A/N Omg. I just...can't. You guys are amazing. 20 reviews, 41 favs, and 88 follows on one chapter. I love you all so much! So I know I was able to respond to all of your reviews personally for Episode 11 (except for the anons, who I am also grateful to), but if you guys keep reviewing at this rate, I'll be in over my head! You blow me away. So to thank you all for that, I wrote an extra long chapter for you guys! 5000 words, baby. Also, I broke my toe over vacation so I had a lot of extra free writing time, hee hee. I'm not gonna lie, the beginning of this chapter was a little hard for me to get through. I just wanted to get to the Brallie goodness! I hope this chapter satisfies you as much as it satisfies me! I promise, the Brallie moments will be picking up soon. I know this chapter may leave you with a few questions, but I assure you they'll be addressed in the following episodes. Callie may seem a little OOC, but that's because she's changing a little. I promise she won't be so annoying for long. If you have any questions or concerns or ideas you wanna leave for me, drop in a review! Keep reviewing y'all, you rock! The more reviews I get, the longer the chapters I want to write! Until next monday, my lovely readers!
Episode 12
"Before you say anything, at least hear me out-"
"Dad." Brandon deadpans, pushing his way into his father's apartment, despite his obvious physical protests. He shuts the door behind him but does not lock it, and brushes past his overly intoxicated father to the center of the main living room. "I didn't come to argue with you. This is getting so old that I don't even care anymore."
He just stands in the middle of that room, eyes set almost casually on his father, who has suddenly grown a pair of gills and is floundering, in need of water. His mouth opens and shuts slowly, slightly, the glass of his fish bowl broken. His son was the glue when it broke the first time, but now, even he doesn't care anymore. He'll let him shrivel.
But it's like Brandon knows what he's thinking, because in the next second he's back tracking, trying to make things right again, even if it won't bring him the justice he deserves. It's just what he does, and it's not something that'll ever change. "Dad, I-I don't mean I don't care,"
"How can I make you happy?" he asks quietly, almost shrinking with shame. Brandon knows his father doesn't mean to do it, but his actions stir something horrid up in his stomach, and suddenly he just wants to hug him. But he can't. He can't encourage his behavior.
The obvious answer is stop drinking, but it doesn't take a genius to figure that one won't do much for long. So he seizes the opportunity to get what he came here for, and nods towards the kitchen. "You could start by fixing me something. I haven't eaten."
His eyes, despite the fog that has rolled in over them, light up instantly. "Okay," he agrees enthusiastically, heading for the fridge, "okay, I can do that. What're you in the mood for? Where's your mom? Why didn't you eat with her? Is something wrong?"
Brandon hangs back in the living room, gradually making his way over to the catch-all tray on the coffee table. He hears a burner on the stove light up, and he raises his voice to be heard over the flame. "Everything's fine, dad."
He's hoping the sizzle of something in the pan will cover the uncertainty in his voice, and the inevitable jangle of his father's car keys as he drops them into his pocket. He swears he can feel the coolness of them through his jeans. "I hope you like tuna!"
"Yeah." By the time he replies, his hand's on the knob, and it's so icy that it's burning the flesh on his fingers, and he agrees quietly, "tuna's fine."
But his words don't make it past the doorway, and by the time his dad registers this, he's already down the street.
Jesus and Mariana slip into the booth without a word. Their lips are pulled tightly, but their faces scream insight, and it doesn't take long for their moms to pick up on this. Jude doesn't acknowledge them as they wiggle into their seats, his eyes on his lap, though he doesn't even bother to feign fascination.
"Brandon didn't want to come?"
Mariana's eyes dart to Jesus, who is smart enough not to be so obvious. He addresses Lena as nonchalantly as possible, pretending not to feel the frantic gaze of his sister. "Nah, he said he felt like he was getting sick."
"Ah," Stef swirls her straw in her water, the ice clinking against the inside of the glass as she does so, "I wouldn't be surprised. What, with everything that's going on, it can take its toll." She zeroes in on Mariana, who appears to be intensely focused on the menu. "You okay, Mariana?"
"What?" she looks up, tries to look in her mother's eyes, but falls back on Jesus again. He refrains from shooting her a glare while they're watching, but he does nudge her side a little, and she spits out, "Of course I am, why are you asking?"
One of Stef's eyebrows reaches for her hairline, and there's a little worried laugh behind her words as she explains, "Well you never look at the menu here, you always know what you want."
"Club sandwich, right?" Lena adds, and it's in the most innocent way possible, free of all accusation and undertones, but Mariana still finds herself trying to disappear into the red, rubber vinyl of the seat, though the sweat under her thighs has her stuck in place. Jesus can see that this alone has done them in, and with a rueful sigh, he spills.
"Brandon and Callie kissed."
A head rises from between the two mother's, who have stopped looking at their menus, stopped playing with their ice water, stopped tapping their feet against the table leg. Two twelve-year-old eyes are shooting around the table now, watching the imaginary pinball as it bounces off Jesus, Mariana, and Lena, but when it reaches Stef, it ricochets strangely and falls back into the hole at the bottom. Nobody even notices the waitress standing over them until she speaks.
"What can I get for you?"
With the utmost seriousness in her voice, Stef regards the waitress. "An aspirin."
"This is it."
Wyatt steers the car past the massive house and into the driveway, which is slightly worn and goes back for what seems like miles. Callie catches a good glimpse of the inside of the house through the large, glass windows as they roll past it, traveling back towards the casita. It appears to be well-furnished, but it's not over-the-top, and what it lacks is made up for in the attached house behind it. "You have your own house."
He shrugs, smiling a little as he puts the car in park. "Of sorts."
He pops the trunk and swings himself out of the car, already unpacking, but Callie just stays in the passengers seat. She's no longer admiring the plot, but she's thinking about how great it would be to have a plan B like this. To have something to fall back on when Plan A doesn't work out. That was his first house. And though the look on his face tells her he's less than pleased to be here, she knows that deep down, he knows he's lucky. He has family when the going gets tough. She has none.
And the going is always tough.
"So you wanna check it our or what?"
She feels the warm breeze hit her side and she just now notices him leaning on her open door, two duffel bags slung over his shoulders. Silently, she picks up her own bag off her feet and hauls her heavy spirit out of the car.
When they enter, the blinds are drawn, it smells musty, and when Wyatt drops his bags on the floor, dust stirs in the air. He coughs whatever he's just breathed in, waving a hand in front of his face. "It needs a little TLC but-"
"It's perfect." she cuts him off, but when she smiles, it's a sad one. "It's a roof over my head and that's all I really wanted. And I promise you, as soon as I can get my own place, I'll be out of your hair."
He watches her as she moves across the room to open the blinds. The sunlight pours over their faces and into the room, which is surprisingly warm, with creamy golden walls and a large, plush sectional. She forces open the windows, letting in the fresh air as he begins, "Callie, you know that-"
"I mean it," she faces him, and the sun is peaking behind her, outlining her head and making it almost impossible to see her smile. But he does, and he can see that it isn't as forced as they usually are, and that she really is grateful to him. He's not about to deny her an emotion she is finally allowing herself to show, and he, as much as it pains him, nods in acceptance.
He points to the sectional. "That pulls out in to a sleeper. I'll take this and you can take the room, if you want."
"No," she finds her way over to it and falls on top of it, splaying her body out so that it she's hogging most of it, and grins at him. "I'll be comfortable here, but thanks."
He disappears into his room with a smile, then returns shortly with a thin magazine. He holds it up to her before flinging it at her. "TV guide. Looks like you'll be in charge of the flat screen."
She gapes, bounces off the couch, and bounds over to the large cabinet that is hiding the enormous television. She lets out a little incredulous laugh before addressing him. "You know, you may not be able to get rid of me, after all."
He folds his arms over his chest, but it's a casual gesture. "There's a little restaurant down the street that might need some help, if you're looking to make some money. Nothing too great, probably just washing dishes or whatever."
Some sound escapes her throat, and it's something between a scoff and a cough, dust particles visible in the rays of sunlight that now bathe the carpet. "You forget that I probably have people looking for me as we speak. They could easily track me once I'm employed."
"They can pay you under the table. No questions asked. I used to work there a couple of summers ago, before I was even of age for any kind of job."
She's slightly humored, but sarcasm is dripping from her tongue. "Sounds like the perfect place to work."
"You don't need perfect, you need do-able."
She raises her arms slowly, stretching almost cat-like, her muscles cramped from sitting in such a small space for so long. "Okay, I'll check it out. I think I'll go down there now."
He eyes his car in the driveway, the trunk door still ajar, numerous boxes visible, then narrows his eyes on her. She's already stepping over the threshold when he calls, "Right, how convenient."
She shakes her head through the sliver remaining between the door and the frame, helpless to the natural curve of her lips. "Don't be a baby."
He stays grimacing at the closed door.
"Okay," Stef says slowly, nodding curtly at the waitress as she sets down their food in front of them. Mariana and Jesus had taken the whole time it took to cook their food just to explain all the back story they knew to their mothers, who had remained quiet for the most part, but now that it's finally their turn to speak, they're at a loss for words. "So, now we...what do we do, Lena?"
Nobody touches their food, except Jude, who nibbles on a french fry as he looks up at the two woman above him, who are exchanging looks of pure helplessness. Lena folds her hands together, her fingers turning white at the tips as she unknowingly squeezes them. "I mean, what can we do?"
Mariana, who has been chewing on her straw nervously, pipes in. "Can I say something?"
They look to her, but they don't encourage her, and they don't call her endearing names. They forget to do all these things through their internal struggles. "I know it's forbidden or whatever to do this, but they care about each other. Callie really cares about him. She pretends not to because she's not used to. That's the thing. I think he makes her feel again. I don't think I really need to say anything more."
Somebody objects, but it's neither Stef nor Lena. "But it's not fair."
"What isn't, Jude?" Lena's eyebrows trek into familiar territory, and she places an arm around his shoulders, urging him to look up at them, as he had been playing around with his food through Mariana's whole speech.
He flings a french fry down onto his plate, but doesn't meet their eyes. "If they're together, then you can't adopt me."
"They're not together, baby," Stef reassures instantly, unaware of the defeated look Mariana sends Jesus, who reciprocates. "And they're not going to be. Nothing is going to change, we still want to adopt you."
"What about Callie?"
Lena squeezes him and pulls him into her side a little, blinking slowly, exhausted. Stef answers for her. "We'll figure that out when we find her, alright? Right now-" her phone buzzes loudly and she yanks it from its place on her belt, groaning when she sees the caller ID. "What does he want?"
"Who is it?"
Stef picks up, albeit, hesitantly, and exhales loudly in to the phone. "What is it, Mike?" Even from a distance Lena can hear his slurred ramblings from the other line, and aggravation is written all over her spouse's face. She opens her mouth to interrupt him, but then the words Brandon stole my car slink through the phone line, and she's clocked out.
She waves at Lena to scoot out of the both, and though she's baffled and extremely curious, she complies and pulls Jude out with her. Stef jams towards the bathroom, away from the table, where her family won't hear her yelling at him, though the suspicion she's created is almost as bad.
She's relieved when she finds it empty. "I can't believe this! You're tanked, Mike, again! I- no, don't even try to play that card with me, I know you're going through some shit right now but this is not a walk in the park for me, my foster child has run away and now you're telling me that my son has gone after her, and- yes, that's why he stole your car, why else? I can't even do this right now, you had one simple job as a father and you've failed! Again!"
