Chapter Text
Otis has zero problem with kids. He likes kids. Whenever he’s in a kid kind of mood he can just go to Herrmann’s house, though. He does not need his own kid.
That’s what he thought, anyway.
One morning they respond to a house fire, not five blocks away from Otis’ apartment. It’s a foster group home for latino kids, and some of the kids let a rag catch fire while cooking eggs. No major damage, other than some scared little ones.
Otis carried a little boy, Oscar Morales, out of the house. Poor kid was frozen, terrified, staring at the fire in the kitchen. Otis got him to safety, not that he was in too much danger, while Kelly just extinguished the stove.
When they left, Oscar was crying at the foster mom, not wanting to go back in the house. Poor thing. They packed up the rig, left, and Otis didn’t think about it again.
Then that night, a knock on the door had a buzzed Otis swinging it open and looking down. There was Oscar, shivering in his jacket with a backpack on. It took Otis a second to remember exactly who he was.
“Hey, little man…” Otis hid his beer behind his back. “Whatcha doing here?”
“No gusta la estufa.” Oscar mumbled.
“Okay.” Otis nodded, not understanding a word.
“¿Quédo aquí?” Oscar peered through Otis’ door hopefully. “Stay here, me?”
“Uh, no.” Otis snickered, reaching for his jacket. “Come on, pal, let’s get you home.”
It was nice out, and Otis was half a drink too far in to be driving with a minor in the car, so they walked. A couple blocks down Oscar slipped his hand into Otis’. It was cute. Otis gave him a couple comforting squeezes.
“Oh, Oscar!” The foster mom was already at the door, worriedly on the phone, talking to the other kids quickly in Spanish as they huddled around her. “Dios mio! Estaba muy preocupada!”
She covers his face with kisses and hugs him close while Oscar mumbles apologies and half-heartedly hugs back. Then she turns to Otis.
“Thank you.” She says stiltedly. “So scared. Oh, must call 9-1-1, Trudy, tell her Oscar ok!”
Huh. It’s a longshot, but Otis wants to ask. “Trudy? You don’t mean Trudy Platt, do you?”
Her eyes light up. “Si, si! Trudy Platt, police! I call her now!”
“Oh. I’m a, a friend of hers.” Otis offers. What other word could he use to describe the terrifying woman. “Tell her Otis said hi.”
“Okay, okay, I tell her. Thank you, Otis. Thank you!”
“No problem, have a good night, uh, bentos tias. Bye Oscar!”
He waves, and Oscar waves back sadly. The little boy looks sorrowfully at the house. It looks like the foster mom already has some guys in there to repair the damage.
————————————
The next day at work, he asks Cruz. “Hey, what does nagooster sofa mean?”
“What words just came out of your mouth?”
“You speak Spanish, right? I had a run in with a latino kid last night, and he said something like ‘nagooster sofa’.” Otis tries to remember. “So, what does that mean.”
Cruz gives him a look. “Nagooster sofa isn’t Spanish for anything, bro.”
“Okay, maybe I’m remembering it wrong, can’t you just-“ He waves his hands in circles, looking for the words.
“Hey calm down, man. If I had to guess, ‘nagooster’ might be ‘no gusta’?” Otis nods. “Well that means I don’t like. And sofa means sofa. Couch. So the kid didn’t like your couch? Unless sofa is sopa. That means the kid didn’t like soup.”
Otis wonders what’s wrong with his couch until that evening, when Oscar shows up at his door again, hands clasped together, eyes shiny and pleading.
“No gusta la estufa!” He cries. “No me hagas volver! Por favor!”
Otis sighs. “Kid, I don’t know what you’re saying. Do you… do you speak English?”
Oscar nods. “Yes, I can speak English.” It’s heavy with accent and a bit stunted, but adorable and perfectly coherent.
“Alright, good.” Otis nods. That’s progress. “Now buddy, let’s get you home. I bet they’re worried about you.”
“But I do not want to go back! It is scary!” Oscar whines.
Otis gets down on his knees, levels with the kid, and puts a careful hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Hey kid, look at me real quick, good, breathe in and out slow. Look at me. Is someone in that house hurting you? Ouch, hurt?” Otis doesn’t know what to do with his hands, poorly mimicking choking, pushing, punching, and breaking a bone in quick succession, probably just upsetting the kid more.
