setting the cake down on the kitchen table, eager to spend some time with your favorite little boy and even more excited to give him his gifts. Grayson and you had also spoiled him with lego sets, hot wheels tracks, and a homemade ice cream maker. And, well, something else.

"How's the birthday boy?!" you greeted, opening your arms for a very hyper Luke to jump into.

He wrapped his legs around your waist and pulled you as tight as he could against him, his cheek pressed into yours. He had definitely grown since the last time you held him; you could barely handle the weight.

"Good!" he yelled.

"Luke, inside voice," Steve chastised from the couch, a familiar grin on his face.

"Right, sorry," he said.

"Do you want to open some presents or what, Kid?" Grayson offered, setting down the tall stack.

Luke nodded giddily, detangling himself from you and seating himself on the carpet. One by one he plucked the wrapping paper off, his gasps getting bigger and bigger with every present until he reached the last one. "What's this?" he asked, spinning the fabric in his hands.

"It's a Power Rangers sweatshirt," you said, gesturing to the item. "If you don't like it, we can return it."

"Just like my old one," he gaped. "Is it my old one?"

"No," Grayson explained, "but it's the same design, just warmer. And it'll fit you nicer."

Luke nodded and then slipped the clothing over his head, stuffing his arms through the sleeves. There he was, seven-years-old and yet so, so different. He still had his big brown eyes and his messy, floppy curls, but his face was full and his body was healthy and his mind was creative and open. He was Luke McIver as you'd always wanted to see him; human.

Before you could cry, you said, "Luke, you look handsome!"

"Do I?" he asked, glancing down at himself.

"Sure do, Honey. Now, we have one last present for you," Nancy said, exchanging a look with Steve.

She handed over a little envelope to Luke and he pulled out a slip of paper. "Would... you be... our son? What does that mean?" he asked, reading slow and brokenly.

Your hands flew to your mouth with excitement and love, and you decided crying was the only option at that point.

"Luke," Steve began, grabbing his wife's hands. "Luke, we want to be your parents. Like, forever," he chuckled.

"I thought you already were?" Luke said, glancing around the room with confusion.

"No, Honey, you get to choose if you want us to be or not. We completely understand if not," Nancy said, her voice quavering.

Grayson pulled you into him and you could tell he was holding back a spout of tears. He kissed the top of your head and waited.

"Oh. Well then, yeah. Yes," Luke said.

And by the following Monday, he was little Luke Hoffmann.

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anthropwashere · 6 years

Text

Revive: maybe one day I’ll be home again

AO3 || FFN

(So glad I got something posted during Phanniemay! Here’s 3.6k of Danny having a bad time, which is like slipping on a nice pair of well-worn slippers at this point. Fic title comes from Skip the Use’s “Nameless World.”)

It’s a robbery. Just a plain old robbery at the 7-11 on the corner of Jacob and Marley, no ghosts involved at all. Just some guy with shaky hands and a gun. It’s like the opening out of one those crime shows there’s fifteen ripoffs of on TV; idiot teen steps in front of loaded gun in idiot attempt at playing hero. The pounding in his ears could almost be mistaken for the opening theme music.

“Oh, shit,” the guy says.

Danny’s mouth stutters, but he can’t push any words out. He can’t seem to breathe around the dull heat punched through his chest. His sneaker’s wet. The glass Coke bottle he’d been holding must have broken.

“What did you…?” The cashier shakes his head, eyes so wide Danny can see white all around his dark irises. “You shot him.”

“I didn’t mean to,” the guy blurts out. Like saying that will magically make it all better.

“You shot him.”

He can’t breathe. He’d just stopped in here for a soda and a couple protein bars on his way home from patrol. The guy had burst in waving the gun when Danny had been mentally calculating if he had enough for a bag of gummy worms too, stammering out hoarse demands without even looking to see if anyone else was in the store. It’s after midnight on a Tuesday though; who would be?

“Shit,” the guy says again. He looks terrified. He looks like somebody who’d be desperate enough to rob a corner store; gaunt and unshaven, stains and holes in clothes a little too big for him. He doesn’t look like a murderer.

Danny swallows. He finds the strength to lift his arm, to touch fingertips to the wet hole in his chest. They come away red. Way too red. He’d just touched it for a second, but his fingers are slick to the crease of his palm. He sways. One of the men shouts as his knees hit the floor, protein bars scattering from his other hand. Cold soda soaks his jeans; warm blood soaks his shirt.

