make it back [Christian] home

[Andrea Irene Brennan]

One of the problems with being a bootlegger, it would seem, was that just about every damned customer wanted to get their shipment at night. Andrea Brennan halfway understood it, the whole “under the cover of darkness” bit, but didn’t any of them understand just how inconvenient this all was? For a single mother, only twenty-eight, with seventeen dollars in her pocket, with no weapon on her besides a sharp gaze and tongue, well. It could be a little nerve-wracking, and Andie wasn’t one of those women who scared easy.

Now, that wasn’t to say that she was walking down the streets of New York City in tears, shaking and quivering like some useless dame while she maneuvered her way back to Queens. It was dark out, yes, and quiet, which made Andie nervous, but with her it was always the little things. The way she had her ragged coat pulled tightly around her, and kept trying to tug it ever closer. How she glanced over her shoulder and down the alleyways every few seconds, and how she picked up her pace with every passing moment. It was a long way from her last customer to her little apartment – even walking from the fringes of Brooklyn to the heart of Queens was a large feat. Her last customer, some drunkard that needed a source to feed his vice, had offered to call a cab for her, but in her stubborn pride, Andie had refused, opting to walk home in the cold rather than letting anyone have the illusion that she either owed them something, or simply because she didn’t want anyone else taking care of her. So maybe her nervousness was her own fault. But Andie had never been one to overthink her own faults.

Andie was nervous, but she wasn’t afraid, and one of the reasons she was hurrying so fervently was simply because she knew it was late, and there was someone at home that she needed to check on, and make sure that he wasn’t worrying too much. The young Irishwoman hadn’t been home just about all day. While she didn’t have a job, she’d managed to get a quick cleaning gig earlier in the day, taking two dollars from a businessman that was in something of a hurry to clean up a horrible mess before his wife got home from holiday with her brother. (Andie hadn’t asked questions – someone was offering her money to clean, and quite frankly beyond that it wasn’t any of her business.) From there, she had dashed home for a few minutes to gather up the four bottles of liquor that she was meant to deliver around the city to customers that had found her through one way or another, but her son hadn’t returned home from his paper route yet. She’d left as soon as possible so that she might be home as soon as possible.

But, well. Clearly that plan had gone awry.

Damn it. Andie continued to curse in her head, hoping against hope that Christian’d had the sense to make himself dinner, or heat up what little leftovers they had. If he’d starved himself out of worry, or hadn’t had the thought to feed himself… ”Shite,” she hissed to nobody, the slightest Irish lilt to her voice that she’d all but gotten from her grandparents. Christian had a bad habit of not taking care of himself when he felt that others needed to be taken care of, and maybe he’d gotten that from her, and if he had, she hated it. Because it was her job to take care of him, not the other way around.

Speaking of Christian – Andie probably should have been paying closer attention. She hadn’t realized how close she was getting, and in her panic over her son’s well-being, her guard had gone down a relatively large amount, and so she wasn’t quite as in tune with her surroundings as she had been a moment ago. Which entirely explained why, when someone darted out in front of her (a small someone, too) and slammed into her, a surprised shriek escaped her – one that lasted only for a split second. It cut short the second she realized who it was that had their arms around her, and that they weren’t trying to mug or murder her, and immediately, the twenty-eight year old relaxed. But only marginally, considering…

”Christian Seth Brennan,” she snapped, pushing the boy back to look him over and gritting her teeth as she did so. What the hell did he think he was doing? ”What the hell do you think you’re doing? What kind of sap are you, coming out here alone this late at night, when there might be hoodlums around? Do you think I want you getting hurt?” An exasperated sigh escaped her as she immediately began ushering him back in the direction of their home – she could lecture him once they were safely inside and off the streets. It hadn’t occurred to her just how close they were to their home, and she had her hands firmly on her son’s shoulders, steering him towards their apartment. ”Get inside, come on,” she told him sharply, looking around over her shoulder to make sure that nobody was following them, or that they hadn’t attracted any negative attention.

Once they were safely inside, she turned and gave her son a very disapproving look. While she could never be truly angry with Christian (she was sure that it was physically impossible, by this point), there were times when she came close, and this could count as one of them. ”Now what were you doing out there, acting like some dumb owl?”

