pennysheets | Sibling AU: Misty

Entry tags:

Sibling AU: Misty

They're heading out to dinner for his birthday, all four of them. He's laughing at some dumb dad joke, but later he won't even remember what the joke was, because he doesn't actually remember anything for several minutes before and after it happens. It. Because he has no idea what it is, only that one minute they're driving along like normal, and the next there's light and heat and something that isn't quite pain but does a damn good job pretending like it is. It's magic, he knows, but it's magic unlike anything he's felt before.

And then the next there's a smoking wreck of the family car and an overturned semi truck, and he's curled over their mother sobbing, unable to remember exactly how he got there, but feeling like his blood is singing with more power than he's ever had before. It doesn't make her get up. He knows his eyes are pitch black, the air is warping around his hands, but nothing he's pushing into her body is making her get up.

Then suddenly Misty's there, and they're stumbling away together from the smoke and the blood. "I don't know what happened," is all he can say, the panic gone but now feeling numb, shocky. The magic is draining out of him as they weave along the side of the road. The police can find them later, probably, but for now it's just them. "Misty, I don't know what happened."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Keep it manageable?" She asks, with a nudge to his shoulder. "More, but small still. Like - same weight, more reps. Can't go letting other people catch something accidentally."

And taking her brother away.

As if anyone or anything could hold in a guy who can turn into nothingness and drift through walls. "There's nobody here but you and me. And the help, sometimes, but not all the time. I'm not stupid. I've been hiding this since I was thirteen." If not even their parents had found out before, nobody's going to find out now, even if he does use it more. There's no one left to hide it from.

He gives his beer bottle a morose look, then has a swig.

"Still easy to slip up," she warns, picking over berries and crackers with little purpose. "It's my job to worry is all. Never gonna get rid of that, not even now."

A sip is taken of her own, an incredibly poor pairing with the meal.

"Especially as flashy as you can get." More lighthearted. He is, has always been, she hopes will always be, a ham.

Chase would kind of maybe like to get drunk, he thinks, but he'd also kind of maybe like to just sleep for a week, if his stupid magic will let him. Maybe the drunk part will help the sleep part.

For now, he just drops his head onto her shoulder. "Me? Flashy? Naw."

"You, an actual peacock." She laughs, flicking the stem of a grape lazily into his lap. "So much flash." Nerd.

"The quiet stints like these are rare. However much we may want them."

A laugh lurks under the surface, there.

He catches the stem with magic and makes it twist into a pretzel, then tosses it over onto the platters with the remaining food. He has another swig from his beer. "Shut up, I'm not a peacock," he counters, though not with any bite to it. "Peacocks are dumb and loud. I'm just loud."

"Loud and flashy, like a peacock."

Dumbness to be determined.

"Point is just that you're not subtle, even if you're sneaky. Different things."

"Look, I told you, I'll be careful." He sounds kind of petulant about it. He's already promised, why are you still harping on this, Misty? "No more school until college in the fall, either. And we'll be busy hunting down records and people, if there's any people left. It'll be fine."

"I worry. My job's worrying." Warm but serious, that's all the explanation and the nearest to an apology she's willing to give.

In other small victories, their sad dinner's at least more of a dinner than she envisioned - she's steadily flying through fruit.

"The looking'll hopefully be enough to keep us more than occupied...I might crash soon." Unrelated to her modest sips of beer, she's ready to assure him.

"Yeah, me, too." Not related to the beer, either. Though he might take another one to his room.

His room seems really fucking empty, right now. But he'll deal. Probably. He finishes off the bottle and pushes up to grab some more cheese and little round pieces of ham. Misty can have all the fruit she wants, he's after the protein.

"Crash, I mean. Not worry. Worrying is not my job, thanks." He's mostly joking. He does worry some, but clearly not as much as Misty does.

"Hopefully never. A worried Chase would give me a heart attack." Puts a smile on her face in the moment, though. "We'll be better with as much sleep as we can get, anyway. I might camp out here - tv on, just for noise. Yell if it's too loud."

She's not quite there yet, but does slump against the arm of the couch comfortably.

"TV's far enough from my room that it won't bother me." He pops his current cheese haul into his mouth, grabs another handful, and a second beer. "Guess I'll leave you to it."

"Sleep well."

Unlikely, but wishing as much is habit and habits are comforting. Let what little things can continue unchanged do just that.

Barring interruption her night will pass in largely the manner she implied it might; steadily working to polish off the platter and working through a first beer. Starting a second while she channel flips, taking some time to realize she doesn't want to watch anything or pure noise - finding something that cloys for attention in the way she wants is time consuming, but ultimately old kung-fu films and/or soap operas are found to suffice. Flipping between those during commercial breaks is even fun.