He’s been hurt before. He’s been hurt bad before. But never when he was human. Never by another human, never with a weapon that wasn’t at least a little bit jury-rigged with ghost-fighting tech. This. He doesn’t. He doesn’t know what to do.

The guy’s hands had been shaking, but Danny had walked right up to him, overconfident and stupid. He’s been fighting ghosts long enough that he forgot humans can be just as dangerous. Shaky hands. Fear? Drugs? Doesn’t matter. The gun couldn’t have been more than a few inches away when it had gone off.

He can’t breathe.

“You shot a kid,” the cashier’s yelling. “Are you crazy? I was gonna give you the money!”

“He—he got in the way! He was trying to stop me!”

“So you killed him? Shit, man, put the gun down, okay? You’ve done enough.”

They keep yelling at each other, both high and frightened. The gun’s still in the guy’s hand, not like he means to shoot the cashier but. Still. It could still be loaded. The guy’s freaked out. What if this plays out like bad TV? No witnesses, trash the security tapes. The gun’s probably stolen already. The cops’d just have two bodies on their hands. Danny’s school ID is in his wallet. He wonders what the cashier’s name is, who this guy with the gun is too.

He slumps against a rack of candy bars, feels it bow under his weight. “Nnn,” he slurs. He can’t breathe. The pounding in his ears is hiccuping, hard and off-kilter, like he’s about to pass out. That’s. That’s not good. His shirt’s soaked. He’s shaking. All bad signs.

“Put the fucking phone down,” the guy with the gun yells, brandishing it at the cashier. Danny can’t see what the cashier’s doing from where he’s spilling across the floor. This is bad. If he doesn’t. He’s gotta do something. The guy’s gonna kill—

“St—” He chokes. Blood in his throat, filling his mouth. He drops his chin and lets it leak out, too weak to spit. “Stop.”

Incredibly, the guy stops. Stares down at him like he’d forgotten Danny was even there. Danny’s chest hitches pointlessly. Is it his imagination or can he feel the bullet, an alien lump of metal caught at a weird angle between his muscles, his organs? Don’t. Don’t think about it. Can’t breathe. Who cares. He doesn’t bother breathing half the time he’s Phantom anyway. What’s it matter now that he’s human?

“Luh. Leave ‘im ‘lone.” Ugh. Not his most eloquent. So sue him. “Drop it.”

“Kid,” the cashier says from somewhere out of sight. “Kid, hey, don’t talk. Just stay still. I’m gonna call an ambulance—”

“Like hell you are,” the guy yelps, not looking away from Danny.

“He’s gonna die if I don’t. I don’t care about the money, man, just let me help this kid before—”

“Stop.”

They stop.

Danny stops too. He forces himself slack, makes himself limp. Don’t struggle. Stop. Stop. He’s been hurt before. He’s been hurt bad before. This isn’t. This is bad, but he isn’t dying. He isn’t. He won’t die here. His lungs empty. His head lolls. The pounding in his ears beats once, twice, then stammers to a standstill.

“Oh god,” both men whisper feebly.

Oh. Hey. Hey. Now that his body’s not having a conniption, he feels—okay, good is maybe stretching it, but he feels better than he did a minute ago. He’s pretty sure he can stand up. It takes him a couple tries; he’s still feeling cold and weak, there’s not much leverage off the rickety shelves, and he’s a sticky mess of blood and soda. He manages it okay though, one elbow resting heavy on the counter, a slippery grin on his face, his knees shaking but keeping his weight.

Both men are screaming at this point, and the guys pointed the gun at him again. He huffs. It feels weird. He decides not to think about why it might feel weird. “Seriously?” It comes out phlegmy, or maybe it’s better to say bloody. Ugh. He swallows, grimacing. “I, nngh. I think you did enough already. Don’t you?”

“Wh-what the hell are you?!”

That’s a dumb question. This is Amity Park. He doesn’t bother dignifying that with a response. Instead he narrows his eyes, bares his teeth in a feral grin as neon green stains the flickering white lights overhead. “I think you should go,” he rasps. “Before I change my mind. Leave the gun.”

The guy drops the gun and bolts. The automated chime on the door sounds so absurd after everything that’s happened Danny wants to curl up and giggle. Maybe later. He swallows—guh—and looks over at the cashier. The poor man’s pressed up against the wall of cigarettes, gray-faced with eyes wide as saucers, his mouth a perfect O.

