through hell ficlet
For Lora: Pete and the little Flemings. ♥
Sorry for typos. Wrote this with eyes mostly-closed sleepy. But finish! \o/
Wordcount: 2,750
What Peteninja Wrote:
Manda called when I was driving but I didn’t tell her I was driving ‘cause she’d have hung up and I wanted to talk to her. Which maybe wasn’t smart, but who’s smart when they’re in love? Anyways nothing crashed or blew up. Though I don’t know how she didn’t hear the Beast making all that noise. Except maybe she did and she’s just biding her time. And now I’m terrified.
Work was boring today.
What Actually Happened:
Pete shared the Beast with three other guys. The schedule got pretty complicated, and (Dumbass) Dwayne forgot to fill the tank *every damned time* and you had to fill it yourself then track him down for the gas money, which was a chore, and yeah the Beast rattled like a box of bolts and had rust-holes in the floor so you got splashed if you drove after a rain. But it drove, and they owned it, free and clear and all theirs, and gradually they’d fix it up bit by bit till the Beast was a Beauty who purred and growled and never broke down.
Not that the Beast had suffered a personality failure for the month (yet), but still. Pete never went anywhere without bus-fare, just in case.
The lifeguard job was decent. I mean the pay was middling-fair, but he got to be outside and in the sun (the skin on his nose and the tops of his shoulders was a little tight despite the zinc oxide), and he got to watch people being happy at the beach the whole time he was working, and yesterday he’d helped this grandfatherly dude who’d gotten in trouble out by the breakers, and how awesome was that, to get to be that useful? So Pete was quite happy with the job, plus he never had to work evenings. Except Manda was ON evenings now at that crisis center job of hers so he didn’t get to see her nearly enough, which is why he hadn’t told her about being behind the wheel when she called. So he was happy, doing 3 below the speed limit round the bend by Briar House Farms, the veggie place, when he saw a mid-sized hump of bloody feathers in the road, a dead hen, and at least four little puff-ball chickens milling about. They’d be roadkill themselves without her, and anyways how would they live? They’d get picked off by a hawk or somebody’s dog or something.
So Pete pulled over and the Beast coughed when he killed the engine.
In the back were several boxes; each of the guys kept their in-the-car crap in a separate one so there wouldn’t be any squabbles about who used the last of the change for parking or who’d lost the air freshener or whatever. There were spare boxes, which Pete had put there just in case, and he nabbed one now and put it on the hood.
The chickens were little brown and yellow fuzzballs on too-long legs, not tiny babies but without even the pinfeathers that’d turn into proper plumage. Did chickens have plumage, or was it only for prettier birds? The little things called constantly, tiny peepings, and they peered all around with their liquid black eyes.
Pete looked at his watch. He was babysitting at Chez Fleming tonight so Paul could have a romantic whatever with Michael without feeling guilty about taking his mom’s one free evening away from her. But the little things would die if he left them. But what would he do with them anyway? How the hell did you catch a bunch of baby birds? At least the rise by the side of the road was too steep for them, so they couldn’t get far.
As Pete thought this over, one of them pecked a shred of its mother.
What Peteninja Wrote:
OH MY GOD. THAT IS SO DISGUSTING. DID YOU KNOW THAT CHICKENS EAT ROADKILL? EVEN IF THAT ROADKILL IS ANOTHER CHICKEN!? I mean I remember reading that butterflies did and going “ew ew ew” but. Gah. I can’t even talk about it.
When I told the guys Clive said I should have taken pictures. I dumped him in the trashcan. That’s what he gets for being little and scrawny and easy to stuff into things.
I am never eating chicken again.
What Actually Happened:
Their little clawed feet made rustling noises on the cardboard. Pete drove with one hand, and he’d buckled the box in but he held it anyways, not wanting to turn hard or brake and have the box topple over. They’d only fall through the holes in the Beast’s floor and THAT would just be entirely too much. He’d caught six chickens; there may have been more, but those were the only ones he’d seen. He was all sweaty now. Which, whatever. He’d only wind up running around with Tony on his shoulders while Mitchell whacked his legs with a pillow and Shannon threw beanie-babies at them or something.
Energetic little doodlebugs, God love ‘em.