The line cuts, but she's unsure if he hung up or she did, as her extreme fury seems to be clouding all her thoughts and memories. She faces the mirror briefly, twists on the cold water, and splashes her face, which feels like its been exposed to an open oven door. She watches the water drip off her chin for a few seconds before wiping it, half-assed, with a paper towel. When she returns to the table, her eyebrows are still wet and misshapen as she says, "Brandon's gone. Come on."
Mariana and Jesus are already sliding out of their side when Lena shakes out of her shock, her hands flying wildly as she speaks. "What? He went after Callie? We haven't even payed...come where? We don't even know where she is! How does Brandon? Shouldn't we just wait until we can file a report?"
Stef throws down a few twenties and pulls a face at them, which forces them out of their seats. "We can't involve the police. Callie's still on probation, so even if we find her, it won't matter. This could get her sent away again." Mariana and Jesus head out the door, but Jude hovers around the two women, panic flashing over his eyes. Stef sees this. "But we'll find her alone. Brandon knows where she is or he wouldn't have left. I'm calling him now."
She holds the humming device to her inflamed ear, and as it rings, Lena mumbles, loud enough for only Stef to hear, "This family is falling apart."
They push through the heavy doors, attracting a few intrigued patrons, and Stef assures, thoroughly determined, "Not for long."
Just as he's about to finally turn on the radio, after sitting through dead silence for the first fifteen minutes, his phone rings, it's shrill scream making him inwardly cringe and resort to answering it. He knows what's about to happen so he doesn't even bother to try to talk, just waits for the tirade that is inevitable. The second they're connected, she's off.
"Brandon, what is going on? You haven't answered any of my texts or calls!"
His hands tighten around the steering wheel. "I know, and I'm sorry, Talya. There's just a lot going on right now and I couldn't find the time to respond. I hope you understand."
"But I'm your girlfriend, you could've at least let me known what was going on real quick, I would've-"
"I'm driving right now and I really can't talk-"
"Just put it on speaker, then-"
"It is on speaker, but I don't have time for this."
"Where are you driving to? Why aren't you telling me what's going on?"
"Callie ran away, so I'm going to get her."
She says nothing for a beat, then softly utters, "Oh."
He rolls his eyes, suddenly very glad they're having this conversation over the phone and not in person. "See, this is why I didn't want to tell you. I knew you'd get like this."
"It's fine, really."
He wants to scream. "I know it's not with you."
"Well, it's just," there's rustling in the background and he guesses she's probably sitting up now, gearing up for another burst of bitching, "Callie's always doing stupid stuff and you always seem to be the one assigned her baby sitter. Then there's no time for us."
He's getting so caught up in his anger now that he barely brakes in time to not rear end the car in front of him on the freeway. He thought Talya had changed. He thought she had gotten over whatever insecurity she was going through, and though now she actually has something to be insecure about, she's unaware of it, but insecure nonetheless. "I seriously can't believe you right now. I can't do this."
"You can't do what?"
"Everything! I don't know, I just..." he's no longer stopped on the freeway now, but there's work traffic, and he wants to bang his head on the wheel. He finally knows where Callie is, and while he's trying to get to her, there's thousands of cars ahead of him, going 10 miles an hour. He should just anticipate more obstacles now. "I've got to go."
"Brandon-"
He knows its not fair to her, but he doesn't know how to make things right yet. "Don't call me later."
He hears the beginning of his name pass over her lips once more but he ends the call, letting his phone drop back into the cup holder rather violently. He can't stand it when she says his name. It used to make him go nuts, but now it just drives him crazy.
He's settling back into the silence when it goes off again, and just because he needs that little burst of angry motivation again at the sight of her name, he checks the screen.
But it's his mom, not Talya. He isn't surprised, he was actually expecting her to call sooner. He lets it ring a few times before sending it straight to voicemail. He doesn't need her kind of angry motivation, and he's in for a world of it when he gets home.
He flicks on the radio, catching the end of Highway to Hell. He can't think of anything more fitting.
