Storytime

Slick gets broken so his stupid kid decides to annoy him.

CHECK 'EM.

-()-

The Felt, Slick reflected, were a rather unique crew. Not because they could time travel, because that wasn't that weird, not here. Hell, more people could probably travel in this damn city than could read. No, they were unique in that every time he met them he discovered deeper levels of hatred. Every time, he surprised himself; love might be eternal, or some shit, but his hate was bottomless.

Especially, he noted with a grunt and a wince as he shifted in the armchair, when they went out of their timey-wimey way to shoot him in the ribs.

At least he'd unloaded the kid for the afternoon – a man could only take so much, and between the gunshot and the five year-old, Spades Slick was faced with an insurmountable dilemma that even he couldn't devise a way to stab himself out of.

"Dad?"

What?

Fuck.

A mop of black hair and two little orangey-yellow nubbins became just visible over the arm of the chair. "Dad?"

"You're supposed to be with Droog." So it sounded like an accusation, so what? The kid wasn't even 3 sweeps old yet, he wouldn't notice.

The horns tipped forward, accompanied by a quiet "He sent me home."

"Why?"

". . . I stuck a bug down Aradia's shirt. And then she ruined her shirt."

Dammit Droog, babysitting should come before fashion. "Why'd you do that?"

"I dunno." The kid's yellow eyes peeked over the edge of the chair, brows furrowed in tentative defiance. "'Cause I wanted to."

Slick sighed. Whether or not the kid was his, he'd definitely learned his impulse control from his guardian. Or rather, failed to. "Go to your room, Karkat."

"Why can't I stay here with you?"

"'Cause I got four holes in my chest and I don't have the energy. Scram."

Karkat trotted around to the front of the chair, shoulders slouched, arms crossed, frown firmly in place. "I don't want to. My room's boring."

"Well read a book or something, it's not my job to entertain you every damn da – ouch, fuck, kid." Karkat clambered up into his lap and glowered at his caretaker. "Off."

"No."

Slick made to sit forward, the idea being the kid would tip off onto the floor, but not only was Karkat more tenacious than Slick usually gave him credit for, the broken ribs and cracked sternum ensured he couldn't sit too forward too fast. Karkat smirked, Slick glared. "Off."

"I'm staying here."

"God dammit, Karkat, get out of here."

The kid's determined smirk wavered for a second, but then he tipped his head back and tried – amusingly, the mobster had to admit – to look down his nose at his guardian. "I want to stay here." That flash of uncertainty again. "Please?"

Slick let his head fall back into the chair cushion. Karkat tensed. "Fine. Don't –" he braced his arm against the kid's chest "– hug me. If you're gonna stay, you're gonna behave."

"Can you tell me a story?"

Un-fucking-believable. "I thought you didn't want to read."

"I don't. I want to hear a story."

"I'm not telling you a story, kid."

"Well what the hell else am I supposed to do?"

"Language."

"You say it."

Slick closed his eyes and counted to three. And then he continued to ten, because his knife hand(1) was still twitching. "Just 'cause I do stuff doesn't mean you can."

"That's not fair."

"Well, life's a bitch and then you die."

That little kid scowl didn't fade, not really, but it flickered around the edges. Karkat's little shoulders slumped and he shifted his weight toward the open room. Aw, hell. "Alright, fine. I'll tell you a story. But don't interrupt."

The kid whipped back around, and damned if that grin didn't make him feel a little less homicidal than normal. "But what if I'm confused?"

"Then raise your stupid hand or something, I don't know."

"Okay." Karkat bounced a little, but stopped abruptly when Slick couldn't help but wince. "Sorry Dad."

"Just . . . don't move very much. Got it?"

"Got it." His eyes gleamed. "What's the story about?"

"Uh." Shit, think fast, Slick. You got this, there's gotta be something you can talk about. You founded a damn city, how hard can a story be? "It's about . . . a hero. And a princess." Kids liked that shit, didn't they?

Karkat's little face twisted, and a thin pink tongue stuck out from between two rows of shark teeth. "Do they kiss?"

"Don't be stupid, of course they don't." Karkat nodded in approval and gingerly shifted his weight around, leaning back against the arm of the chair. "Alright, ready?" Karkat nodded and Slick took a shallow breath. "Uh, okay. A long time ago, in, um, a galaxy far, uh, far away, there was this princess on this spaceship . . ."

It wasn't a bad story, Slick thought as he told it. And Karkat seemed to like the hero well enough, although Slick was more pleased with the kid's wholehearted enthusiasm about the outlaw mobster pirate pilot. He'd been worried that character was overdoing it. And better yet, the hero and the princess didn't kiss.

Or, they wouldn't have. While Slick was trying to think of more exciting ways to say 'then they snuck around for a while and looked for the dark lord,' – stretching his knowledge of language and vocabulary far beyond what honest racketeering ever demanded – the kid drifted off. Not that that was surprising, he'd been yawning for the last half hour. Subconsciously, Karkat sleepily slouched forward toward his guardian and Slick guided him away from the wounds. The kid nestled down on Slick's belly and curled up, eyes firmly shut.

He looked down on the kid for a second and debated waking him up. After all, if he was going to tell a story on Karkat's insistence, the little bastard damn well ought to stay awake for it.

And then the kid snuggled in closer and smiled that funny little smile he always had when he slept. Slick's heart didn't melt, but the eternal fires of his indignant rage were thoroughly banked.

He rested a skinny hand on the kid's head, and mussed his hair a little, gently, careful of those stupid little nubbin horns.

The mobster's head slouched back deeper into the chair, and his eyes slid shut. He figured it wasn't like he was going anywhere soon, not without waking the kid up. Might as well get some shut-eye, anyway.

-()-

(1) Which was his right hand. And his left hand.

-()-

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