Here we go, the next little bit. Hopefully it's OK. More action soon or whatever. Feeling slightly sentamental :3
Hope you enjoy!
P.S. Two times, bits in normal are the present, the bits in italics are the past.
Fletcher woke up. Squinting against the sudden brightness of the day, he groaned and rolled over. "Ah, Val. Why do you have to open the window? I'm tired; I deserve a sleep-in. Val?"
He opened his eyes fully and frowned.
There was no Valkyrie, no anybody in fact. He was sat on the concrete floor of his home. The walls were scruffy, littered with the not-so-artist art work of the local kids.
He gasped, the realisation suddenly hit. He was home. He hadn't been home in years, and it was still as awful as it had been back then.
Suddenly he bolted for the one of the high-rise apartment blocks. He sprinted up the stair, taking them two at a time. When he got to the top floor he stopped, breathing heavily. Slowly he walked down the balcony, counting the door numbers. All the doors were locked and bolted, most scrawled with spray paint, it was completely deserted. Days old washing strung over the edge of the balcony.
Eventually he stopped in front of a door. It was different from the others, but so fresh in his memory.
The door hung off its hinges, just propped up by the doorframe. Inside there was no light and a foul smell was wafting outside. Tears pricked in his eyes as they drifted over the number, 1313. Home. Climbing through the whole where the door should have been, he sniffed and wiped his nose. Walking down the hallway he ran his hands along the dirty, old yellow wallpaper.
The colour scheme had been his mother's idea. The hall was a sunshine yellow, the living room a bright red, the kitchen lime green, the bathroom blue, his parent's room deep purple and his own was a rainbow of colours.
"Why should I be boring? If I like bright colours, I'm having bright colours!" She'd laughed when her husband questioned it. Her bubbly voice was still fresh in his head, as if he'd said it right next to him.
When he was little, it has been vibrant and bright, happy.
Fletcher ran up the stairs of his block of flats, making sure to wave to Mrs Peters, the kind old lady who always gave him sweets. He could feel the tears brimming up behind his eyes, he couldn't cry here, not like a baby. His thumb was bright red and throbbing, but he was being brave. So he didn't cry.
Smashing the door to his colourful home open he sat on the floor and howled his head off. The tears ran down his face, and he heard someone walk in from the kitchen.
"Now, now. What's all this? Mummy's little soldier crying?"
"It hurts!" He wailed back.
"Oh darling come here. Let me see, oh yes. Your poor little thumb. I know what will make it better, a kiss! Do you think that'll work?"
He'd shaken his head stubbornly.
"Really? Is it that bad? Oh dear. Well no harm in trying." She scooped him up into a huge bear hug and tickled him stomach. He squealed in protest, laughing too much to speak. Plopping him on the scarlet sofa she examined his little hand. Tenderly she kissed the red thumb and looked into his teary eyes.
"There, better my little soldier?"
He nodded. He knew his Mum didn't really have magic healing powers but it really, honestly felt much better.
Fletcher loved his Mum. Lots.
He loved his Dad lots. He had an loving childhood, sure the estate was a bit rough, but everyone doted on him.
His Mum worked from home so every time he came back from playing outside, the house would be filled with all sorts of wonderful baking smells.
Then his Dad would come home and they'd eat as a family, that was one thing his mother insisted upon, teatime was family time.
After they'd pay some games and at 7:00 he'd get carried to bed, where his mother would read him a story, and kiss him good night and his dad would check the room for any monsters (not that he was scared or anything) before turning the light out.