Pete had timed his arrival at Chez Fleming carefully. He had to get there *after* Tina had left for her tea with Jennie and Wren, but *before* Paul left (not that Paul would leave the kidlets unattended, but that wasn’t the point). This was because Paul was happy to hug Pete and take off, whereas Tina would want hugs and how-are-you and might notice the grocery-bags in the back of the Beast. So if he worked it right he’d be able to squirrel the stuff away without a fuss. Though one of the kidlets would wind up blabbing and he’d get a lecture or reproachful looks or Paul would swat him upside the head with Shannon’s plushie snake, or the silent treatment, or *something*. But. It was easier to ask forgiveness than permission, you know? And it wasn’t like Manda let him spend money on her.
So when Pete parked and turned the Beast off (rattle wheeze growf), he mentally slapped himself on the back when Paul immediately darted out the front door, all dolled up, and gave Pete a quick hard hug before scuttling off to the bus-stop without more than a, “Shannon is catching a cold so careful you don’t get it too and make sure Mitch does his homework please and thankyou!”
“Got it!” Pete called after him, and went to the door to say hi to whoever was home-no sign of Bethy (work) or Tiff (rugby), but Jolene was in her room by the sound of it-Jonas Brothers on repeat-and Tony was organizing everyone’s shoes in descending order, left shoes on the left side of the hall, right shoes on the right side of the hall.
“Hi everybody!” Pete said. “Tony, you got a moment? Come help me get the groceries in.”
Mitchell stuck his head out of the kitchen. “You know you’re not supposed to do that anymore!” His tone was mid-way between Fleming Wounded Pride and a smug boy’s So-and-So’s-in-trouuuuuuble!
Pete spread his hands. “Well, too late; I already did. You gonna give me a hug or what?”
Mitchell didn’t ‘hug’ so much as ‘tackle briefly’, but Tony leaned his head on Pete’s leg for a moment, then went back to the shoes and picked up his own and handed them to Pete. “There ya go,” Pete told him, and helped him get his shoes on.
“I’m doin’ homework,” Mitchell said.
What Peteninja Wrote:
So Mitchell? ‘Did his homework’ all night without actually getting it done. Where did he learn that from? Why did I fall for it? Why did I let Tony convince me to put all the groceries away upside-down?
What Actually Happened:
Mitchell was fascinated by the chickens. The wandered aimlessly and called softly in their throats constantly, and walked in their own poo without noticing, something Tony was gigglingly revolted by. Pete set the box on the kitchen table in the middle of everyone’s homework.
Shannon slept-she hadn’t done her homework, but at her age homework was “draw and colour three ponies and write “three pretty ponies” in crayon underneath”, so it was okay. Pete had looked in on her and tugged her faded Disney Princess quilt up around her shoulders, and kissed her forehead. Three days later Paul would pitch a fit at Pete-”Didn’t I tell you not to catch Shannon’s cold!?”-but for now, Pete let the baby sleep and tried to figure out what to do with the birds.
“There’s a smell,” Jolene said, leaning over the box with reluctant interest. Her hair was that glossless black from the dye and she still had traces of it packed under her nails.
“YOU’RE a smell,” Mitch said. Jolene smacked his arm, and Pete automatically grabbed both their wrists before a proper slap-fest could start. He didn’t say anything, just gave them each The Eyebrow.
“Oh my God,” Jolene said. “I hope they die!”
She set off, doubtless to go sulk somewhere, but Pete’d had enough. She’d got all sorts of ideas in her head, playing at ostentatious despair while her mother worked three jobs and her brother worried someone would take his son away based on a technicality, as if that held anything on love. And when Pete had tried to talk to Manda about it she’d just pointed out that at Jo’s age everyone was myopic, all they could see or feel or think in any kind of visceral way was what they felt/saw/thought right now. And yeah, fine, being a teenager sucked under the finest circumstances. But there was being a typical teenager, and there was being a little *shit*
“Right everyone! Homework, now,” Pete said, and took the box under his arm, setting off a cascade of little claws dragging across the cardboard and a spate of peepings. He took Jolene’s arm in the other.
“Joleeeeene’s in trouble!” Mitch said.
“Homework!” Pete said, and employed Stern Glare #5, the one he’d learned from Batman comics. Mitch plonked into his seat and started chewing his pencil.
“Go on,” Pete told Jolene.
When they’d gone as far down the hall as they could without waking Shannon, Pete let Jolene go.
“Wanna say that again?” Pete said.
Jolene turned her head so the curtain of her hair dragged over her face. “They’re just dumb birds.”
