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Day 13 of @ailesswhumptober

Whumpee using themself as bait/defiance - "take me instead."

cw. child abuse

the night the boys were taken to the refuge

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was the middle of the night, or close to. Dark outside. The blanket didn't do much to keep Oscar warm but the two fingers of whiskey he'd drank earlier were humming through his veins still, so he wasn't as cold as he could've been. But it could be better.

He glanced over to Morris on the other side of the room, all curled up, knees pulled up to his chest and curly hair that Oscar would have to cut soon splayed out across his pillow, his face tucked into the gap between it and the mattress. He looked like the kid when he was sleeping like this, the nine year old he was, even with the hollow cheeks.

Oscar sat up slowly, careful to not let the bed creak under him. If he woke mo up he wouldn't go back to sleep for hours and Oscar knew he would've been the one talking him down, keeping him quiet so da didn't hear. He wouldn’t mind usually, but he’d already sacrificed the heavy quilt ma had knitted years back, quietly draping it over Mo's sleeping body and gently ruffling his hair; he didn't want to sacrifice a nights sleep aswell, not that that seemed to be going well so far.

Walking quietly across the creaking, wooden floor of the farm house had been a skill Oscar perfected. He was practiced and silent and it brought a sense of comfort as he felt his way down the dark hall, fingers on one hand running over the bottom of crosses and the torn edges of ma’s sketches of the Virgin Mary pinned to the walls. When he reached the end of the hall he started down the stairs. It was careful; he knew what side of what step made what noise, and how to avoid it, avoid alerting da to the fact he was still up.

He just wanted another finger or two of whiskey, something to help him sleep.

If he'd paused before pushing the door to the kitchen open he would've noticed the dim, yellow glow around the door frame, the low flickering orange and yellow of lit candles.

Da was sitting at the kitchen table, bottle of whiskey next him, crucifix pinned to the wall behind him just above his head.

Oscar froze in the doorway.

"S' late, Os." His voice was like gravel, like the words were pulled up out of him and spoken from the back of his throat. There was a warmth to it, sometimes, by nature of his accent, by nature of being their da.

He stayed in the doorway, kept his distance and tried to keep his voice even. "Couldn't sleep."

Da took a slow sip of his drink, one poured into a glass not just straight from the bottle, and some the tension drained from Oscar's shoulders.

"S' the babby asleep?"

"Yeah. Yeah mo's sleeping."

Oscar had spent a couple hours lying shoulder to shoulder with Morris, chatting quietly about everything and nothing until he had eventually drifted off. Oscar didn't believe in God or anything like that, or maybe he did and it was just god who didn't give a shit about him, but he couldn't help the habit of swiping a cross on Morris's head with his thumb and a murmur of god bless, the same way he'd watched his ma do hundreds of times over before she passed.

Da nodded, his figure still mostly shadow in the low light, but broad, familiar. “Good kid. You wanna drink?”

Oscar was hesitant, glanced up at the crucifix and then back at da again, his eyes were dark with the way the candles were haphazardly spread about the table, his blue eyes, Oscar's own, flickering into view every view seconds.

He stepped further into the room, let the floor creak under him this time.

"Yeah. Thanks, da."

Da didn't respond, wordlessly pushed his half full glass toward Oscar and instead took the bottle by the neck.

"Once you finish that, want you to go wake up your brother, tell him to pack."

The whiskey hit the back of Oscar's throat and burned. He sputtered and da huffed a laugh. He knew da was jeering the fact he apparently couldn’t hold his drink but Oscar didn’t care-

"What? Pack?”

"We're goin' into town."

"But it's-" da was unpredictable, but usually in a way Oscar was used to. So unpredictable that there was almost a pattern to it. But it had been different since ma died. He had been different, withdrawn and angrier and kinder in equal measures. Uncertainty seized at Oscar's chest. "It's the middle of the night, da."

"Didn't ask you to ask questions. Drink that n' then get him up."

A pit in his stomach opened up.

Da was going to kill Morris. That had to be it.

It was a thought that had lingered in the back of Oscar’s skull since the baby had been born.

He couldn't finish the rest of his whiskey.

"What- where you goin' in town."

"Don't start at me Os."

"Mo ain't- he ain't done nothin'. He's been good-"

"Oscar-"

"Least take me instead, c'mon da, you don't even like me-"

The back hand was sharp. A crack that sent Oscar sideways and the glass of whiskey crashing to the floor in needle shards and a pool of splintered amber all before he noticed da had even shoved out his seat, his free hand still around the neck of the bottle.

Oscar's cheek throbbed and his eyes burned and the candles flicked.

Da's head was blocking the cross.

Oscar hoped the noise hadn't woken Mo up.

"I ever say you ain't comin' too, boy?"

Da's eyes were dark with the way he leant over the table, shrouding out the light.

The smell of whiskey stung Oscar's nose.

"Said go get your brother. Or I can go get him an' leave you here."

Oscar tried to swallow through the stinging of his cheek, ignore it and the pressure he could feel behind his eyes. The familiar anger crawling up his throat. Da always hit hard, especially when he'd been drinking. but apparently the silence of Oscar’s lack of response was answer enough.

"M' loading' up the cart," Da continued, and he took a heavy swig of the bottle, then held it out to Oscar; he hesitantly stepped forward, just enough that he could reach. The neck was still warm from da's large hand. "Half an' hour Os. And then we're headin'."

Oscar nodded, didn't ask where they were going, knew he wouldn't get an answer. Knew da could hit harder than that.

"Atta boy."

Da slapped his shoulder, too hard, and shoved past him, out to the outhouse, Oscar could only assume. Out to where the old cart was kept during winter.

Oscar's cheek stung. He glared at the lone crucifix nailed to the wall. The bony figure of Jesus limp and splayed out across it, a speck of red on his ribs where he’d bled. his eyes on Oscar.

Oscar turned away. brought the bottle of whiskey to his lips and let it burn on the way down.