Archive of Our Own ^beta

At precisely 6:25 AM your alarm clock goes off, a total of twenty-five minutes later than it would on any regular morning. You had been given clearance by the manager of your division to use your vacation days for the rest of the week off—he had been puzzled by the request, most definitely; given that you had never used a single of your vacation days in the multiple years that you had worked there, you suppose it could come off as a somewhat odd request—so you thought it would be fair to act somewhat avaricious and sleep in.

Still, you have a job to do outside of your regular occupation, and it's a job that waits for no man.

You tie a robe over your pajamas and climb from the bed, only somewhat half asleep. The trip to the connected restroom is cold on your bare feet, though if you remember correctly your slippers have been otherwise occupied for quite some time. That's fine, you can buy yourself a new pair when you're out for groceries tomorrow, and until then you think you'll just wear a comfortably thick pair of socks.

In the bathroom you complete your morning routine like clockwork, from brushing your teeth to combing your (sadly thinning) hair. It isn't until you look at the clock hung by the mirror to see that twenty minutes have already passed that you speed up your pace.

You can't keep them waiting after all. Or those that will be awake at this hour, anyway.

Pressed for time, you decide to forgo a shave and instead iron out your shirt to a crisp perfection, then finish dressing yourself in front of the mirror. By the time you've gotten prepared for the day, it's seven o’clock on the dot and you somewhat regret sleeping in for so long.

Exiting your room, you're sure to be absolutely silent. Downstairs you can hear the soft constant buzz of snores and occasional mutter, and when you pass it you can hear that what used to be Jane’s bedroom is utterly silent. It's empty now, all the furniture and knickknacks that made it your daughter’s packed and boxed. A part of you is sad that you've finally decided to leave the home you grew up in, the home your Father bought to relax between all the shows and tours and comedy clubs, but it's the right decision. Popop would agree, you know.

You might happen to know that because his younger self from what has been explained as a parallel universe now lives on your estate and agrees the Crocker household is somewhat overcrowded, but that's beside the point.

You take the stairs with slow methodical steps, careful around each spot that could potentially make a sound when pressure is applied. Some of them are quite the light sleepers. One by one, you descend the stairwell, until you’ve finally reached the ground floor.

The blinds have been closed and curtains drawn, which makes it hard for you to see much past the general shapes of the room. It doesn’t bother you as much as it had when the kids had first made the arrangement and after so long you’ve become accustomed to their configuration at night. Even the relocated furniture has been rearranged in your mind; you’ve been able to successfully move around it with ease for the past week now, which has become quite the convenient skill for your early mornings.

Across the floor, every blanket, sheet, and pillow on the property—as well as some that you’d went out to buy specifically for this purpose—has been laid out and overlapped, the closest thing to a massive bed that could be made on such a short notice. It’s only temporary, after all, and all of your guests have assured you that it works quite fine until better arrangements can be found.

The children are still asleep, curled together on the mass of blankets and pillows.

With a slight squint, you can spot your darling little Jane. She looks so peaceful, her arms half wrapped around one of the Lalonde girls, whom you can’t quite make out in the thick darkness of the room. You would assume it to be that Roxy gal, but you’ve found that at night the children all tend to just cling to one another with no care for who they’re closest to. You're hardly surprised that the children all need a little comfort now and again, given the trials they’ve experienced. And if some of them can only find the courage to do it in the dark, where there’s no light to be judged by, then you're simply happy that they're finding the courage whatsoever.

You know better than to believe all twelve of your new charges are fast asleep at the moment though.

After a few seconds longer of squinting in the dark—old habits die hard, and you watch carefully to be sure that each and every shape in the dark moves, breathing—you make your way around the very edges of the room and towards the study.

The door makes the slightest of creaks when you open it and you glance backward just to make sure you haven’t stirred any of them. Nothing.

You smile to yourself and slip inside, shutting the door behind you with a soft puff of air.

To your slight surprise, the room’s single occupant doesn’t comment on your presence until you’ve walked over and seated yourself beside him. The bare floor is cold and quite uncomfortable; you know he hasn’t moved once all night. Maybe you should see if you can find a cushion for him to use. You’re sure the rest of the children would happily donate one to their friend.

Karkat huffs, pulls his strange alien computer closer to him, and glares at you when you settle completely beside him. “Crocker Lusus.” He says.

Unlike the rest of your guests, Karkat still refuses to abide by your wishes to call you Dad and has stubbornly come up with his own special term to refer to you as instead. You’ve accepted his stubbornness. If it suits him, it can suit you as well.

You smile and nod. “Good morning, Karkat. An early start today, don’t you think?” You ask him. He doesn’t answer, though does look off to the side. “Did you stay awake all night again?”

His mouth pulls into a grimaced line like he wants to shout at you, which seems to be his automated reaction to most things. He refrains, and instead jerks his shoulders in a way that you suppose could be considered a shrug. “Even if I did, it wouldn’t be any of your gogda—” Karkat swallows air just before the curse can fully slip out. “Any of your business.”

Your smile grows, and you almost wish you had a pipe so you could give it a satisfied puff. You nod at him again.

Some of them are, ahem, talented when it comes to their creative colorful sentence structure, not even to mention choice of words, but you’ve made it clear that you won’t stand for foul language. Karkat has always been one of the worst offenders, as well as the Strider boys. You understand it's a habit for them all, after so long unsupervised. That's why the effort to oblige your requests for a cleaner vocabulary are so nice to see, even if said efforts tend to fall through whenever they've gotten themselves bickering over this or that. Baby steps.

