Chapter Text
One, two, three, four, five–
Clank!
Ugh.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven–
Clank!
For fuck’s sake– ngh!
One, two, three, four–
Clank!
“The fuck you doin’ up there?” Spamton yelled at the ceiling, throwing the blueberries he was oh so attentively lining up in the air.
Some more noises of things dropping on the ground followed. Spamton started grinding his teeth together to not yell again.
“Did you take my gloss?” A voice from upstairs screamed back, and– how was she makin’ so much noise searching for something so small?
He started lining up blueberries again. “Yeah, I also took your perfume ‘nd fishnets!”
The voice upstairs cackled. “They’re too big for you!”
…
He crushed a blueberry.
“You ain’t that much taller!” He jolted up, gesticulating at nobody in particular as the bread got burned in the toaster and the squished blueberry oozed juice dangerously close to Spamton’s untouched pastry.
Noelle insisted on baking last night. He didn’t know why she suddenly felt the need to make the whole house smell like butter at two am, but hell if he was stoppin’ her.
He wasn’t the stern parent. To be fair, he wasn’t a parent at all, and Queen wasn’t the stern parent either– but Noelle, she was a good girl, yeah? She could enjoy a little, ah, midnight baking. Nothing wrong with that.
He just wished she was better at it. Her croissants tasted like desert.
“We both know I am!” Queen continued to yell. If she was so adamant in striking conversation, couldn’t she come downstairs?
“Sure,” he whispered to no one in particular.
Okay, fine. She was that much taller than him. Not that she needed to rub it in, though.
He sighed and gathered the remaining blueberries. He didn’t even like blueberries.
He wasn’t the biggest fan of fruit in general, but he tried to eat more of it lately. For Noelle, he said, but he originally started because that nurse wouldn’t feed him anything else. How ironic; he was clearly an unhealthy guy, why the hell did she think feeding him fruit was a good idea?
Whatever. It didn’t matter. Now he did it for Noelle. He had to be a good example or something like that.
One, two, three, four, five. How funny, him being an example.
One, two, three, four. He took a blueberry and popped it in his mouth.
Chewed down and winced. Yeah, he definitely didn’t like blueberries.
He spat in a tissue.
“Morning, Mr. Spamton!”
Noelle waltzed down the stairs with far too much flair for eight in the morning. She was already dressed up, her hair done, she even highlighted her freckles. She insisted she didn’t, but he saw her do it once. He knew.
She was on summer break. He wasn’t too sure why she got out of bed before 12.
“Ya know, my name isn’t optional for you to use,” he nodded to her, slouching back into his chair, picking at the crushed blueberry next to his pastry. “I’m no Mr. Spamton to my kid.”
“Good thing she’s not your kid!” Queen emerged from the stairs, walking past him and grabbing his pastry in the process, before settling next to Noelle, gently ruffling her hair.
“Yeah? Whose kid is it then? Yours?”
“Carol’s.” Queen bit down on the stolen goods. At least, he didn’t have to pretend to like it now.
“W-What a wonderful day outside!” Noelle giggled nervously and leaned across the counter, snatching the blueberries from Spamton’s grasp and stuffing her mouth with them.
Spamton was a little scared of her. Just a little. She didn’t like blueberries either, did she?
He understood her, though. Talkin’ about the dead so early in the morning wasn’t really his idea of having fun, too.
“We should go out later.” Queen concluded, biting down her croissant again. “We also need to go buy a new lip gloss,” she glanced at Spamton, glaring at him. “Since someone decided to try out drag.”
“I didn’t take no make up from you!” Spamton hissed through gritted teeth, clenching his hand around his mug’s handle. It was the third coffee of the morning.
“No need to be ashamed, Salamander.” She grinned. “Be who you are.”
“Not my name,” he sipped his coffee. “Also, not interested.”
“Don’t hide your true self.”
“I ain’t doing anything with my true self.”
“Open that closet, queen.”
“Shut your mouth, Regina.”
“Uhm,” Noelle cleared her throat, apparently having managed to swallow that nightmare she put in her mouth a second ago. “Guys? I, uh, actually took Queen’s lip gloss…” She said, her voice going feeble at the end. “I’m… sorry?”
