Sorry I'm Late
Author Note: The inspiration for this little one shot came from a story on here called Never Really Alone. I highly recommend checking it out; it's hilarious, brilliant, original, and pretty heart-wrenching. Very good story, at any rate
P.S. If you guys would like me too, I am considering starting a multi-chapter story with fluff from all the characters in each chapter. If you are interested, please state in your review who you would like to see fluff between and how. I'm always open for requests ;)
And now, without further ado, I give you….this one-shot! :D
Help me, help me, heal this pain
That ruins my soul everyday.
Find me, save me, give me the strength
To somehow overcome the fear that makes me lame.
As Nine got older, it became more and frequently he would catch Sandor drinking out of a long neck bottle. It was these occasions when his business coat would be unbuttoned and a white, stained shirt would be on display, displaying what small hint of a muffintop he held shamelessly. When he was a young boy, he would be waved off and often sent to bed. As the years went by, however, he was looked at with glazy, grief-stricken eyes that told him exactly why he'd been pushed to that point. Quickly he learned to stop asking and to simply allow it, then later help him change into something not vomit stained.
Now as the strongest, toughest member of the Garde sat on a stool, alone but not alone, he remembered one scene especially vividly, back when he was about five or six years old:
"Sandor?" the young menace inquired his Cepan's name softly, considering he was told constantly not to call him his father, "what are you doing?"
Sandor's bloodshot, glazed eyes darted toward his son-figure from where he'd been drowning into a dead sleep on the couch, looking surprised with a subtle hint of anger. The intense, yet glazy, stare from the older man made the child shrink back, eyes wide as he gripped his hands in fists at his sides.
"Don't worry about me, kid," he shook his head, letting it loll casually to the side with his eyelids started to drop back again, "nothing for you to worry about."
"B-but…but Dad," he couldn't help himself, "where…where were you? Why d-did you leave me w-with that b-babysitter?"
The Cepan just closed his eyes, exhaling loudly and making the youth flinch. He hated to see his role model so out of it, looking so sullen and bitter. With another small flinch, he turned his back away, tears threatening to spill out of his eyes. Before he could leave fully, however, he was suddenly picked up by the drunken man, who, even though he stumbled with the extra minimal weight instantly, sat with him on the worn leather couch of their temporary hideout in North Carolina.
"Dad….what's going on?" the young boy asked softly, reaching up to wipe at his watery eyes now.
"I'm just…tired," Sandor shook his head weakly, gripping at the young Garde's thin shoulders, "yeah. That's all it is…don't worry about me."
"But where were you?" he half demanded, sounding frantic.
His bloodshot eyes drifted over to the clock. He hadn't been in very long, and he knew that human girl had put him to bed at eight. Even through his drunken state, though, he realized it was past midnight. When he looked back to the child he was supposed to protect at all costs, his resolve and drunk barrier cracked when he saw the tears rolling down his face.
"Kid…" he sighed, his alcohol stained breath hanging in the intense following silence.
"W-what?" he hiccupped up, looking up miserably, his eyes flashing with hurt and stubborn anger little boys carry.
With another shaky sigh, he pulled him close to his chest, whispering softly with his own eyes stinging, "….Sorry I'm so late, kid."
Slowly, the sixteen-year-old returned groggily to reality. It took a good bit longer, considering his own throat now burned with the liquid he poured down it. The bartender, he realized slowly, was declaring it was last call before they shut the place down, which meant it was definitely time for him to beat it. Running one hand through his long black hair and over his face, the Garde stood up with what strength he could muster, stumbling toward his car and switching on the automatic driving
The next time Number Nine woke up, it was still an inky dark in the sky, but his back was stiff, his stomach and throat were burning, and his neck was cramped. Slowly, he sat up in the seat, looking around in a half-awake, half-aware state. To his pleasure, he was back at the house; he commended himself silently for programming the car to take him there on auto-drive unless told otherwise. When he peered ahead, he found the house a quiet, still, looming gray mass against the dark, all still intact.
Good. Nobody died while I was gone, he thought as he swung open the door, falling to his knees the second he tried to stand, damn hangover.