There's no move to put on pajamas or retrieve bedding. Instead she dozes, physical comfort and exhaustion proving more demanding than mental restlessness.

It'll be fitful, but she will sleep.

It's not the tv that keeps him up. It's everything else. The sound of electricity, the buzz of his magic, the slight swimming of his head from the alcohol, the house being otherwise empty. The exhaustion and the grief. The fact that he's alone.

An hour of lying awake, and he's creeping out, looking for Misty. He can hear the tv still going, but maybe she's asleep... he doesn't even want to bother her, maybe. Just see her. Reassure himself someone's still there.

An hour is thankfully - not thankfully - soon enough to catch her up. Not alert by any means, eyes half-lidded with fatigue and boredom and restlessness of her own, but awake. It's a fine, new home, with no creaking floor to announce his presence. But he casts a shadow, a flash of white as the show fades to commercial standing out more starkly for a pale presence off to one side.

Gaze trailing to him, she hardly looks surprised. Curled up and against the arm of the couch, there's plenty of room. Rather than sit up to pat the empty space properly, a hand dips over the edge of the couch, fingertips trailing across the floor before she gives the upholstery a pat.

Welcoming, if he wants it.

He hesitates a long moment, just lingering there in the hallway, before he weaves over and drops onto the couch beside her and flops over sideways, half on top of her. He actually wriggles around until he's wedged himself between her and the couch, his head pillowed on her hip. She can shove him away if she really wants, but he's attempting a snuggle, at least. Even if he's probably too old to be snuggling.

Between flashes of television she watches with a tired, wry grin. No shove off, at least yet. Instead a ruffle of his hair, depending on the day roughly as annoying.

"You're okay," she says, and means truly as a promise. "We're okay."

He doesn't feel okay. But with another person right there, with Misty right there, he can pretend a little. And maybe sleep. He shuts his eyes and wraps an arm around her waist, and unless she kicks him off at some point, he'll fall asleep there.

She thinks, after he's stilled and his breathing slows, of how young he seems sometimes. Wonders if two or three years from now she'll look back and think the same of herself. What would ordinarily merit a playful shove off and a joke is instead met with a stillness of her own. Indulging him, much as comforting. They'll both be too past this someday.

She watches the poorly translated betrayal of a loyal stable boy, and an infomercial about something that claims she may finally be on the path to carrying laundry safely from the machine, and eventually nods off herself.

But breakfast waits for no man. There's work to be done. Whether during the process of untangling, in response to a prod at his shoulder, or anywhere in between, he'll wake up to an emptier couch. A clatter of plates would signal a presence in the kitchen, a sizzle indicating eggs. Something easy, something that can be hurriedly tossed together and packed with additions as she sees fit and manageable in the moment.

"So we should probably get a list ready. Plans."

Somewhere in between. He wakes up when she moves, but makes an unintelligible noise and buries his face back into the cushions when she abandons him. When she's coming back in, he complains at her, "Why do you have to be a morning person?"

It's a familiar complaint, though, and he's sitting up, yawning hugely, before she has a chance to prod.

Satisfied that he's moving, she retreats to the kitchen. She hadn't expected to smile so soon. No sense fighting it.

"Someone's got to get things rolling before noon daily or we'd never get anything done," she answers, starting on toast. "Maybe it's an eldest thing, that'd make sense. Predisposed to nagging you."

"No, we'd just get things done later in the day and at night," Chase grouses back, but he does reach for the toast, too. "So. List."

Making a playfully smug point of looking pleased — he's awake and eating, she won — she pulls up a stool and waits for her toast to pop up, tapping a knife against the jar of jam she's resting beside.

"Adoption records, birth parents, make them explain. That's the overarching. Records shouldn't be hard to get, it just depends how long we could hold out. I think if I asked into it with the lawyer they'd be able to get us access, it's not like they could keep any of the documents from us. But it'd probably take awhile. If we're restless, we maybe try ghosting into the office. All we need is names, and we can check online to see if they're listed anywhere."

Yellow pages or the obituaries, they can work with either. She doesn't say this aloud, hoping any use of his more frightening powers will be a last resort. No sense keeping it in his head.

"Once we find out who has the records, we can ghost in," Chase suggests around a mouthful of toast. He feels vaguely ill rather than hungry, but he knows food will help. Coffee will help more, but he's not sure if she actually made any. "And once I have a name and an address, even if it's an old one and they've moved, I bet I can work up some kind of tracing spell."

Using the magic itching under his skin is better than letting it just buzz there, doing nothing, he's sure of it. And it'll be faster than trying to hire an investigator to track a person down. "Even if they're not. You know. Alive anymore, I could summon their spirits." He has yet to get a spirit to talk much, but he's sure with the power he has now, he could boost the summoning.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Sibling AU: Misty

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject