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Lackadaisy Vignettes
brusque
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It is one of the first memories that he has of his father, and in all honesty it isn't even a very good one.
He is standing on Aunt Nina's porch - because for some reason he does think of it, always, as more Aunt Nina's porch than Uncle Caroll's porch - in the mid-morning sun. It's chilly outside, because the leaves are starting to get crispy and his birthday is inching closer and closer, but he doesn't have a coat on and he shivers.
He was rushed into the car too quickly to bother with that sort of thing, some of his clothes and favorite books thrown into a small rucksack that his father carries, and drops heavily beside the front door. His father doesn't bother knocking, one large hand reaching out, twisting the knob and pushing the front door inward; the other hand comes down between his ears, ruffles his hair for a brief moment, and gives him a swift nudge toward the threshold even though he remains rooted to his spot on the porch.
"Go on in, Roark," is all he says, and then bounds away, down the porch steps, across the neatly trimmed yard.
The car door slams shut, and the hurried clap of Aunt Nina's shoes on the hardwood intrudes on the sound of the motor starting. Roark presses his fingers together, watching the car, his ears flicking back as Aunt Nina jerks the door open further, throws him one look, and then comes out onto the porch in the same motion she uses to snatch him up off his feet.
"Ransom!"
His ears quiver at the tone, the loudness of it. She sets him inside the house, disappears from his sight with a flick of her tail and whirl of her skirt, and Roark stands to the side of the door, looking out at the porch railing and vines twisting up and around it, tapping the tips of his fingers together and biting his lip, listening. He hears his father's name again, and then Aunt Nina doesn't even bother wasting her breath.
The grumbling car sounds fade away, slowly, and everything is quiet for a while before he hears Aunt Nina's shoes on the first porch step. It creaks. And groans. And so does the second step, and the third, and then Aunt Nina is leaning down to retrieve his discarded bag, coming inside and quietly pushing the door closed behind herself.
There's silence. Aunt Nina shifts his bag to her other hand, reaches down and soothes his hair back a few times, and Roark blinks bright blue eyes at her, biting his lip and smiling broadly, still tapping his fingers.
She pat's his back, pushes him forward.
"Go play with Calvin, Roark," she says, following behind him until he ducks into the parlor and she continues on her way towards the kitchen, "And be nice."
He's always nice, though, and runs immediately to the thick, embroidered blanket that's spread out on the floor, where his tiny, rolly, orange cousin is laying, chewing on one of his soft-wooden alphabet blocks. Roark stretches out beside him, grinning, and takes the block from him.
"Hiya, Freckle," he says, and starts spelling out the few words he remembers.
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(A/n) Surprisingly, I have no real comment to make here, except that the thought of Rocky's relationship with his father troubles me for unbeknownst reasons. Feedback is appreciated, as always! :D
-Motcn