[Deleted]

Nine o’clock. She had promised to be home by that time to tuck him into bed, and Christian waited rather impatiently by the door like a begging puppy for footsteps to approach and the lock to turn. He was already bundled in his little snowmen pajama pants and an old oversized long-tee that reached halfway down his thighs. An old, fleece blanket was pulled around the boy’s shoulders, and as the minutes ticked on buy (tick, tick tick) and the air in their apartment got chillier, Chris tugged the opposite ends of the blanket closer to him in order to trap in some heat.

And as nine o’clock became ten and then eleven, Chris’ large, dark down eyes lowered from the door a little sadly. While dull in color, his eyes held a sort of powerful, quiet strength and such evocativeness that they hardly seemed like they should belong to a 12-year-old. Despite what his mother may or may not have wanted for him – to protect him from a cruel, unforgiving world while he still had his innocence – Christian had seen things. Experienced things. But he remained quiet about them. He wasn’t so daft to think that if his mama hadn’t returned home as promised, that something didn’t happen. Something must’ve.

No longer wanting to sit on the old, musty floor of their apartment, Chris grabbed his winter coat and stomped his feet in his boots. Pulling his hood over his head, he slipped out of the front door of their apartment.

He didn’t wander very far… he really didn’t need to. Chris probably really only made it down several blocks of streets filled with hoodlums and sketchies, waddling in his boots and tromping on snow while keeping his eyes peeled for his mama. He caught sight of her while standing on one of the street corners except she was not walking in the direction of their home and was instead walking… elsewhere. Or well, that’s what it seemed like to him. “No! Mama!” he whispered beneath his breath, picking up his speed and hurrying past anyone and everyone who stood in between him and the woman who was supposed to be home and tucking him in at night.

Selfish though it may seem, he really only just asked for that moment to know that his mama was sleeping soundly nearby. Though only twelve, he understood just how much she sacrificed – her health, well-being, dignity – for the sake of raising a child who came… at the worst possible moment.

Ice crunched beneath his boots as he sprinted and cared not about braking until he crashed against her side. “Mama, it’s past curfew!” he bumbled against the fabric of her clothes. “It’s time to go home.”

Not that his statement was really heard in that moment when his mother peeled him away and glared at him with those harsh, motherly eyes. “But Mama, I was just—I just wanted… Mama!” he whined as she ushered him along down the street and back inside the house.

Once inside, Chris pouted, dipping his chin down slightly until his cheeks sagged enough for him to look like a ball of pudge, especially beneath his winter coat and puffy hood. “You said you’d be home by 9 o’clock. And when you didn’t make it home on time, I got worried and—and I acted like a dumb owl.” Chris swung his arms slightly… and then peeled his eyes away to stare at the floor… not unlike a puppy getting reprimanded.

[Andrea Irene Brennan]

When it came to how Andrea Brennan lived her life, there was really only one rule: Christian came first. It had been that way from the moment his grandmother and the midwife had handed her the bundle of blankets, and Andie’d held her son in her arms for the very first time – a sixteen-year old girl, a child herself. Maybe it had been that way even before that, when she’d felt the little kicks and the thump thump against the skin of her stomach, as she laid on her grandparents’ couch, staring up at the ceiling in the dead of night. It had never mattered that her baby’d come out with skin a different color, or that his eyes were a slightly different shape – he was hers, and she was his. Not all mothers had that instinct, she knew, but Andie’d had them from the second her first sibling had been born, and to sacrifice everything for the little boy she loved and cherished above all else? It was only natural.

Which was why she was so flustered and flabbergasted that her son had come out into the dangerous cold and dark, looking for her. From day one, Andie had made it her sole duty to take care of him. It was not Christian’s job to look after her, to come looking for her or to try and bring her home when she’d been out for too long. It wasn’t his job to feed her, or stay up for her – hell, he shouldn’t even have had to worry about making money, working his paper route in this freezing cold weather just to make a few extra dollars here and there. It brought him more trouble than it was worth, in her opinion, but she knew her son had a stubborn streak almost as bad as hers. So, in the end, she knew convincing him to simply come home every day and to stay safe was just out of the question.