Pete set the box down carefully and scooped a chicken up, the dry scales on its feet and the hard little nails on his palm, the delicate bones and fever-hot skin under the down feathers. He caught Jolene’s hand, and when she wouldn’t release the fist, he set the bird lightly on the back of her hand, holding one splayed hand just under in case the bird fell or she shook it off.
“There really is a smell,” Jolene said, but her tone had changed. She wasn’t angry anymore; she sounded judged, lost.
“You kill ‘em, then.”
Jolene tried to tug away without dislodging the chicken. Pete held her firm for a moment, then gently trapped the chicken between his palm and the back of Jolene’s hand, just enough for the bird to crouch and peep louder.
“Go on,” he said. “It’s just a dumb bird.”
“I don’t want to!” Jolene said.
“Then don’t,” Pete said, put the chicken back into the box, and offered Jolene a hug. “Look, don’t say stuff you don’t mean, okay? It doesn’t end well.”
Jolene made a muffled sound of agreement into Pete’s shoulder. Pete patted the edges of her shoulderblades, like he was burping an infant, until she pulled away 34 seconds later. He pretended not to notice that she’d need to wash her face and re-apply that stark makeup, all whites and blacks and grey.
“Be good, but don’t be TOO good,” Pete told her, “Okay?”
There really wasn’t any cause for that kind of acidity. And in somebody not old enough to drive!
“Jeez,” Pete said. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you decide to be civil.”
“Stop treating me like a baby!”
“This is treating you like a baby,” Pete said, and scooped Jolene up over his shoulder while she screeched and yanked his hair. He carried her over to her work-desk and set her down on her homework, next to the battered little boom-box. “But since you’re not a baby I wouldn’t dream of it. Do your homework.”
“One day you’re going to grow up, and then you’ll be embarrassed of this.”
“Whatever. Tea?”
“Only if you poison it.”
“That’s a no then,” Pete said, shrugged, and left the room.
Later, he played chesseckers with Tony while Mitchell ‘did his homework’ and Jolene did readings for class. It was nice.
He dropped the birds at the RSPCA on the way home.
What Peteninja Wrote (the next day):
Nothing happened today, either. Got called “snake-shagging crazy” today, which gets points for being new I guess? I was only trying to get someone’s dachsund out from under a truck. Using a balloon and half a ham sandwhich. Totally normal.
Manda called today. She’s pretty. She doesn’t let me tell her often so I’m telling you :)
Sorry for typos. Wrote this with eyes mostly-closed sleepy. But finish! \o/
Wordcount: 2,750
What Peteninja Wrote:
Manda called when I was driving but I didn’t tell her I was driving ‘cause she’d have hung up and I wanted to talk to her. Which maybe wasn’t smart, but who’s smart when they’re in love? Anyways nothing crashed or blew up. Though I don’t know how she didn’t hear the Beast making all that noise. Except maybe she did and she’s just biding her time. And now I’m terrified.
Work was boring today.
What Actually Happened:
Pete shared the Beast with three other guys. The schedule got pretty complicated, and (Dumbass) Dwayne forgot to fill the tank *every damned time* and you had to fill it yourself then track him down for the gas money, which was a chore, and yeah the Beast rattled like a box of bolts and had rust-holes in the floor so you got splashed if you drove after a rain. But it drove, and they owned it, free and clear and all theirs, and gradually they’d fix it up bit by bit till the Beast was a Beauty who purred and growled and never broke down.
Not that the Beast had suffered a personality failure for the month (yet), but still. Pete never went anywhere without bus-fare, just in case.
The lifeguard job was decent. I mean the pay was middling-fair, but he got to be outside and in the sun (the skin on his nose and the tops of his shoulders was a little tight despite the zinc oxide), and he got to watch people being happy at the beach the whole time he was working, and yesterday he’d helped this grandfatherly dude who’d gotten in trouble out by the breakers, and how awesome was that, to get to be that useful? So Pete was quite happy with the job, plus he never had to work evenings. Except Manda was ON evenings now at that crisis center job of hers so he didn’t get to see her nearly enough, which is why he hadn’t told her about being behind the wheel when she called. So he was happy, doing 3 below the speed limit round the bend by Briar House Farms, the veggie place, when he saw a mid-sized hump of bloody feathers in the road, a dead hen, and at least four little puff-ball chickens milling about. They’d be roadkill themselves without her, and anyways how would they live? They’d get picked off by a hawk or somebody’s dog or something.
So Pete pulled over and the Beast coughed when he killed the engine.
