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sirius_awakeningOne of Marcus's least favorite jobs was stopping by the old foster house to check in and make sure everything was running how it was supposed to.
Technically, their old foster parents still had custody of the kids. That was the worst part of it all--that his family was something very like a house of cards that could come tumbling down at any moment. It scared the shit out of him when he let it, so usually Marcus forced himself to keep it far from mind until the days he had to loop back to their filthy brownstone to touch base and just...
Just check in. Just be sure.
He was glad he did today when he pushed open the door and heard the sound of a baby crying. It was soft and pitiful, hiccuping roughly as if it had been howling for hours. The kitchen smelled like trash and rancid meat, and the tv was blaring from the other room.
"Motherfucking..." he muttered to himself, crossing the kitchen and storming into the familiar back room. The den was dark, windows covered in cardboard and blankets. The old man was asleep on his recliner, cigarette burning down. The baby was swaddled up in an old sweatshirt and alarmingly red.
Also? Familiar. So familiar that Marcus sucked in a breath, going still as the memories crashed through him. The fire, the sick feeling of loss, the roar of his flying motorcycle and Harry crying, crying, crying.
"Merlin," he breathed, utterly gutted. But then little Harry--himself and yet not--let out another pitiful wail and Marcus...Sirius?...vaulted into action. He swept up the tiny bundle, giving his former foster father a furious glare. The cigarette was dangling on his lower lip, nearly falling. It would serve him right if Marcus just left him behind to burn the whole house down--and hopefully burn himself up with it.
But no. Fuck. No, if he did that, surely the gig would be up. The shitty system they'd found themselves in was able to pretend it didn't notice a lot, but surely it would have to pay attention if the house that supposedly held six underage kids burned to the ground.
"Count yourself lucky, old man," Marcus growled, reaching out to pluck the cigarette away and toss it into the mostly-empty glass of beer. The end sizzled and hissed. In his arms, the baby snuffled pathetically. "Come on, Harry," he added, curling the baby into the curve of his arm. He brushed his knuckles across a softly rounded cheek, wiping away tears. "This time, things are going to turn out okay for you. All right? I promise. This time, I've got you."
Technically, their old foster parents still had custody of the kids. That was the worst part of it all--that his family was something very like a house of cards that could come tumbling down at any moment. It scared the shit out of him when he let it, so usually Marcus forced himself to keep it far from mind until the days he had to loop back to their filthy brownstone to touch base and just...
Just check in. Just be sure.
He was glad he did today when he pushed open the door and heard the sound of a baby crying. It was soft and pitiful, hiccuping roughly as if it had been howling for hours. The kitchen smelled like trash and rancid meat, and the tv was blaring from the other room.
"Motherfucking..." he muttered to himself, crossing the kitchen and storming into the familiar back room. The den was dark, windows covered in cardboard and blankets. The old man was asleep on his recliner, cigarette burning down. The baby was swaddled up in an old sweatshirt and alarmingly red.
Also? Familiar. So familiar that Marcus sucked in a breath, going still as the memories crashed through him. The fire, the sick feeling of loss, the roar of his flying motorcycle and Harry crying, crying, crying.
"Merlin," he breathed, utterly gutted. But then little Harry--himself and yet not--let out another pitiful wail and Marcus...Sirius?...vaulted into action. He swept up the tiny bundle, giving his former foster father a furious glare. The cigarette was dangling on his lower lip, nearly falling. It would serve him right if Marcus just left him behind to burn the whole house down--and hopefully burn himself up with it.
But no. Fuck. No, if he did that, surely the gig would be up. The shitty system they'd found themselves in was able to pretend it didn't notice a lot, but surely it would have to pay attention if the house that supposedly held six underage kids burned to the ground.
"Count yourself lucky, old man," Marcus growled, reaching out to pluck the cigarette away and toss it into the mostly-empty glass of beer. The end sizzled and hissed. In his arms, the baby snuffled pathetically. "Come on, Harry," he added, curling the baby into the curve of his arm. He brushed his knuckles across a softly rounded cheek, wiping away tears. "This time, things are going to turn out okay for you. All right? I promise. This time, I've got you."