Nothing he says is going to make the man any less afraid. He doesn’t have a clue what he’d say anyway. He doesn’t have a clue what’s happened. He looks down at the spill of blood—his blood—across the tile, the candy bars, the counter. The broken glass, the spilled soda. What a mess.

Wait. Blood. Bad crime shows always do DNA tests, right? He doesn’t know anything about how that stuff works, but he does know he’s spilled… well. More than enough to stop his heart. A lot.

He looks back at the cashier, who hasn’t moved. The cashier swallows, stammers out, “Wh-what?”

He doesn’t say anything before he sets fire to the counter. More specifically he sets the blood he’s left smeared all over on fire, but the sudden green flare sure looks intimidating. The cashier whimpers. Danny, one hand clinging tightly to the counter, methodically melts down the entire rack of candy to a noxiously sweet-smelling slag, then burns the tiled floor black and bubbling. As an afterthought he runs a hand across himself, drying the blood on him in a wave of sour heat so he doesn’t drip anymore.

He bends down—whoa, easy there gravity—and picks up the gun. It’s heavier than it looks. He keeps the barrel pointed at the ground, finger off the trigger ‘til he taps the safety on. That’s about all he knows how to do with guns that aren’t meant for ghosts. It’s enough for now.

He should probably care about the security footage too. He takes an experimental breath; he’s almost positive he can feel the bullet shift. Yeah. Screw the footage. He’s got bigger problems.

“Sorry about the mess,” he says, and, since his cover story begins and ends with horrible 7-11 apparition, he vanishes. He stands there a minute longer to make sure the fire goes out; he’s not trying to burn the place down, he’s just trying to destroy any evidence he was there. The cashier watches the fire too, gaping like a fish. When it gutters out he sinks to the floor and buries his head in his knees, breathing wetly.

Danny phases through the door. Some terrible part of him wants to turn visible long enough to set off the automated chime to scare the cashier one last time. He doesn’t. He keeps walking, unseen, down the street for the nearest alley three buildings down. He can duck in there, have a minor panic attack because seriously, what, then he can call—

Call who?

Tucker can’t handle anything worse than a bad scrape without going gray and shaky. He’s got the steadiest hands out of all of them, sure—that A in Sewing isn’t a fluke—but this isn’t something he can bribe Tucker to patch up with puppy eyes and movie tickets. This isn’t something that can just be patched up, period.

Sam’s got the strongest stomach of the three of them and she’s a better liar than Tucker, but this is way beyond anything they’ve had to deal with before. They’ve smuggled a lot of medical supplies out of his parents’ basement, but they aren’t equipped to handle gunshot wounds. The bullet’s still in there. He can’t ask her to go digging around in his chest for it. Did it shatter? He could just phase it out. Maybe it’s better to leave it in for now. Less evidence to leave lying around—

His chest throbs. A low cry is squeezed out of him, more surprise than pain. He staggers, trips over his feet, almost faceplants on the sidewalk. His bloody hand jumps to his chest, fingertips pressed to the hole over his heart. He wavers in the middle of the sidewalk, in the relative darkness between two pools of yellow street light. What was that?

Another throb, as sharp as a knife, as hard as a kick to the ribs. He feels it under his fingers, feels something pulse under his skin. He doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t need to breathe right now. His jaw is clenched tight enough to make his teeth ache; his lungs feel like wet plastic bags. Throb. He curls in on himself, forcing one foot in front of the other. Throb. Stay invisible. There are cars passing by, people lingering at a street sign, looking around for whatever made that funny noise. Throb. Almost at the alley now. Almost there. Almost there.

He turns in and it’s mercifully empty. He staggers to the end of it, where dented trash cans and bulging black bags make a decent hiding spot. There’s a faint smell of old beer, old piss, something greasy gone to rot, all of it settling heavy on his tongue. He’s distantly glad he doesn’t have to breathe right now, more focused on the pulse beneath his crabbed fingers.

He turns visible again as he sags against the brick wall, grunts as another throb beats through him. There’s another one right on the heels of that one, and another after that. Something cool and wet dribbles out of the wound and he yelps, pulling his hand away.

Neon green paints his palm, filling the alleyway with dim luminescence. He’s gobsmacked, straight up speechless, even through the next hard throb of what can only be his heart trying to kickstart itself again. His heart, trying to pump ectoplasm, somehow funneled through that cold little spark in his chest that never leaves, that connection between his two halves, the reason he was able to walk away from being shot at all.

Okay. Okay. This. Uh. This is new. This is good? It hurts, but that makes sense. Maybe phasing the bullet out now is a good idea after all. He passes his hand through his chest, hears metal ping on the asphalt by his knee. Another pass to be safe. It’s probably enough. He’s more worried about the hole he can’t do anything about and the ectoplasm splurting sluggishly out of it with every beat of his inexplicably beating heart.

His vision blurs, dips, hazes over with unearthly shades of green. He swallows, blinking rapidly until he can see clearly again. Okay. Bad. This is bad. This is arguably worse, maybe. He doesn’t know. But he can’t stay here. He’s gotta get—where? Who’s closest?

...Valerie is, actually, but he doesn’t think this would go over well. He hisses laughter between his teeth. Home, then. Home, and Jazz. Jazz is gonna lose her mind when she sees him, and honestly? He’s not gonna blame her one bit.

Another particularly sharp throb makes him cough, hoarse and wet, and he spits out a glowing gob of he-doesn’t-wanna-know. His chest goes tight. Spots dance in his eyes the longer he sits there, rubbing at the slick mess all down his front. He spits again, wheezes on pure human instinct, and feels better.

Oh. Breathing. That’s a thing his lungs would like him to do again, apparently. He takes shallow, careful breaths. Guh. It smells nasty here. But he’s breathing, and it’s sore sure, but he’s breathing, and his heart’s beating, and while he’s not so sure he’d be able to stand at the moment at least he’s feeling pretty clear headed. All in all, he’s arguably doing better than he was ten minutes ago.

His hand’s wet again, cold and syrupy, like he stuck it in a can of paint. He wipes it on his jeans, leaving a huge neon smear. He peels his shirt off his skin, shivers when it sticks reluctantly, slips his hand under to palm the wound directly. Ectoplasm, at least, has a higher viscosity than blood.

He shivers again. Shock, maybe? He snorts, wincing when his chest protests sharply. Of course it’s shock, idiot. Each sluggish throb of his heart still feels like a kick to the sternum, green hazing his periphery. He breathes, putting as much pressure on the wound as he can. He breathes. He’s got to do more than this, but he doesn’t know what. Stop the bleeding—how? It’s his heart. If he plugs his chest, then he’ll have to deal with internal bleeding. Right?

...He’s definitely got to sign up for Anatomy next year. If he makes it that long. At this rate, he’s not sure if he’s gonna make it to school tomorrow—no, shhh, shut up, he’s gonna be fine. This is fine. He’s alive, sort of, right? He’s fine. He’s gonna be just fine. Somehow.

He knocks his head against the brick, looking skyward. From here he can make out a few twinkling stars, the dark gray smear of a cloud, the blinking red light of an airplane passing by. There’s always so much going on above the city. It’s not so out of reach as it used to be for him, but it’s all so still so impossibly far. Funny, that he finds some kind of comfort in that. Here he is, bleeding out for the second time in one night in an alleyway, and if he did die right here the universe would wheel on without him. It wouldn’t even notice.

He likes that. He likes that just fine. Sam’d call him morbid, and she’d be proud (and maybe a little worried), but hey. A guy’s gotta cope somehow, right?

...Huh. His heartbeat doesn’t hurt as bad now. Is that good? That’s probably not good. He takes a deeper breath, expecting splintered pain… and is surprised when there’s only soreness. He eases up the pressure on the wound, expects a fresh spill of cool ectoplasm, and yeah, there’s a little, but not nearly as much as before. What the heck?

The gun’s still in his left hand, nearly forgotten. He’s not willing to put it down, still uneasy about the bullet he’s left on the asphalt by his knee, glinting in the green light of his ectoplasm. He can’t forget that, just in case. This neighborhood’s poor, not dangerous. A trashed corner store and an alley coated in ghost gore not a hundred yards away is going to raise questions, even in Amity Park. His parents are going to be all over this place tomorrow with a fine tooth comb. His dad might miss the bullet, but his mom? No way.

Right. Gunshot wound. Not bleeding as much as it was just a minute ago. That should be concerning. That should be really concerning. But, funny thing, he doesn’t feel worse. He feels… better?