Andie pushed and motherhenned her son back into their little apartment, ignoring his protests despite the fact that each one broke her heart the tiniest bit inside. In her heart of hearts, she knew he was only worried about her. But damn it, she had to get that out of him – the very second he was hurt because of… She sighed – there was no use getting worked up over it, especially when she knew that the sight of her upset would only have a negative effect on the baby boy she cherished so.

As soon as she’d shut the door, Andie turned around to find her son looking up at her with those damned puppy eyes of his, looking completely ashamed of himself, and she sighed, running a hand through her hair. It was true, she didn’t know who his father was, didn’t remember his conception, but he sure as hell must have been one suave mac. Because she knew that Christian didn’t get those charming little puppy eyes from her. Or maybe it was just because she had the inability to stay mad at him for more than five seconds. In her eyes, her son could virtually do no wrong, but that was also due to the fact that Christian hardly ever did any wrong. Not to mention, his words struck a guilty chord – she’d lied to him, even if it wasn’t intentional. ”That doesn’t mean I want you to come out looking for me, Christian, it’s dangerous out there at night. If something’d happened to you, what would I have done, hm? Answer me that.”

That all being said, it was clear from the exhausted slope of her shoulders and the way her eyes had a tired dreariness to them that Andie didn’t have the energy for any more chastising. And yet, as she slipped her coat off and hung it up on a rusty coat-hanger, it was very clear that she still at least had the energy to be a mother, for lack of a better term. ”Come here, sweetheart, let’s get this winter gear off. And get you into bed. You have school tomorrow, don’t you?” The only reason she asked, honestly, was simply because Andie didn’t even know what day of the week it was. She was that tired, that… out of it. Despite her previous harshness, her voice was gentle, as she gestured for her son to come to her, and she smoothly turned him around so she could tug the coat from his shoulders and help pull his boots off. He might not have needed it, being twelve years old, but… well, call her a mother-hen.

”Christian,” she finally said, voice soft, as she finally hung up his coat and tiredly nudged his boots into place by the door (and then proceeded to lock it, the only security they really had around here), ”Just promise me you won’t do something so stupid again. I didn’t raise you to be a sap, understand me?”

[Deleted]

Pigs say oink oink.

Dogs go arf arf.

And dumb owls went hoot hoot.

Right now, Christian Brennan was grasping for straws, trying hard to find words to hoot that could justify his decision to trek the streets of New York City at this hour. Unfortunately for the little owl who pouted and jutted his bottom lip in discontent and shame, his mama wasn’t having any of it, not when he had placed himself in imminent danger to find her. The thing with Christian was: when push came to shove and if the situation were to repeat itself once more, then he wouldn’t hesitate to stomp his feet into his boots and make the journey again. And in a world as cruel and unforgiving as this (and Chris certainly experienced enough spits in his face to understand far more than his age would suggest), who else did they have to depend on but each other?

Who would they have to come home to… who would be sitting there on the couch waiting eagerly for the other to come home?

“Nothing’ll happen to me, Mama…” he said stubbornly, his words managing to push their way through puffed cheeks and pouty lips. Little Christian moved, taking short, hurried strides with the guidance of his mother’s coaxing hands and shuffling his way into their old apartment. Inside, only the street light that flickered only just outside of their main window acted as their light source. It was a “firefly,” his mama once told him as she was folding the blanket covers over her little boy’s shoulders. A “firefly” that watched over good little boys when they slept and kept the monsters away~

It wasn’t until he was a little older, and perhaps a little wiser, did he realize that the monsters kept coming…

And that they weren’t only trying to find “bad boys” but…

After kicking off his boots with his mother’s help and nudging it over to the corner behind the front door with his foot, Christian’s large brown eyes lifted to meet his Mama’s, shimmering in the dim lighting like freshly lacquered wood. “Tomorrow is—“ well, school was a given. Truthfully, Christian wasn’t even doing all that well in school, not when his attention was currently on the welfare of his mother.

Whether she’d be home on time.

Whether she made enough that day to put food on their table.

Basically things that twelve-year-olds shouldn’t be worried about.

