(no subject)
Early morning and she was awake in the little bedroom she’d borrowed while its actual owner slept on an air mattress that was now empty as she stepped over it and out into the hall. Downstairs, around into the kitchen and she found Anarchy (god why was that his name) slouching tiredly over a bowl of brightly colored cereal, yawning and looking up at her as she came in. It was funny, how they were always cute when they weren’t talking. “Hi.”
“Why’re you up, you don’t have to go to school,” he scowled at the last word, shoving another huge spoonful into his mouth. She lifted her eyebrows at him, not impressed in the least, and he blinked at her and then turned to peer at something suddenly fascinating in his cereal bowl.
“Old people get up early.” Someone had made coffee and she rifled through cabinets until finding a mug, pouring herself a cup and sliding to sit next to the kid, sipping it and smiling thinly at him. “So you’re in school?”
“Second grade. It’s so laaaaaame. First grade was better.” He inhaled another spoonful of sugar-whatever-they-weres, eyebrows knitting together. Eleanor took another drink of coffee.
“Mm. That’s not what Andy used to say.” Leaning an elbow on the table, she slid her fingers around the rim of her mug as Anarchy watched her, vaguely curious. “But that was when he met Merrick so maybe that’s why.”
“Really?” he asked, peering at her unabashedly. She nodded and he laughed, apparently finding that really funny, before shaking his head and sending clumps of red hair swinging around his face. “Second graders are lameasses though pfftttt.”
Of course. Rolling her eyes and glancing at the clock, she drained the rest of her coffee and stood up to put it in the sink. “When’s school start?”
“Uh.” He peered up at the wall clock, a flimsy analog thing that she suspected was probably just taped to the wall in back, before shrugging and lifting his bowl to suck down the rest of the milk. “Soon. Dad takes me on his way to work so whenever he’s ready.”
She paused at that, somehow not having really realized that with a house and a son came a job -- a job? -- but before she could really say anything Andy walked in, rubbing one eye and carrying a bag and jacket. He stopped short, blinking as if he’d completely forgotten, before putting a hand on Anarchy’s head and looking down at him.
“Ready to go?”
“No.” He scowled, and Eleanor snorted quietly. Andy shot her a look and just frowned, dumping the cereal bowl and spoon in the sink.
“Go get your stuff. I’m gonna see if the damn car’s going to start.” For a moment Anarchy didn’t move, mouth scrunched up with all the indignation a seven year old could really have, but finally he slid out of the chair and padded off into the other room, muttering something about oppression and teachers and gym. Through the déjà vu Eleanor smiled at her son, pouring a last cup of caffeine into a plastic travel mug.
“I like your tie.”
His head snapped around to glare, not amused and looking just as pissy as the seven year old had two minutes ago, which just made her smile wider in a sort of contented mix of parental affection and schadenfreude. "Have a good day at work, honey."