Chapter Text
You weren’t a reminiscent person, not by a long-shot, but you did miss those scenic mornings.
You woke up in the same kind of cramped, questionably cheap apartment. Except up there, it still met every maintenance code. You would walk the full hour to work, light breeze puffing up your work shirt and feet begging for mercy in pinching Mary Jane’s. There isn’t much you wouldn’t do to subject yourself to it again. You’d much rather be elbow-deep in someone’s stomach than where you are now.
That was dramatic. No, you wouldn’t.
But you would admit you were not suited for the work you harbor now, bent over a bar, listening to a man you didn’t know drone about his issues. You suppose it could’ve been worse. He could ask for your honest advice, which makes about every patron you’ve had unite in the desire to bash your head into the wood paneling of the floor. It’s true that it required no education to acquire this position, nor the apartment overhead the business, yet it is the most challenging work you’ve been assigned to date.
You understand why the owner of the place sought a prolonged vacation. He’d informed you that you were the most capable prospect that he had met so far. You didn’t quite understand, because he had only just met you. Still, he spared no time dropping the cursed keys to the establishment into your open palm and leaving you the living space above. That was months ago.
You don’t complain. Being a bartender wasn’t the worst job in the undercity from what you observed. There were enough alcoholics and assholes and miserable souls to sustain a profit. Though, you didn’t get the memo that you were expected to double as a psychiatrist and punching bag. At least it was easy enough to make and memorize the drinks. You were much better off than the miners, who had been on and off work since Piltover got cold feet about working with them. Certainly the henchmen of various barons, who always had something oozing or broken. You’d offered to help, but had only been met with hostility to date. The best you can do is pour a hearty drink and mind your own.
It’s one of those quieter nights. A weekday. When you started here, you had wrongly made the assumption the crowd would be easier to manage than the bustling weekends. That was not the case. Contented and healthy individuals didn’t drink on weekdays. There was a disproportionate amount of jobless and angry individuals on a Thursday night, as opposed to the celebratory crowd on Saturdays and Sundays.
You’re drying cups behind the counter, only the symphony of glasses hitting tables and a few pairs of conversation keeping the place alive. It’s a rhythmic process. Grab, swipe the inside, swipe the outside, and set aside. It’s one of your favorite parts of the job. It’s the part that makes the most sense. You don’t close until early morning, so the hand of the clock chiming at midnight is no solace to you.
At its jingle, you sigh. Only three more hours.
Also at its jingle, there’s an astounding crash above you. It manages to snap the man closest to you out of his tequila-induced trance, and he ducks under the bar. Everyone seems to notice the commotion, and it concerns you enough to groan and toss your towel aside. It was too distant to be the interior of your apartment. You figure it must be the roof. A few steps outside confirms your expectations.
“What are you doing on my roof?” You shout out. It’s a group of three men, burly and tall. You aren’t particularly concerned, more so confused. They don’t respond the first time, so you shout again.
This time, one of them turns to stare back at you. You can’t see much in the dark, only sturdy hats and ruffled suits. There appears to be a tattoo on the center of his forehead you can’t make out. He doesn’t respond, only shaking his head at the two behind them. Their massive figures disappear into the alley beside your place. You decide to let it be. It didn’t concern you, so you really couldn’t care less. You return to your patrons, who are more or less shaken, stationing yourself back behind the counter.
“W-what was that, doc?” A voice squeaks. His name is Huck. He’s a timid man, body racked with cracks and divots indicative of frequent drug usage. He doesn’t complain much, just twitches and mumbles to himself, making himself up when you’re nearby. He likes to ask questions, but you think your answers only serve to dishearten him. Still, he makes fruitless small talk whenever he comes in.
“Men on the roof. They’re gone now.” You pick your glasses back up.
“Men? O-on the roof?” He shivers.
“Thats what I said, yes.”
“You don’t think they were dangerous, do you? Are they still nearby?” His gaze trembles with him.
“I do not know,” you answer, brows furrowing at a smear on a glass. It’s the print of a woman’s lip in faded red. You shake your head and return to the sink. Your mind must have been elsewhere when you missed that earlier. You scrub twice as hard. Huck worsens himself, body shaking as he whispers to his clenched fingers. It’s the anxious behavior of an addict tenfold.
“You need to relax. You’re going to stir yourself into a frenzy,” you state. He shakes his head.
“This is just no good…no good at all…no good.”
“Huck.”
“Shut up,” he hisses at you, like a cat backed into a corner. Immediately, because he is still himself, he gasps. “I’m sorry, doc, I didn’t mean t-to. You were just trying to help and I- w-well, I-“
“I know.” You’re unbothered entirely. He does that sometimes. His outbursts are random and from an unknown root, though you can only assume a specific stressor is what triggers them. Huck stutters a sigh of relief.
“O-oh, good. You’re unshakeable as always,” he chuckles awkwardly. You knew what he meant. People had a lot of choice words when it came to you of varying severity.
“I know.” Between cold or indifferent, unshakeable wasn’t any worse. Verbiage aside, you were consistently the cause for unease.
And then it’s silent. Not really, of course, because you’re still surrounded by people. And those people breathe, and drink, and move, because they’re alive. It’s the sound of that life that’s almost comforting. You mean the familiar absence of social obligation, where everyone can say nothing and exist in peace. It makes you feel a part of something. Almost regular.
There are no more thundering steps or dented roofs at the final chime of the clock. There was none between, either. It’s just you, watching the steady outflow of those that are just sober enough to stumble out your front door. It’s a privilege to lock up before the next hour. You drag yourself up the back stairs that are too narrow to have a railing, and just narrow enough not to need one. You shove your key into your apartment lock, twisting as you jiggle the knob. It was difficult most nights, but you always got in.
It’s with a long breath out that you fall back onto your couch, head bobbing back. You rest your aching body, from your rough hands to your pulsing feet. It’s just a few moments in time. Just seconds of peace before you force yourself up, kicking off your work shoes and undoing your hair. You needed to shower so you can make it to bed. You walk into your bedroom, snug, with only a dresser and full bed illuminated by a single window.
You halt on your way in, taking a moment to observe your window further.
It was open. That had been you. Your air conditioning was damaged long before you moved in, meaning the only ventilation was the cracks you left in your window. You didn’t worry much about anyone sneaking in, due to their small size, but you didn’t open them all the way either. Not like this one was. Conveniently, you know there’s a fire escape on the other side.
It’s a suspicion that grips your heart with force.
You suppose a small enough person wouldn’t have much trouble squeezing through. An animal was near impossible, and the wind wasn’t strong enough on its own tonight.
With that, you retreat from your bedroom, moving cautiously to your kitchen to pull a handgun from your breadbox. It wasn’t usually your style, but it was a gift. It made no sense to let it go to waste.
“If there’s anyone here, come out now,” you swivel on your foot, from your cramped kitchen to the carpeted living space, “I have a gun.” You speak loudly, announcing to the dead quiet of your solitary living space.
Your apartment was tiny. Spaces to hide were limited, to say the least. After clearing your biggest rooms, you check the bathroom, immediately ruling out any squatters. It leaves your bedroom, where the whole mess started. Perhaps it was foolish to leave it last, but a small part of you really hoped that if someone was present, they’d have retreated through the window once again. Albeit, very quietly, since you’d heard nothing at all.
You check underneath your bed, the rickety old bed frame, once a beautiful wood, notched and scratched beyond any value. It’s clean underneath, which makes your shoulders ease subconsciously. You take a few more steps to the foot of your bed, then to the side with your dresser. Your room is as minimal as the rest of your home, plain except for the many blankets that form a nest on your bed.
You stop again.
You make your bed each morning, yet it was mussed up, like someone had rolled around and cocooned themself inside. You stumble back at the realization, a cold shiver raking through you.
“Get up,” you bark, gun pointed shakily at the mound on your bed.
There’s no response.
“Get up or I’ll shoot.” It’s as much conviction as you can muster, as someone who really doesn’t want to shoot.
Still, no response.
You inch forward to kick your wobbly bed frame forcefully. There’s frantic movement from both of you as whatever is tangled in your sheets writhes underneath, trying to break free. Your back slams back against the wall. You pray in vain it’s an animal, so its death will feel more like mercy.
But it isn’t. It isn’t even a spindly little thief like you’d expected.
From the tangle of blankets, something small emerges, trembling and wide-eyed. A child emerges from the mountain of blankets, latching to your pillow like a shield, and pressing herself against the back of your bed.
Her doe-eyes are blown in terror, pupils lost in a pool of amber irises. Her skin is tanned and smudged with soot. Her hair is a chestnut brown. It’s short and choppy, like it was cut with either haste or inexperience. Based on her height and figure, she appears a soft eight, maybe seven. Your gun lowers as your body heaves at the nonthreatening discovery.
“Hello?” You try. You begin to walk forward. She whimpers softy. Your pistol is limp at your side. You aren’t entirely sure what to do.
“I believe you are lost,” you inform her, sitting on the end of your bed. She doesn’t seem shaky anymore, those wide eyes sizing you up. “This is my apartment. This is not where you live,” you explain. Her brows furrow, gaze more focused on your lips than your eyes. She looks at you funny.
“Where are your caretakers?” You question. You haven’t gotten any sort of verbal response from her, though based on her heavy slumber and behavior, you begin to suspect she’s somewhere on the deaf spectrum.
Her only response is to crawl forward, attentive gaze fixed on you she sniffs and swipe at her nose.
“Do you understand what I am asking? Where are your caretakers?” You try again hopefully, but quickly reevaluate it all as she just shrugs and falls back in your sheets. Her shoes are still on, you observe, with a slight grimace. You try to recall any sign language. You were never fluent, but it was a requirement to learn the basics for your work field.
You greet her experimentally, and ask how she’s doing. She perks up. Her eyes flicker in recognition, but not knowledge. You try once again, this time, with your own interpretation. She was young, likely uneducated.
“Where are your,” you hold up an index finger on both hands. For lack of a better symbol, you press them together softly. “Caretakers? Parents?” You point at her, then rock an invisible child. She frowns, shaking her head.
“No parents?” You kiss your fingers again.
She hums softly in confirmation, shaking her head and imitating your movement. You have no reason to doubt her. You purse your lips in thought. You’d never been good with children. They were emotional little things, driven by wants they mistook for needs. You didn’t dislike them- It wasn’t their fault- but you knew the limits of your capabilities, and a child could stump you in seconds. This one seemed competent enough to attempt to communicate at least.
You slip off your bed, head reeling with contemplation. She couldn’t stay with you. You were…well, you. She’d have a better chance somewhere up top. Then again, when had Piltover ever been anxious to take in undercity spawn? As far as they were concerned, she was one of many children that slipped between the cracks of care.
So, an orphanage wasn’t the move. It leaves one immediate option, one that makes your skin crawl with discomfort.
You suppose she’s staying with you. Temporarily, of course. Until you could find a trustworthy alternative. Your shoulders drop, loosening with the compromise. You tap the girl’s shoulder, taking note of her scrawny frame.
“Would you like to stay here,” you point to her, then down, “for now?” She raises her own hands, pointing at you, then herself, then down. You nod. “With me. Here.”
Her lips part, ends quirking into a small smile. She sighs contently, falling backwards into your bed again. You shake your head vehemently, poking her again.
“You are dirty. You need the bathe.” You don’t know how to translate your statement into makeshift sign, but it seems you don’t need to. Her eyes widen and she shakes her head back at you, flopping down in rejection. You’re taken aback.
“I will start a bath.” You insist. She shuts her eyes, like she’s protesting. Regardless of her distaste, you fish your bath plug from a forgotten cabinet, shoving it into your drain and letting warm water run. You only have bar soap, so you lather it beneath the flow of water, massaging it into your palm until a sufficient amount of soap seems to be in the water. You dry your hands and move to fetch the girl, finding her tangled in the mess of cloth.
“Girl?” You poke her stomach, one of the only visible parts of her in her fortress. She shrieks loudly, making your heart jump. You poke the blanket this time. She squirms like a worm beneath.
“Do not be difficult, the water will get cold,” you huff. You know she can’t hear you, and doesn’t care to.
With another loud shriek, the girl weasels her way out of your bed, falling off your bed and darting out of your bedroom. You cock your head. You weren’t sure where she was going. You doubted it was with an eagerness to be clean.
You aren’t surprised to walk out and see her in the center of your entry space, her back to you. She has a foot on both carpet and tile, looking between the kitchen and living room with a pointless intent to get away. It’s further proof she hadn’t left your room before racking out on your bed earlier.
“It disappoints me as well,” you voice. She jerks her head around, more likely at the vibrations of your steps than the sound. She scowls at you. You tap the door frame of your bathroom. Though her pursuit is hopeless, you still doubt she’ll make it easy, if the fire in her eyes and the way she digs her heels down is any indicator. As anticipated, she makes another run for it. Without fail, she darts right beside you, making it easy for you to swipe her up and hold her away from you like a feral animal.
She jolts like one, grunting and huffing as she fights your firm hold. Her feet dangle, kicking the air as you try to reason with her without avail. You’re halfway pleading when her foot nails you in the nose, making you hiss. You crumple and let her go thoughtlessly, hand clutching your nose. Blood runs through your fingers. The girl lets out a half cry at your side. She hadn’t left.
Your hand is set on your bone, body relaxing at the telltale signs of fine health. You peel your eyes open to glance over. Her face is scrunched, eyes frantic when your lidded gaze sets on her. You didn’t know the right way to go about anything with the child. Yet, she stares at you expectantly anyway. It was more than waiting for a reaction. It was a search for an answer she believed you had.
At a loss, you extend a hand.
The motion makes her jump back with a loud whine, like you were going to raise it against her. You open and close it. Then again. She finally puts her pudgy fingers in your palm. You bring it to your nose slowly, not wanting to startle her further.
“Feel?” You pinch her digits on your bridge, “No crunching, so no fragments. No movement, so no break,” you explain. She’s very close. She hums like she understands, pinching your nose herself and pushing it. You wince, the pain blooms from a bruise that will undoubtedly form. She pulls her hand back, eyes widened with wonder, and jaw slack. She pinches her own nose. You nod.
“Not broken either.” You affirm. She giggles, the sound airy and unburdened. There’s a tightness in your chest once again. You swallow it down, clicking at the girl, nodding at the bathroom once you’ve gotten her attention. She wrinkles her nose and grumbles, but walks in regardless.
Predictably, the water is chilly when you test it with your fingers. Had it been you, this wouldn’t have happened. You didn’t care for baths in the first place, but you wouldn’t have wasted time in getting in had you ran one anyway. Even now, you’d bathe in the icy tub, making quick work of cleaning yourself. Water was expensive. You spent enough of it cleaning downstairs.
But the bath wasn’t for you. It was for a little girl, who didn’t have the thick skin you did. So you drain the water anyway, watching money swirl down the drain, while the girl settled beside you. She smells like axel grease and earth. You lather the soap again and she sits quietly. You don’t expect to be in bed before the half hour. You don’t even expect to be in bed before light sneaks through your windows.
When her body sinks against yours, you forget it all. Time was now the least of your concerns.