Had his Mama not said anything, he would’ve gone so quietly and hid beneath the covers. But the fact that she spoke up in that whispered Mama Crow voice to her little chickadee made him pause just short of the bed in his room. “Yes, Mama,” nodded somberly… then turned to catch that flickering light that bled into his room. He kept that light in between cupped hands and then carefully lifted it to his Mama when he turned. “You should take some of the ‘fireflies’ with you when you work late—” which happened more often nowadays… he hardly saw her.

“I…” His lips tightened. And then with a sigh, he confessed. “I didn’t pass my arithmancy exam again…”

[Andrea Irene Brennan]

”Oh, yes, what could possibly happen to a twelve-year old boy with no means of defending himself while its dark in a seedy city like New York?” came the sarcastic, sardonic, almost irritated huff of a response that Christian received. Andrea Brennan was a no-nonsense kind of woman – she liked to think herself a realist, and quite frankly, the fact that her son believed that he was invincible was rather troubling. Or maybe he was just trying to reassure her. Whatever the reason, it wasn’t working, and she ushered him inside and quickly locked the door behind them because for heaven’s sake, he was twelve. Perhaps one day he’d be tall and have a semi-intimidating presence. But until then, he was just a little boy, and damn it, she was going to keep him safe one way or another.

Christian had it hard. She was not an ignorant idiot who wasn’t aware of that – far from it, actually. He was a boy born from an unwed mother, an unwed Irish mother, and he was a boy of mixed race to boot. He came home for days on end with bumps and bruises, and even though he often refused to explain what had happened, Andie knew. People were utter… idiots, to put it lightly. They picked on him because it was easy to do so, and because he was too good of a boy to do a number on anyone, and maybe that was her own fault, telling him to keep his head above it all. But at the end of the day, the world had already ridden her low. She only wanted her son to avoid that same fate, even if half the time, she had no damn idea how to save him from it. She could only try. Even if she would never forgive herself if she failed.

But she was a mother. And there was no doubt about that, as she helped her son into bed and sighed as she pulled the covers up over him. At the offered so-called fireflies, Andie offered her son a sad, weary smile. ”I think they’ll do a better job helping you, hm? I’m a tough old dame, monsters don’t dare come near me,” she gently teased, a slight mischievous spark to those dark eyes. ”You just go on to sleep, sweetheart, you need it for school, and-“

Then came the admission that he hadn’t passed a test. Again. Andie pressed her lips together, and without another word, she sat down on the edge of his bed and leaned over to turn on the rickety old lamp on Christian’s bedside table so she could look down at her son properly. It was clear to see that he hadn’t been willing to admit that out loud, as she looked down at him, and for a long moment… she tried to debate what to do about it. Could she really be angry with him? Did she actually have the right, when she knew that he was a smart boy, that it wasn’t… out of insolence or stupidity that he wasn’t doing well? Because, at the end of the day, wasn’t this her fault? Her failure, as a mother, that she couldn’t… ensure that her son did well?

She might have been doing her best to be a good mother. That didn’t mean that she actually succeeded.

A deep sigh escaped the young woman as she rubbed a hand over her lips as if to prevent herself from saying something inflammatory. She was only twenty-eight, had been a child herself when she'd given birth and taken on responsibility for the boy lying down behind her. The only experience with parenting she’d had beforehand were the tastes of kindness from her grandparents, and the constant bitterness from her own mother and father. She’d been hated for things she couldn’t control from the time she was born, and now her son was experiencing the same thing… Christ.

”Christian, I thought I helped you study for this one, sweetheart. We’ve spoken about this, school needs to be your number one priority, so you can do better than your mother once you get out of it. I know it… I know it hasn’t been easy, I’ve been-“ She sighed and looked away for another minute, rubbing her hand over her lips again as she struggled to come up with the words. ”Tell you what, sweetheart. Bring your books home tomorrow. I’ll… come home early. We’ll go over what we can. What else are you having trouble in?” Because she wasn’t stupid enough to think Arithmancy was the only class he struggled with. It was probably the only useless class he was struggling with. Not that she’d say a subject was useless while he was within earshot.