As he stumbled into the house, the piercing headache beginning already, something latched around his waist. Considering he wasn't expecting it at all and it came too fast for him to stop, he promptly fell flat on his back, head screaming all that louder and stomach jerking. Groaning in his throat, he grabbed whatever grabbed him, feeling a soft, long mass of air and agile, thin shoulders.
"Kid…" he complained lowly, sitting up as best he could when he was so hung over.
She didn't respond verbally, but something hot and wet seeping into shirt where her face was pressed said it all. Confusion consumed his mind while he tried to remember what was the big deal; he'd gone out to drink at least once or twice while they were here, despite the protests of the other Garde, which he ignored. Even so, Ella had never really said anything to him about it, so her tears were, in his mind, pointless but still kind of concerning.
I can't deal with this right now, he thought as another sharp pierce shook his temples, I'm not in the mood for it.
"Kid," he repeated, reaching down and beginning to peel her off of his shirt, "let go."
Through the dim light of a flashlight that was now shining solo on the couch, he watched her lift her teary face, her sad brown eyes pleading and looking miserable. A little more gently, he scooped her off her feet with one arm, bringing over the flashlight with his telekinesis before starting up the few steps. She allowed it limply, sniffling and wiping at her eyes the entire way, which both annoyed and worried him to no end.
"What is your sitch?" he finally demanding, making her flinch back, "well?"
"You….you promised you were going to come back in time," she replied softly into her trembling hands; the realization hit him harder than the hangover while the flashback returned:
"Nine…" Ella's soft voice almost pleading him to stay, or at the least to wait.
"Don't worry about me, pipsqueak," he just shook his hand dismissively as he pulled on a jacket, "I'll be back before you miss me."
"But the party's going to start soon…" her gaze flickered down a bit, her voice becoming sadder with each word.
"I'll be back," he assured, reaching out to pat the top of her head, "I promise."
Reality yanked him back sharply to the sound of her quiet, muffled sniffles. Guilt and self-anger washed into his chest rapidly as he looked back to the young girl; he'd broken his promise to a gentle, nice eleven-year-old girl. No, twelve year old girl; he'd missed her birthday party. Guilt washed over him like ocean on a shore, eyes widening a bit.
"Aw, kid..." he gently urged her into a gentle hug, ignoring the spinning, dizzying feeling overcoming him from the hangover.
"I...it's okay..." she tried, but he just shook his head, bracing himself on one knee and focusing on keeping his total balance while attempting to ignore the piercing pain in his temples.
"No. I made a promise, and I broke it..." his voice was, for once, soft, "sorry I'm late, kid."
These things are so much more easier to do when your not hangover as hell.
This was Nine's thought as he knocked softly on the door of the room Ella and Marina were sharing. He'd already slept through most of the day, waking up to puke a couple of times, but now he was feeling about as good as he figured he would for the time being. Even though he still wasn't feeling too great, he plastered a crooked grin on his face smally.
"Hey, pipsqueak. I've got a surprise for you downstairs."
"A-a su-surprise?" she asked, sounding uncertain, surprised, and even a good deal shy, "what ki-kind of surprise?"
"Come on and I'll show you."
It wasn't much, but to her, it was beyond enough.
When he hadn't come back, it had honestly broken her heart. If she was to be honest with her feelings, she had quite the little crush on him, even if she knew it wasn't meant to be because of the age gap. But for him to show his soft side...it made her heart race. When she'd gotten downstairs, she'd found a piece of cake with roses and flowers on the icing, with a single red balloon tied beside it around the rim of a class of milk.
"I-I..." she stuttered, struck speechless with her face all but on fire as she red the little note in front of it:
Happy birthday, kid.
She felt his large, firm hand on her shoulder, which made her shiver with excitement. Slowly, she switched her wide-eyed gaze on his own, smiling in utter shock and happiness. Smirking a bit himself, he leaned down and kissed her forehead, making her heart race all that harder.
"Like I said, sorry I was late. Thought I'd make it up to you," he explained, ruffling up her hair.
Speechless, she wrapped her arms around his upper torso, smiling like crazy, "...Thank you, Nine. I love you."
Author Note: Fluff :)