“Noelle Sweety Honey Darling Gravy don’t you ever apologize for taking my stuff, okay?” Queen launched herself at Noelle, pinching her cheeks, digging her nails into the soft flesh. Ouch. Poor Noelle.
“You can take my things whenever you want, mh?” she kept pinching her cheeks. “Don’t worry, okay? If I ever get mad at something, blame Seltzer. It’s okay.”
“Still not my name.” Spamton rolled his eyes and downed what was left of his coffee.
Noelle wriggled free of Queen’s grip, rubbing her cheeks with both hands. “Ow– ow, I get it, I’m forgiven!” she laughed, trying to grab another croissant crumb before Queen could snatch it.
Spamton smirked into his empty mug. “You’ll forgive her for stealin’ your lip gloss but not me for–”
“You’re not as cute,” Queen shot back without missing a beat. She reached for another pastry, this time one of the least burnt.
“You kiddin’ me?” Spamton spread his hands. “Look at this face. It’s adorable. Kids on the street stop me to say so. Ask anybody.”
“I’ll ask the mirror,” Queen muttered through a mouthful of croissant.
Noelle giggled, covering her mouth with her fingers. “You two are so…” she trailed off, searching for a word. “Like… siblings.”
“Don’t lump me in with her,” Spamton said, jerking his thumb toward Queen. “I got dignity.”
Queen licked the sugar off her thumb with exaggerated slowness. “Oh, sure. Dignity. You, with your blueberry army parade.”
“Hey, that was–” he glanced at the blueberries still lined up on his plate. “…strategic.”
Noelle shook her head, smiling despite herself. She stuffed another one of the blueberries in her mouth like proof of solidarity.
Spamton squinted. “…Hold on.” He leaned over the counter a little, eyes narrowing at her. “Why’d you take her lip gloss anyway? You don’t use that stuff.”
Noelle froze mid-chew. Her ears went pink almost instantly. “I– I just thought maybe…” she mumbled, fumbling for her water glass.
Queen tilted her head, suspicious. “What do you need makeup for? Are you going somewhere today?”
Noelle’s fingers fidgeted against the glass. She didn’t look at either of them when she said, a little too quickly, “I’m, um. Going to Kris’ later.”
Spamton blinked. “And that requires lip gloss… why?”
Noelle’s cheeks turned redder, and she pressed the glass to her lips like it could hide her face. “N-no reason!”
Queen raised both brows. “Huh.”
Spamton squinted, leaning back in his chair like he was weighing a bad deal. “Mm-hm. Uh huh. That so.” He tapped a finger against the table, slow. “You expect me t’ believe that?”
Queen, meanwhile, leaned forward with her elbows on the counter, eyes gleaming. “Noelle, my beloved, I know when you’re lying. You’ve got your mother’s tell.”
Noelle peeked over the rim of her glass, wide-eyed. “I do not!”
“You absolutely do,” Queen said, smug. “Your nose twitches like a bunny.”
Spamton snapped his fingers. “That’s it! I was tryin’ to place it.” He grinned, leaning forward.
“Hey, kid, if you’re gonna lie, ya gotta work on the poker face. Can’t let the nose rat you out.”
Noelle groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “Oh my God. Please stop analyzing my face.”
“Can’t,” Spamton said, spreading his arms. “Too cute.”
Queen gasped in mock horror. “Are you… are you primping for Kris?”
That got Noelle to sputter into her water. “Wh– no! Of course not!”
“Really?” Queen prodded, already grinning wide. “Because even if Kris is a little weird, they are kinda endearing. I can see it.”
Spamton winced. “Little weird? Last time they came over they put fake blood in Noelle’s bed. Bit Godfather-y as a courting ritual. ”
Noelle covered her face entirely now, cheeks glowing like warning lights. “Can we not–?”
“C’mon, spit it out already.” Spamton drummed his fingers against the table. “If it ain’t for Kris, who’s it for?”
Queen tilted her head, sing-song sweet. “Yeah, sweetheart. Who’s making you wanna sparkle?”
There was a long pause. Noelle stared down at her hands, lips pressed tight, shoulders hunched like maybe she could fold herself under the counter and disappear.