In the back were several boxes; each of the guys kept their in-the-car crap in a separate one so there wouldn’t be any squabbles about who used the last of the change for parking or who’d lost the air freshener or whatever. There were spare boxes, which Pete had put there just in case, and he nabbed one now and put it on the hood.
The chickens were little brown and yellow fuzzballs on too-long legs, not tiny babies but without even the pinfeathers that’d turn into proper plumage. Did chickens have plumage, or was it only for prettier birds? The little things called constantly, tiny peepings, and they peered all around with their liquid black eyes.
Pete looked at his watch. He was babysitting at Chez Fleming tonight so Paul could have a romantic whatever with Michael without feeling guilty about taking his mom’s one free evening away from her. But the little things would die if he left them. But what would he do with them anyway? How the hell did you catch a bunch of baby birds? At least the rise by the side of the road was too steep for them, so they couldn’t get far.
As Pete thought this over, one of them pecked a shred of its mother.
What Peteninja Wrote:
OH MY GOD. THAT IS SO DISGUSTING. DID YOU KNOW THAT CHICKENS EAT ROADKILL? EVEN IF THAT ROADKILL IS ANOTHER CHICKEN!? I mean I remember reading that butterflies did and going “ew ew ew” but. Gah. I can’t even talk about it.
When I told the guys Clive said I should have taken pictures. I dumped him in the trashcan. That’s what he gets for being little and scrawny and easy to stuff into things.
I am never eating chicken again.
What Actually Happened:
Their little clawed feet made rustling noises on the cardboard. Pete drove with one hand, and he’d buckled the box in but he held it anyways, not wanting to turn hard or brake and have the box topple over. They’d only fall through the holes in the Beast’s floor and THAT would just be entirely too much. He’d caught six chickens; there may have been more, but those were the only ones he’d seen. He was all sweaty now. Which, whatever. He’d only wind up running around with Tony on his shoulders while Mitchell whacked his legs with a pillow and Shannon threw beanie-babies at them or something.
Energetic little doodlebugs, God love ‘em.
Pete had timed his arrival at Chez Fleming carefully. He had to get there *after* Tina had left for her tea with Jennie and Wren, but *before* Paul left (not that Paul would leave the kidlets unattended, but that wasn’t the point). This was because Paul was happy to hug Pete and take off, whereas Tina would want hugs and how-are-you and might notice the grocery-bags in the back of the Beast. So if he worked it right he’d be able to squirrel the stuff away without a fuss. Though one of the kidlets would wind up blabbing and he’d get a lecture or reproachful looks or Paul would swat him upside the head with Shannon’s plushie snake, or the silent treatment, or *something*. But. It was easier to ask forgiveness than permission, you know? And it wasn’t like Manda let him spend money on her.
So when Pete parked and turned the Beast off (rattle wheeze growf), he mentally slapped himself on the back when Paul immediately darted out the front door, all dolled up, and gave Pete a quick hard hug before scuttling off to the bus-stop without more than a, “Shannon is catching a cold so careful you don’t get it too and make sure Mitch does his homework please and thankyou!”
“Got it!” Pete called after him, and went to the door to say hi to whoever was home-no sign of Bethy (work) or Tiff (rugby), but Jolene was in her room by the sound of it-Jonas Brothers on repeat-and Tony was organizing everyone’s shoes in descending order, left shoes on the left side of the hall, right shoes on the right side of the hall.
“Hi everybody!” Pete said. “Tony, you got a moment? Come help me get the groceries in.”
Mitchell stuck his head out of the kitchen. “You know you’re not supposed to do that anymore!” His tone was mid-way between Fleming Wounded Pride and a smug boy’s So-and-So’s-in-trouuuuuuble!
Pete spread his hands. “Well, too late; I already did. You gonna give me a hug or what?”
Mitchell didn’t ‘hug’ so much as ‘tackle briefly’, but Tony leaned his head on Pete’s leg for a moment, then went back to the shoes and picked up his own and handed them to Pete. “There ya go,” Pete told him, and helped him get his shoes on.
“I’m doin’ homework,” Mitchell said.
What Peteninja Wrote:
So Mitchell? ‘Did his homework’ all night without actually getting it done. Where did he learn that from? Why did I fall for it? Why did I let Tony convince me to put all the groceries away upside-down?
What Actually Happened:
Mitchell was fascinated by the chickens. The wandered aimlessly and called softly in their throats constantly, and walked in their own poo without noticing, something Tony was gigglingly revolted by. Pete set the box on the kitchen table in the middle of everyone’s homework.