She glances at the clock as she enters. It's almost 9. The job inquiry had somehow turned into a job interview, and the job interview had somehow turned in to job training, but she isn't going to complain. It feels nice to be so wanted.
There aren't any lights on, so she shuts the door quietly behind her, assuming Wyatt is already in bed. It wouldn't be strange, after all, he had driven a few hours and unpacked a car full of crap. She's digging almost silently through her bag when she hears the low rumble of his voice, and she tucks her hair behind one ear, eyeing the crack in his bedroom door. He's talking to someone, but it can't be himself. He's a little messed up, but not that bad.
She crawls closer to it, trying to pick up what he's saying. She doesn't have the television on, but the open window is letting in the sounds of the city, including car horns and a helicopter over head. It's only when she's all the way up against the door that she can finally hear him.
"Yeah, you'll see it, it's the only two-story house on the block, yellow. Yeah, it's on the left of it." She suddenly feels rather silly, seeing as it seems he's merely talking to a friend he's inviting over, so she starts to inch away. But before she's out of range, she catches him say, "Yeah, thanks, Brandon."
Traitor.
Her coat is in her hands and her shoelaces aren't even tied all the way and she doesn't know where she's going but she's running, running out the door and down the broken sidewalks and across the beaten streets and she's rubbing against a chain link fence that squeals noisily as she does so, and she's hoping she didn't make nearly as much noise when she fled the house. Because they can't find her, he can't find her, cause God knows what she'll do if he does.
And when she closes her eyes, she can see his face, she can imagine his face, disappointed and upset and just rejoiced to have found her, rejoiced to have found the girl he kissed and likes and maybe even loves and she may want to kiss him again, she may want to release everything she is and everything she stands for, just for him. And she can't release who is she, because she'll choose herself over him, any day. Sixteen years of life and the only person she's ever been able to count on is herself.
Her phone is shifting in her hand and she doesn't stop it, just watches as his name slips off her screen and her phone slips out of her hand, bouncing on the pavement. She looks back, and it's not broken, but she knows the deal with things like that. They'll try and try to convince themselves that they're not broken, that they've got life in them yet, and then one day, they'll just stop. And it's worse than if they had just bitten the dust to begin with.
Her legs are threatening to give out underneath her, refusing to run any further in converse. She hops that same fence, grunting as she hits the sand below, but she keeps going, forcing herself further into the public lake she remembers passing earlier. It's dark now, and there's not a soul in sight, but she wants it that way.
The tiny, pebble sand scrapes her knee where there is a tear in her jeans but she simply swipes the rocks out of her skin and keeps moving.
Brandon's just turning down Wyatt's block when he calls him again, sputtering into the phone, "I think Callie heard me on the phone with you and she ran, man, a few minutes ago."
His foot is lead and he's zooming past Wyatt's large house, catching a glimpse of where Callie's staying. He swears he can see Wyatt's upright form through the open window, and he almost forgets he's on the phone with him, then mumbles, "I'll find her," and hangs up.
He blows through a yellow light seconds before it turns red, his eyes scanning the sidewalk frantically. There's nothing behind him, there's nothing ahead of him, just a bunch of broken concrete and sprouting weeds. There's a discarded phone, it's blackened screen catching the moonlight briefly, and he eases on the brakes, something compelling him to stop in this spot. Behind the phone is a rusty fence, and behind the rusty fence is a sort of navy darkness, littered only with pulsating, silver anomalies that can only signify water, reflecting the massive moon on its surface.
He should keep going, he should get back in the car, but he's flinging open the door before he can stop it, his fingers curling around the metal fence diamonds, pruned hands on printer paper. His foot slips over the phone, but he doesn't pick it up yet, he's afraid to find out who it belongs to. So he just stares out to the lake, thinking maybe if he squints long enough, she'll appear.