And then, in a burst that sounded like it had been boiling under her tongue for hours:
“…It’s for Susie.”
The kitchen went dead quiet. Even the toaster gave up and clicked off, like it wanted front-row seats.
Spamton blinked. “Susie. The, uh…” He snapped his fingers, trying to place the face. “Tall kid. Purple. Walks like she’s about to mug ya.”
“Don’t talk about her like that!” Noelle snapped, quicker and louder than she meant to.
Spamton raised his hands. “Whoa! Easy there, tiger. Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
Queen was still staring, lips parted in surprise. “…Susie.” She blinked, then slowly started to grin. “Ohhh. Oooooh.”
Noelle groaned, dropping her face against the counter with a dull thunk. “I hate this. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“You absolutely should’ve,” Queen countered, already delighted. “This is amazing, sweetie! Girl-next-door pining for the misunderstood bad girl? The story is basically writing itself.”
Spamton scratched his chin, still processing. “So lemme get this straight. You’re wearin’ gloss to Kris’ place… because Susie’s there?”
Noelle made a muffled noise against the counter that might’ve been yes.
Spamton leaned back, whistling low. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Queen swatted his arm. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m complimentin’!” Spamton shot back. “Ain’t easy to have a crush on someone looks like they could knock your teeth out. Shows guts.”
Noelle peeked up, eyes wide with panic. “Please don’t tell anyone. I’ll die. I’ll literally–”
“Relax, relax.” Spamton waved her off. “We ain’t blabbermouths.” He glanced sidelong at Queen. “…Mostly.”
“Excuse me?” Queen clutched her chest, affronted. “I am a vault. Nobody cracks this code. Nobody.”
“Sure.”
“The only reason why you don’t say shit is because nobody in town talks to you.”
Spamton shrugged. “What can I say? I’m intimidating.”
Queen snorted. “Is that a new way to say you haven’t left the house in a month?”
Noelle groaned again, tugging at her hair. “I can’t believe I said that out loud.”
“Hey, kid.” Spamton leaned forward, voice softening a little. “Better in here than out there, yeah? Safer test run.”
Noelle blinked at him, surprised. Her shoulders eased a bit. “…Yeah. I guess.”
Queen tilted her head, smile gentler now. “So. What’s the plan, hmm? You wanna dazzle her with lip gloss and blueberry breath?”
Noelle groaned into her hands again. “I– It’s not–”
“It ain’t that hard,” Spamton filled up his mug with more coffee. Maybe a little too much. “I’m assuming you’re friends with this girl, no? Ask her out! Frame it as a friendly hangout but then–” he put his mug down, splaying in hands out, “ –boom. You’re at the movies. You two are sitting close. You’re wearin’ shiny lipstick.”
Noelle sighed, shoulders sagging. “How can I do something like that if I haven’t even worked up the courage to properly talk to her yet?
Spamton leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “So. You got the hots for a girl you never actually talked to, uh?”
Noelle sat bolt upright, red to her ears. “That is not– I mean– I–” She buried her face in her hands. “Oh my God.”
Queen, who had been blinking at her like she was buffering, suddenly slapped the counter. “WHAT?!”
Noelle jumped. “W-what?”
“You’ve never even, like– exchanged words?” Queen threw her hands up. “Sweetheart. Baby. That’s not even a crush. That’s a parasocial relationship.”
Spamton barked out a laugh. “She’s got a poster in her head, huh? Like when you think you’re gonna marry a Backstreet Boy.”
“I don’t–” Noelle started, mortified, but Queen cut in again, shaking her head.
“No, no, no. Unacceptable. Absolutely unacceptable. Our child–”
“Not my kid,” Spamton muttered, echoing Queen’s own words.
“ –our collective adjacent responsibility,” Queen corrected with a flourish, “is not gonna be a loser!”
“I am NOT a loser!” Noelle squeaked, voice breaking.
“You never talked to her,” Spamton said, pointing accusingly with his coffee mug. “That’s loserdom, kid. Rule number one: you gotta at least talk. Even I talked.”
Queen arched a brow. “To who?”
Spamton’s jaw worked, and for a moment his whole face crumpled. He pointed the mug at her instead. “It ain’t any of your business.”