Shannon slept-she hadn’t done her homework, but at her age homework was “draw and colour three ponies and write “three pretty ponies” in crayon underneath”, so it was okay. Pete had looked in on her and tugged her faded Disney Princess quilt up around her shoulders, and kissed her forehead. Three days later Paul would pitch a fit at Pete-”Didn’t I tell you not to catch Shannon’s cold!?”-but for now, Pete let the baby sleep and tried to figure out what to do with the birds.
“There’s a smell,” Jolene said, leaning over the box with reluctant interest. Her hair was that glossless black from the dye and she still had traces of it packed under her nails.
“YOU’RE a smell,” Mitch said. Jolene smacked his arm, and Pete automatically grabbed both their wrists before a proper slap-fest could start. He didn’t say anything, just gave them each The Eyebrow.
“Oh my God,” Jolene said. “I hope they die!”
She set off, doubtless to go sulk somewhere, but Pete’d had enough. She’d got all sorts of ideas in her head, playing at ostentatious despair while her mother worked three jobs and her brother worried someone would take his son away based on a technicality, as if that held anything on love. And when Pete had tried to talk to Manda about it she’d just pointed out that at Jo’s age everyone was myopic, all they could see or feel or think in any kind of visceral way was what they felt/saw/thought right now. And yeah, fine, being a teenager sucked under the finest circumstances. But there was being a typical teenager, and there was being a little *shit*
“Right everyone! Homework, now,” Pete said, and took the box under his arm, setting off a cascade of little claws dragging across the cardboard and a spate of peepings. He took Jolene’s arm in the other.
“Joleeeeene’s in trouble!” Mitch said.
“Homework!” Pete said, and employed Stern Glare #5, the one he’d learned from Batman comics. Mitch plonked into his seat and started chewing his pencil.
“Go on,” Pete told Jolene.
When they’d gone as far down the hall as they could without waking Shannon, Pete let Jolene go.
“Wanna say that again?” Pete said.
Jolene turned her head so the curtain of her hair dragged over her face. “They’re just dumb birds.”
Pete set the box down carefully and scooped a chicken up, the dry scales on its feet and the hard little nails on his palm, the delicate bones and fever-hot skin under the down feathers. He caught Jolene’s hand, and when she wouldn’t release the fist, he set the bird lightly on the back of her hand, holding one splayed hand just under in case the bird fell or she shook it off.
“There really is a smell,” Jolene said, but her tone had changed. She wasn’t angry anymore; she sounded judged, lost.
“You kill ‘em, then.”
Jolene tried to tug away without dislodging the chicken. Pete held her firm for a moment, then gently trapped the chicken between his palm and the back of Jolene’s hand, just enough for the bird to crouch and peep louder.
“Go on,” he said. “It’s just a dumb bird.”
“I don’t want to!” Jolene said.
“Then don’t,” Pete said, put the chicken back into the box, and offered Jolene a hug. “Look, don’t say stuff you don’t mean, okay? It doesn’t end well.”
Jolene made a muffled sound of agreement into Pete’s shoulder. Pete patted the edges of her shoulderblades, like he was burping an infant, until she pulled away 34 seconds later. He pretended not to notice that she’d need to wash her face and re-apply that stark makeup, all whites and blacks and grey.
“Be good, but don’t be TOO good,” Pete told her, “Okay?”
There really wasn’t any cause for that kind of acidity. And in somebody not old enough to drive!
“Jeez,” Pete said. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you decide to be civil.”
“Stop treating me like a baby!”
“This is treating you like a baby,” Pete said, and scooped Jolene up over his shoulder while she screeched and yanked his hair. He carried her over to her work-desk and set her down on her homework, next to the battered little boom-box. “But since you’re not a baby I wouldn’t dream of it. Do your homework.”
“One day you’re going to grow up, and then you’ll be embarrassed of this.”
“Whatever. Tea?”
“Only if you poison it.”
“That’s a no then,” Pete said, shrugged, and left the room.
Later, he played chesseckers with Tony while Mitchell ‘did his homework’ and Jolene did readings for class. It was nice.
He dropped the birds at the RSPCA on the way home.
What Peteninja Wrote (the next day):
Nothing happened today, either. Got called “snake-shagging crazy” today, which gets points for being new I guess? I was only trying to get someone’s dachsund out from under a truck. Using a balloon and half a ham sandwhich. Totally normal.
Manda called today. She’s pretty. She doesn’t let me tell her often so I’m telling you :)