“I think I’m going to start breakfast up soon. Would you like to give me any suggestions?”

“Pan made cakes.” He says, short and brisk, like he simply cannot wait for you to leave.

You don’t let yourself wince at the request and instead give another nod, though your mouth downturns into a minute frown. Hopefully, he doesn’t assume it’s aimed at him. “I’m afraid we don’t have enough flour left from the gravy this morning. Anything else that would suit your fancy?”

“Then." Karkat's nose scrunches. "Featherbeast eggs would be... fine.”

You almost reach out to ruffle his hair, as you would Jane’s, but think better of it. The trolls have quite the sharp assets, and they seem to enjoy a healthy portion of personal space. Well, aside from Terezi that is, though you would assume most of her actions are a general outlier on their population. “Eggs it is then.”

He darts his eyes back to his spider-like computer. “Is that all you wanted?” He asks. The conscious effort he makes to keep his voice low for those in the foyer is very respectful of him.

“I would think so.” You assure him and stand. His eyes follow you to the door, bright yellow slits against the light of his computer. If the light was out, you know they would glow like candles. “I’ll be back to get you when breakfast is finished, alright? Unless you decide to emerge before then, of course.”

Karkat makes a sound in the back of his throat, distinctly inhuman. You leave him to his own devices. It’s somewhat of an impossible feat to get the troll to talk much to you, despite how verbal he seems with the rest of his party. No reason to bother him more than you already have. Besides, you counted heads when you first arrived downstairs and there was more than just one who was absent from the bed.

“Dirk, hello?” You call quietly at the threshold of the kitchen door.

You listen carefully, both to the uninterrupted snores behind you and for a response.

They’re always either in the study or the kitchen or Jane’s bedroom, but never both in the same place at once. Dirk is more often alone than Karkat, with Dave occasionally trying his hardest to stay with him throughout the night—more often than not you find him slumped against Karkat in the morning; you’ve always felt it’s the thought that counts—but sometimes you’ll find him with Roxy or, less often, Jane. Both Dirk and Roxy seem to have some form of a stigma against the trolls, though you doubt it’s the fault of those present.

From what you’ve learned during your imprisonment on, Derse was it?, the Condescension was quite a cruel woman. Sometimes you wonder what the fate of the children would have been if you’d been executed as planned by her agents. It’s hard to steer clear of such thoughts, it’s simply human.

Nevertheless, the two near refuse to be left by their lonesome with a troll, or at least without a clear escape from the situation available at all times. It hasn’t become an issue as of yet, but you’ve kept your attention to the situation. For now though, all it means is you’ll need to stop in two places each morning to check on the more nocturnal of the group. It's a task you certainly can't find yourself to mind.

You haven’t decided how much longer you’ll allow the two of them to force themselves to stay awake for weeks—weeks!—at a time, but from what the others have said these aren’t exactly rare occurrences for either. Karkat has been claimed to go for what is the equivalent of a near year awake. A growing boy needs his sleep still, and you’re simply waiting for the perfect opportunity to intervene. Perhaps once a more permanent residence can be established.

The kitchen is dark when you toe your way inside, with all of the lights out aside from the small light over the stove. The refrigerator is just barely cracked open.

Well, speak of sleeping. It seems you didn’t need to intervene quite yet, nature has done that for you. Eight days is an impressive record but a worrying one as well. You don't think you've once had to worry about Jane working herself to exhaustion before, even when she became particularly dedicated to a marathon of all Peter Ustinov's films. At the very least, she would take nap breaks in between.

“Dirk?” You whisper out. “Dirk, come on. Let’s move you to the bed. It’ll be more comfortable.”

The boy is splayed out across the island, a screwdriver in hand and his glasses pushed up to his forehead. A half empty cup of what looks to be soda and smells to be coffee is beside him, just inches from his elbow and the edge of the counter. There are bits and pieces that gleam in the stove light which, after a moment, you recognize as the remains of your toaster.

Silly thing, if he wanted to tinker with something he could have just asked. You bet the television would be a much more interesting project than the toaster. Maybe the car, if he wished. You’re sure you could rent an adequate replacement until he’s had his fill of it.

You give his shoulder a light tap to see if he’ll move of his own accord, and, despite his reputation as one of the lightest sleepers, he doesn’t budge.

His breathing is slow and even, peaceful. A rare occurrence, you must admit. You smile. The screwdriver is carefully pried from his tight fingers and sunglasses folded securely to the front of his shirt. You know they won’t break if he happens to roll over.

“Up we go.” You scoop him from his chair and place an arm over your shoulder for the extra security. He’s worryingly light for someone so tall; Jane did say that he survived mostly on a diet of hunted fish and orange soda while in Houston. If you had ever been given the pleasure to meet Mr. Strider, you would have words with that man. Many many words. “Your neck will thank me, I’m sure.”

You’re sure from plenty a night too late at the office, when you’re so tired you droop over your keyboard and jerk awake a near minute later with a crick in your spine, but he’s spruce. You’re sure he’ll be just fine when he wakes.

You tiptoe your way closer to the pallet on the floor and set him down on the very edge, not quite smothered by the presence of the others but within an arm’s reach if needed. You know better than to set someone you know falls nervous in a crowd of three into the center of a crowd of ten. Dirk looks content enough, even in the dark, his face carefully blank even in his sleep.

Once he’s tucked under one of the many blankets and you’ve assured yourself with one last sweeping glance across the room that all chests are still, in fact, moving with breaths of life, you nod to yourself and make your way back to the kitchen.

You make a note not to let Dirk work on the car until you can make it to the store and buy more ingredients for pancake batter.