Noelle looked between them, horrified. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you guys.”
“Sweetie, listen.” Queen leaned in, her voice syrupy, like she was about to deliver profound wisdom. “You have to engineer a moment. Like… like dropping your books in the hallway. Or getting paired on a school project. That’s how it starts.”
Spamton snorted into his coffee. “Books in the hallway? What is this, Saturday morning TV? Forget that. You gotta do something flashy. Make ‘em notice you. Back in my day, you’d show up with a new suit, slick your hair back, tell ‘em they look like a million bucks. Bam. Instant date.”
“That’s not how it works!” Noelle cried, horrified.
“It worked for me,” Spamton muttered. Then, after a pause: “…for a while.”
Queen rolled her eyes. “Please. Fashion and flattery only go so far. You need proximity. Shared vulnerability. You need to–” She hesitated. For a second her tone dipped, and she finished softer: “…be the one they turn to when they’re hurting.”
Spamton gave her a side-eye. “Yeah, ‘cause that always ends well.”
“Oh, don’t act like you know any better,” Queen shot back.
Meanwhile, Noelle was pressing her palms flat to her cheeks like maybe if she pushed hard enough she’d disappear. “This is the worst day of my life.”
Spamton doubted it was, but if that beat the death of her whole family, then he was worrying too much about her.
“Hey, hey, don’t get dramatic,” Spamton said, leaning over the table. “Point is, ya gotta at least start. Next time Susie’s around, you open your mouth. Say somethin’. Anything.”
“Like what?” Noelle asked, peeking at him nervously.
Spamton flailed for an example, then blurted: “Tell her she’s got nice teeth.”
Queen burst out laughing so hard she nearly spit pastry. “Teeth?!”
“What?! It’s disarming!” Spamton defended. “Nobody compliments teeth, they’ll remember it!”
“Or,” Queen wheezed, wiping her eyes, “you could say literally anything else. Compliment her hair. Her jacket. Something normal.”
Noelle groaned into her hands again. “You guys are the last people I should be taking advice from.”
What was he supposed to say to that? She was right. They were absolutely the worst people to ask for dating advice. That being said, it wasn’t like she had a choice.
Sometimes, Spamton wondered if Noelle was okay with them being the ones takin’ care of her. They were two strangers, weren’t they? Did her parents ever even talk about them?
He assumed they did. Rudy, he was a nice guy, yeah? Spamton was glad he was his friend back then, but he certainly never expected to be made his daughter’s godfather. ‘Course Rudy said somethin’ about it, but Spamton filed it away as a weird joke; after all, there was no way someone trusted him that much.
Maybe Rudy was insane. That was the only explanation that made sense. They weren’t even that close, weren’t they?
Queen made more sense anyway. She and Carol, they were close in college. He remembered them bein’ attached to the hip, which was a little weird– Queen was the last person Carol looked like she tolerated, and yet.
The more Spamton thought about his college years, the more he realized how much he misunderstood. Not that it mattered, now.
Maybe Carol and Rudy did talk to Noelle about her godparents. Maybe Noelle knew who they were. (But, did she really have to call him “Mr. Spamton?” Rudy did call him “Sal”, didn’t he?)
“Oi, Seltzer!”
Queen snapped her fingers in front of his face, dragging him back to reality, to the crushed blueberries and the steaming coffee. He was holding his mug so tight he was a little scared of breaking the handle.
He softened his grip. “What?”
“Noelle just asked you a question,” Queen said, annoyance dripping from her tone, because when Noelle talked, getting distracted was a crime punishable with death. She turned towards her and nudged her. “Come on, ask again”
Noelle blushed and pressed herself flat against the counter. She looked like she was trying to disappear between pastries and scrambled eggs. “I…” she said, only to continue with something unintelligible.
“What?” Spamton asked. “Speak up, kid!”
Noelle fiddled with a piece of croissant like it had suddenly become the most interesting object on earth. “I just– uh– I was wondering if maybe–” She mumbled into her sleeve.
“Y’know I don’t got bat ears, right? Out with it.” He tapped the mug against the counter, maybe harder than necessary.
Her face was pink, freckles glowing against her skin. “I was just gonna ask… if maybe you could… um. Drive me to Kris’ later.”