He prods at it experimentally, and his middle finger doesn’t slip through like it did before. There’s—muscle? Something that feels like the slippery firmness of exposed muscle, anyway.

“No way,” he whispers, wide-eyed. There’s healing quick and then there’s straight up video game logic. This shouldn’t be possible. But even as he’s thinking that he feels something shift under his fingertip, feels something grow. He twitches his hand away. When he dares to touch again, there’s skin. Raw, tender, like the skin under a torn off scab. He swallows, reeling, belatedly remembers to keep breathing. “Oh. Oh, wow. Okay. Okay. Right.”

So. Not going to die. He wasn’t planning on dying here, no way, but. Still. Nice to have that confirmed. Uh. He’s maybe just going to sit here a bit longer. Give his body—his ghost half?—time to do… whatever it’s doing. No sense jumping up to head home just to bust his heart open again.

He grins weakly. “Oh man, this is nuts.”

But hey, if it works, right?

Mmm. Home. Right. He pulls his hand out from under his shirt, wrinkles his nose at the mess of blood and ectoplasm smeared up to his wrist. Gross. His left hand, the one holding the gun, is still clean. He eases himself cross-legged, places the gun on one knee, fishes out his phone and dials Jazz’s cell. She doesn’t pick up the first time so he calls again. She picks up the fourth ring.

“...’lo?”

“Hey, it’s an emergency.”

“Danny...? It’s the middle of the night. Where are you?”

“Yeah. Patrol ran long, then I, uh. Had some trouble. I’m gonna need your help when I get home.”

“Mm. What happened? Are Sam and Tucker—”

“They’re fine, probably home by now. I—” He swallows through a low throb of pain, tries not to think about what might be happening inside himself. “—I got hurt.”

“Hurt? What happened? How serious?”

“...Uh. Bad.”

“...Danny?”

He clears his throat, shakes off the cobwebs. “I’m gonna be fine. I just need to get cleaned up. Where are Mom and Dad?”

“Um, I don’t know.”

“Well find out.”

“Okay, okay. Just a sec.” Shuffling sounds. “Do you need me to come get you?”

“No. Just. I could use your help hiding some stuff once I get there.”

“Stuff?”

“My clothes are, um. Trashed. There’s a gun too.”

“A what?!”

“Yeah.”

“Where did you get a—a gun from?”

“Tell you later.” Ooh, he’s tired all of a sudden. He feels wrung out, sore, and starving. “Nnngh. Any sign of ‘em?”

Her voice drops to a whisper. “Looks like they’re asleep.”

“Mm. Perfect. Meet me in the lab with some clean clothes for me, okay? I’ll be home soon as I can.”

“Danny, talk to me. Tell me what happened. How badly hurt are you?”

“Told you, Jazz. M’fine. Just need to get cleaned up.”

She hums like she’s not convinced. “You sure you don’t want me to meet you?”

“I can fly faster than a car. M’not far, okay? Just. Fifteen minutes, tops.”

“That’s a long time if you’re flying.”

“I’m taking a breather right now, nosy.”

“Danny—”

“Jazz.” He sighs, almost rubs his eyes but remembers how gross his free hand is. “I’m… I’m okay. I just need a few minutes. Picked up a new ghost power, I think. I’ll explain at home.”

“...If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay. See you soon.”

“M’kay.”

“I mean it. If you’re not here in fifteen minutes I’m calling you back. You don’t pick up, I’m calling Sam and Tucker.”

He chuckles softly, too tired to laugh. It hurts, but not half as much as it did a few minutes ago. “Okay, okay. Fifteen minutes, tops.”

He hangs up after they exchange quiet goodbyes and he sets his phone on his right knee, opposite the gun. He takes a deep breath, wincing a little. Not too bad. Two more minutes. He’s going to sit here two more minutes, then he’ll get up and head home.

He rests his head against the brick again, watches stars twinkle impossibly far away. A thought comes to mind unbidden that has him biting his lip to keep from laughing outright. It’s so dumb, but it’s the middle of the night and he may or may not have just discovered he’s a little bit functionally unkillable. So sue him, he’ll laugh a little.

He can never go back to that 7-11 again now that he’s gone and haunted it.

#Danny Phantom #Phanniemay #Phanniemay18 #my writing #heyyyy what's up it's been over a year since i wrote any phic #sorry for mobile users because read-mores sure love breaking huh

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