And then there's a figure moving in the darkness, in the only spot light remains, the water. It's her height, it's her build, it's her, and she's swimming further in to the liquid darkness, further away from him, but he's already over the fence. He's running at first, but the water is up to her neck, and then the water has enveloped her whole body, her head bobbing under, so then he's sprinting, the sand heavy under his ungraceful feet.
He hits the water and his muscles feel thick, every which one of them begging him to get out, it's too cold. But he picks them up over the water and continues in like this, almost skipping as he goes, so that the strength of the flow against him will not slow him down. The water is only to his sternum when he feels her at his feet, and she shoots out of the surface, gasping for air.
When he seizes both of her arms, she gasps again, but it's not for more air. He swears he can hear her cursing under her breath, but it's not of anger, it's of extreme devastation. Her eyes are still squeezed shut from when she was underwater, and he flips her around, still holding her shaking form. "What the hell, Callie?"
Back in the brisk, night air again, she finally registers how cold the water really is, and her jaw aches with the startings of chatter. She doesn't need to open her eyes to know who's holding her, but she does anyway, looking up at him with burning, bloodshot orbs. The gentle rhythm of the lake pushes her into him, and she grabs both sides of his cardigan just to steady herself, but when she finds his top half still warm from the heater of the car, she has a hard time letting go.
But it doesn't matter, because he's pulling her by the waist, forcing her out of the water, the water sloshing obnoxiously around the commotion. He easily overpowers her stubborness and in the next second they're on the beach, clothes drenched and covered in hard sand. He's yelling at her, the emotional stress raising his blood pressure. "That water is freezing, are you crazy? What were you doing?"
Her hair is hanging in strings, and there's some attached to her lips, which are wet and paler than usual. There are droplets in her eyelashes and as she blinks at him, they dribble down her cheeks and into her open mouth. "Swimming."
He can see the muscles in her neck are clenched as she suppresses the chills, but she can't hold them much longer and she exhales shakily, her whole body racking with shivers and silent sobs. He lifts her to her feet and helps her over the fence and into the car, where he switches the heater on to the highest setting.
"Let's go get your stuff."
Wyatt is ready with her tidied bag in the driveway when they arrive, and as Brandon exits to retrieve it, he's smart enough to set the child lock while she waits in the car. He doesn't see her test it, but she does.
Through the thin glass of the windshield she can hear them exchanging their gratitude and she scowls. The heater hasn't dried her clothes but they're warm now, and her blood is flowing again, pumping to all her vital parts, like her toes, which she'll need for more running. When he steps back in, he turns off the child lock, and she's quick to push her door open, but he's even quicker to lean across her and shut it.
He just stays there, stretched across her body, which is retreating into the car seat, trying to put space between them, but he can still feel her breath against his cheek, and he can smell damp lake on her skin. He hits the child lock again and settles back into his seat, turning the key in the ignition. He really doesn't need her rolling out on the freeway.
"Please stop running."
She's staring at Wyatt, who's waiting to watch them leave, but she doesn't return the gesture when he waves at them. He didn't expect her to, but he also didn't expect her to just sit there and look through him. He's back in his house in the next moment, tired of this game.
She snaps the vent shut suddenly, cutting off all heat to her area. He glances at her, watches as she wipes the rubble off her rigid jeans, sees how her hair is already drying perfectly straight, along with her mouth. He pulls out of the driveway and they're on their way home, and he can feel something shoot through him briefly, something similar to hope.
"I wish...I wish I knew what to say to you."
Her knees are against her chest and her toes are gripping the seat and she just can't get comfortable but she manages to say one last thing before checking out of her mind, checking out of this painful world that offers her no mercy. "Me too."
Next week on The Fosters:
Brandon and Callie must deal with the repercussions of their actions
Stef and Lena must figure out the adoption
Mariana and Jesus hear from Lexi, Jesus makes a split-second decision that may endanger the stability of the family once again
and further developments in the Brandon/Talya and Jude/Callie crises
All new, Monday, August 19th