The world went still. Or maybe just him. Either way, he didn’t like it.
He forced a laugh. “What, me? Nah. You got legs, don’t ya? Walk.”
“I don’t wanna walk alone.” She said it quiet, but it hit harder than if she’d shouted. Right. She probably wasn’t the biggest fan of being alone in the streets.
Spamton swallowed. The coffee had gone sour in his mouth. He set the mug down before his hand shook too much.
“Why can’t your– your royal highness here take you?” He jerked his head toward Queen.
Queen was already standing, brushing crumbs off her hands. “Because I’ve got work, Sal. Not sure you’re still familiar with that.” She said, not really bothering with being kind. Well, it wasn’t like she was wrong.
She didn’t even meet his gaze. “Sorry, kiddo. You’ll be fine with him.” She winked at Noelle like this was all settled.
Spamton felt his pulse spike. Fine with him? Fine? He hadn’t touched a wheel in– Christ, how long? He hadn’t even left the damn house except to grab the paper off the porch, and that was already too much sometimes. The idea of the engine, the streets, other people– his chest squeezed tight.
He cleared his throat, trying to play it off. “Eh, no big deal. Cars, they’re overrated. Dangerous contraptions. You ever see how thin those doors are? Might as well drive around in a soda can.”
Noelle’s eyes flicked up at him, wide and cautious. He knew what that gaze meant; streets weren’t safe. Cars weren’t safe. That stormy night, whatever it left behind– yeah, he knew. He didn’t have to ask.
God, he was fucking stupid. Why the hell did he say that? Fucking, fucking idiot–
Noelle pushed the plate away. “Please? Just this once. I– I don’t want to go by myself.”
His jaw clenched. He wanted to say no. He wanted to dig his heels in, scream, throw the coffee across the room, anything but slide back into that driver’s seat. He wasn’t supposed to be trusted with things like this. Or anything.
But she looked at him like he was the only one who could make it better.
He reminded himself that was the whole point. That look, that was what got him out of it. He owed Noelle much more than a car ride.
He rubbed his face with both hands, groaning. “Fuckin’ hell. Fine. But if we crash and burn, you tell the angels it was your idea.”
Noelle lit up instantly, her shoulders loosening like he’d just pulled a ten-ton weight off her back. “Thank you!” she squeaked, bouncing in her chair.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Spamton muttered. “Still gotta remember which pedal’s which.”
He did the dishes after breakfast. He always did, even if Noelle offered to do them– he wanted her to have nothin’ to worry about. But also, it was mostly for himself.
He thought all that rehab crap was useless, just stuff they told themselves so they could feel like their shiny little nonprofit actually did somethin’. Happy-go-lucky bullshit.
And don’t get him wrong– journaling was fucking stupid and NA meetings made him want to die, but sadly, it wasn’t all bad stuff.
Sadly. He wanted to hate it so, so much, but it kinda worked. Sadly.
He remembered sitting outside, in that center’s horrible backyard, at nine in the morning, sweating his ass out, biting his nails until they bled because– because he needed it. His body couldn’t function without it. Why was he doin’ all this, anyway? Over some random girl he ain’t ever met?
Then, one of those dumbass therapists found him. Sat down next to him, and told him to go wash the dishes.
(“You stupid or somethin’?” Sal snapped, bloodshot eyes glaring at the man next to him.
“What triggered this, Sal?”
“It ain’t any of your business– go do your gay shit somewhere else.”
“Were you doing anything before this started, Sal?”
“Fuck off, I said.”
The therapist looked at him, and put his hand over Sal’s sweaty, bloody own, like it wasn’t disgusting.
“Silence is the worst, isn’t it? The dead moments make the cravings hit more.”
Sal wanted to scream at him again, but his throat was so dry he wasn’t sure it hadn’t turned to ash.
“Go wash the dishes. Do your bed. Take a shower. Make pasta art if you feel like it. Fill the silence.”)
Thinking back on it, Sal wondered if the doctor made a joke, with the pasta thing. It was a stereotype anyway; not all Italians liked pasta! He did, but that wasn’t the point.
He got so angry at that guy when they talked; what, he thought he was so high and mighty? Just because he wasn’t the addict ripping his hair out in a ugly backyard, uh? Him and his dishes could go to hell.
But Spamton got up anyway and did them anyway, because every time he could feel himself slipping, he remembered a little girl without a family was now waiting for him. He had responsibilities, now.
When was he ever good with that, he didn’t know– but apparently, it was time to learn. Maybe with small stuff before. Small stuff, like doing the dishes. (And if that also happened to help with his, uh, other problem, then good for him.)
He had been consistently doing the dishes for six months and twenty-four days now.
“Spampoodle, got a second?”
Queen approached him from behind, standing close to him but never too close. God forbid they touched. The fact that they both took care of Noelle didn’t mean Spamton was any less of a displeasure to have around.
“Yeah?” he said, drying his hands on his pants. “Whaddya need?”
Queen didn’t answer right away. Instead, she leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, one ankle hooked behind the other, trying to look cool– but her jaw was set a little too tight, her gaze pinned on him under thick black lenses. She was a little unsettling. A little.
Spamton scratched the back of his neck, suddenly itchy under the collar of his shirt. “What? I got toothpaste on my face again?”
She shook her head, still staring. “You’re driving Noelle today.”
“Yeah. That a problem?”
“Could be.” She said it slow, like she was choosing every word one at a time. Her fingers tapped against her arm, restless. “Look, I don’t–” She cut herself off, exhaled through her nose, and tried again. “Just don’t do anything stupid.”
Spamton snorted, folding the dish towel over the sink. “What, you think I’m gonna swerve off the road for fun?”
Her brows twitched upward. She didn’t laugh. “I think you’ve got a habit of making… questionable choices. And she doesn’t need questionable. She needs steady.”
He felt his throat dry up. He wanted to snap back, to tell her he’d been steady– six months, twenty-four days steady– but her invisible, judging gaze made him bite it down.
Queen drummed her nails against the doorframe now, a faster rhythm. She didn’t look away. “She trusts you. That’s a big deal, Sal. Bigger than you think. So–” She stopped herself again, softened her voice, but only barely. He assumed she only did it because they were talking about Noelle. “Don’t make me regret letting her.”
Spamton rubbed his jaw, pretending he wasn’t rattled. “...Yeah. Got it.”
Queen’s posture eased a fraction, but her arms stayed crossed. She gave a sharp nod and finally turned toward the hall, tossing over her shoulder: “Good. Don’t crash my kid, Spamborghini.”
And just like that, she was gone.
Spamton stared after her, towel clenched too tight in his fist. He told himself he didn’t care what she thought. That it didn’t matter if she trusted him or not.
After all, what was he expecting?
Spamton went back to the sink once Queen disappeared, staring down at the plate already spotless in his hands. He rubbed it with the towel anyway, slow circles over glass, until his knuckles hurt from squeezing.
The plate went into the cabinet. He pulled it back out. Checked for water spots. Wiped it again. Back in the cabinet.
When that was done, he swept the crumbs off the counter. Then he wiped the counter. Then he wiped the same counter again, leaning in so close his breath fogged the surface. Didn’t matter it was already clean. Didn’t matter his reflection in the shine made his chest ache.
He kept moving.
Coffee grounds dumped, filter changed, machine rinsed. Trash bag tied even though it wasn’t full yet. He hauled it outside to the bin, came back, replaced it with a new one. Stood in the kitchen a minute, hands on his hips, eyes darting around for the next thing out of place.
The toaster. Too many crumbs. He unplugged it, shook it out over the sink until the blackened bits rained down. He scrubbed the tray until it squealed against the sponge.
All the while, his head was buzzing. The kind of buzz that settled in when there was nothing left but him and the silence.
He hated the silence.
So he filled it with the scrape of sponge on steel, the slam of cabinet doors, the squeak of the mop handle as he went over the same square of floor again and again. He told himself it was for Noelle, for Queen, for anyone else who had to live in this house. But once again, it was really just for him.
Spamton scrubbed until the whole kitchen smelled like lemon cleaner, until his shirt stuck to his back with sweat, until his knees cracked every time he crouched. He straightened up, breathing heavy, hands raw and red.
And still, he scanned the room, looking for something else to do.
Fuck Queen and the shit she said about having a job. He was working his ass off, too– and it wasn’t like anyone would ever hire him. Not now, at least.
He collapsed on one of the kitchen chairs, head low between his hands. He could feel how sweaty his temples were.
Did she not realize he was trying? Did she really need to– to warm him? What, like he was a kid? Oh Sal, don’t do no stupid shit, I know you like trouble.
Not that he was in a position to argue. She had her reasons to doubt him.
His head rose and he sighed, rubbed his eyes and slouched in his chair. He didn’t want to drive.
Rudy’s car had been collecting dust in the garage for God knows how long. It was there when Spamton arrived, and he was sure it was there when Queen came along, too. From what he gathered from Noelle about how her mother acted after her father died, she probably didn’t want anything to do with that junk. Or dead people.
So, it collected dust.
Or– until today, apparently.
Because it was implied he needed to use it, yeah? Queen took her car when she left for work but he had to drive Noelle to the neighbors– the only other car was Rudy’s, so.
Was he even allowed to use it? How did Noelle feel about it?
Christ, he needed to talk to her. He didn’t want to make the kid uncomfortable. (More than he already did, that was.)
While Noelle’s room was upstairs, you could always hear what she was doin’ anyway– she always kept the door wide open, always ready to run down the stairs when someone called for her. Spamton wondered if she always did that, or if she developed it after… well. Those stuff.
He knocked on the unlocked door anyway before stepping in.
“Doin’ anything, shortcake?” he said, leaning on the doorframe.
“I’m trying to figure out what’s wrong with my pet…” Noelle mumbled, not lifting her gaze from her computer. She was sitting cross-legged at her desk, typing faster than Spamton thought was physically capable for the human body to do, tongue sticking out. She always did that when she was concentrating.
“Your pet, eh?” Spamton repeated. He had no idea what the fuck she was talking about. “Can it, uh, wait?”
“Mh?” Noelle finally looked at him, still sitting like shrimp. Her shorts rode her thigh a little too much– she clearly lost weight in the last year. Maybe he should start cooking in Queen’s place. She wasn’t, ah, the greatest at it.
“Sure, come in,” Noelle nodded and spun her chair around to face the couch in her bedroom, inviting Spamton to sit down.
Okay. No big deal, he just had to ask an innocent question. Easy.
“So, uh…” he began, and instantly cringed at the sound of his strained voice. He cleared his throat. “We go Kris’ later, yeah?”
“Mh-hm,” Noelle hummed. “Thank you for driving me, Mr– Sal.” She corrected herself before Spamton could say anything. It was funny, really; nobody called him by his name, he didn’t know why he cared so much.
“No problem kid, but–” he clicked his tongue against his palate and shifted on the couch. It was too damn soft. “You good with bein’ in your dad’s car?”
People thought Spamton was much more superficial than how he actually was. He noticed everything.
Noelle didn’t say anything at first– or at least, she didn’t speak. She bit her lip. She dug her fingers into the chewed up leather of her chair. She curled her toes and did that sad little twitch with her nose.
He was really sayin’ the right thing today, uh?
Spamton clenched his hands in fist and looked down. “Sorry, I shouldn’t–”
“He didn’t die in a car, did he?” Noelle said, voice unsteady.
Spamton raised his gaze. “Well, not him, but–”
“It’s okay.” Noelle smiled. Her fingers spared her chair and her teeth left little marks under her lip. “His car didn’t– his car doesn’t have anything to do with that. It’s stupid to leave it rusting in the garage anyway.”
Oh, his girl was so, so brave. So smart, so strong. He wasn’t sure where she found the will to always think so positive, but God, was she a blessing.
He stood up and went up to her, placing a hand on her head. “You sure, bun?”
Noelle pushed against his palm. “I’m sure.”
“Good,” he said. Then, he ruffled her hair and ran out of the door.
“OLD MAN! I STYLED THEM FOR LATER!” She yelled. It was probably the first time he heard her angry. It was hilarious.
“You sure those were styled?” He prodded, yelling back.
“I’M TELLING QUEEN YOU MADE FUN OF ME!”
“Lova ya too, squirt.”