Plain type is 2011 second person, "Al Motta." Italics is 2050s third person, "Al Motta" and Charlie Pierce-Lopez.
This picks up immediately after the events of my fic, "All That We Left Behind," when "Sugar" arrives from the future. There are also flashbacks (or flashforwards, if you want to think about it that way). I'm attempting to answer a question that has been bothering me for a while: If Sugar is Brittana's daughter from the future, who is the elusive and accommodating "Al Motta" who is taking care of her?
Much thanks to JJ (themostrandomfandom), kairos27, and Victoria (thevictoriagaga) because their ideas are what inspired me to write this.
You never knew your father worked at such a plain, boring looking school. He's in there somewhere, you suppose, and just bumping into him would make you feel a hell of a lot better.
But that's not the whole reason you're here. You try to focus on the task you've been assigned instead.
Right on schedule, she walks out of the building. The slump of her shoulders suggests a burden too heavy for a young girl to carry. Even if you didn't remember what she looked like from babysitting her years ago, the gravity of the sadness on her face would give her away regardless.
A teenage boy spins his coffee mug in his hands nervously. When he realizes he still doesn't know what to do with his hands, he sweeps long locks of black hair from his face. Every few seconds, the sound of the diner door opening and closing for new and old patrons startles him.
An older man in a 3-piece suit and slicked back hair takes the seat across from the teenage boy. In an instant, the boy switches from anxiety to business-mode.
You'd know that face anywhere. She's older now, but just by looking at her, it's obvious who her mothers are and where she gets that guarded, defiant look from. This is the same girl who, when she was three years old, refused to nap unless you played the guitar or piano for her. The song of choice was usually "Landslide."
"Glad you could make it," the boy says. "Coffee?"
The man shakes his head. "No. Insomnia. I don't need anything else keeping me up."
The boy's serious features soften for a second in genuine sadness. "How've you been holding up?"
"Not well. Haven't been sleeping, as you can see" —he points to the bags under his eyes with a grimace – "And I just took a few months off from work. I'm no use to anybody in this state. He was my old man, you know?" The question is more rhetorical than anything.
He looks at the younger boy, aged years by another source of grief. He's only a teenager, but he carries his own weighty burden.
"How have YOU been holding up, Charlie?
Dad always spoke highly of the Pierce-Lopezes. He played piano for their Glee club when they were teenagers, and whenever he got nostalgic about his teaching days, their love story always seemed to come up.
"I was there for the whole thing," he often said a smug grin. "For the blossoming of it all beyond friendship, the looks across the choir room when they thought nobody noticed,…everything. Those girls were always meant to be together." Santana even asked Dad to play "Songbird" at the reception when she married Brittany, and he was more than happy to oblige.
You remember dinners with the Pierce-Lopezes. Birthdays. Holidays. You're the same age as Brittany and Santana, so all of your kids grew up together. They would always send their daughter over when they needed a vacation.
Your families were so close that, naturally, Santana and Brittany were just as upset when they heard that Dad was sick. Santana visited the hospital often, holding Dad's hand and saying maybe, just maybe if she didn't have so many cigarette breaks with him during high school, this wouldn't have happened. But it was always said in jest, and Dad never held anything against her.
When he died, both women were devastated. And they already had so much on their plate…
Poor kid doesn't know how to lie. "I'm fine," he says with so much fatigue in his eyes that it betrays his composure. The spark of boyish innocence that you knew so well looks like it's been extinguished.
"Charlie…"
"Charles."
The lines of worry are even more clearly etched into the boy's face now. Nobody's been allowed to call him 'Charlie' since his sister disappeared a decade ago.
First thing you're doing is donating some pianos to this dump. Kinda as your own personal send off to your father, to keep the old grouch entertained and supplied. Of course he'd grunt and act like he didn't care, but you know he would secretly appreciate it somehow.
He dismisses the older man's mistake with a wave of his hand. He rests his chin on his long, interlocked fingers.
"What would you say if I told you that I can help you see your father again?"
The older man smiles. Not just because the thought of being reunited with his father would give him some peace, but because he knows exactly what's on the young boy's mind.
"Well, Charles, I'd say that you want me to go to the past to rescue your sister."
"Get in," you say curtly.
As upset as she is, she still isn't brainless. Mistrust and bewilderment are still written all over her face.
"Who the hell are you?" She doesn't recognize you without your beard. You shaved it shortly after Dad died; it was too much like his, to the point that even your own reflection haunted you.
The whole scenario does look a little sketchy, you admit. Older man picking up a confused teenage girl? You hope nobody's looking, and you have to do this quickly before you draw attention to yourself. You say the only thing that you know will make her listen. She's lonely and confused, so this is exactly what she needs to hear.
"Charlie sent me."