But Oscar shakes his head. “No! They are all nice to me.”
Otis breathes out his relief. “Alright, then why don’t you want to go back?”
Oscar’s eyes go dark and he looks to the side. “La estufa.” He mutters.
Otis nods slowly. “Okay, you don’t like the couch over there. Got it.” He grabs his jacket again, makes sure he has his keys before he puts an arm around Oscar. “Let’s getcha home, bud. You know, I bet they won’t have soup for dinner tonight, okay?”
They drive this time, because Otis is sober, and the foster mom is a little less worried this time but no less thankful, and Oscar has tears in his eyes when he waves goodbye.
Sean, his ex who breaks his heart and keeps on chipping away, calls him on his way back.
“Hey daddy.” Sean slurs through the phone. “Are you working early tomorrow?”
Otis knows he should say no, no, no. “Lucky for you, no. I’ll be right over baby.”
————————————
Otis and Sean aren’t together anymore. Otis has finally resigned himself to that. For so long he wanted to start things up again, give them a chance. Sean shut him down every time, before he could even really bring it up.
And then, a couple months ago, there was the night that Sean tried to bring it up.
Otis thinks Sean tried to bring it up. He can’t actually be sure.
“Hey Bri,” Sean panted, rubbing Otis’ sweaty arm in the afterglow of a good, solid fuck, “if you ever need something, anything. I can still, you know, get you anything you need.”
Otis is so sure that was Sean’s attempt fix them, to pick up where they started. But all he did was remind Otis the reason they broke up. Or rather, the reason it was good that they broke up. They just weren’t sustainable, not meant to be.
“Sean, please just don’t.” Otis groaned. “Please don’t do that.”
Doesn’t mean Otis will stop answering Sean’s calls though. Doesn’t mean he can keep his hands off the slutty cop.
Doesn’t mean he’ll let Sean stop chipping away at his heart with every night they spend together.
———————————————
It keeps happening, though. Oscar will knock on Otis’ door, asking if he can stay. Otis says no, walks or drives him home, sadly hands him over to the foster mother despite his cries.
After a few nights, Otis invites the little guy in for a hot chocolate before they go back. Then that happens again. Then Oscar starts doing his homework at Otis’ apartment before he goes back home.
Otis doesn’t mind as much as he feels like he should, even though the kid is now consistently cutting into his me time and his happy hour.
The apartment is not the kid’s house, though, and Otis is not his guardian, so he calls Trudy. Actually he calls Mouch, because Mouch isn’t scary, and Mouch puts Trudy on the phone.
“Hey Sergeant.” He respectfully greets.
“I’m not on duty, Otis. What’s up?” She sounds impatient, but there’s not so much police in her voice as usual.
“I have a kid here. In my living room.” Otis finds himself speaking in split sentences, unsure of how to describe his predicament. “He’s doing homework. And eating an apple.”
“Congratulations, would you like me to send you a cookie for your nephew?”
“He’s not my nephew, he’s not related to me.”
There’s a beat of quiet. “Then why is he in your living room, are you babysitting? Otis if you just called to waste my time-“
“Oscar Morales.” Otis blurts out. “Do you know him?” The kid perks up at his name, and Otis mouths Trudy’s name to him, pointing at the phone. The boy’s face brightens and he starts waving.
“Trudy? Officer Trudy hi! Hi it is me, Oscar! When are you next coming to visit me?”
Another beat of silence. Then Trudy’s voice comes through as police as ever. “Otis. What is Oscar Morales, son of deceased Gloria Morales and current ward of the state doing in your living room?”
“I’m not really sure, I was hoping you could help me out with that.”
———————————————
Trudy arrives thirty minutes later.
“Okay!” She says. “Hello, Oscar! Come here, buddy!” Oscar runs and wraps his arms around her. She turns to look at Otis. “I called the foster mother. Apparently, Oscar is afraid of the stove.”
That makes more sense than the couch.
“Apparently, when he gets back from school, he plays outside until dinner, always asks to eat outside, and cries when he has to go in to bed.” Trudy explains.
Otis is confused, pointing toward the kitchen. “But I have a stove right there. Why doesn’t he have a problem with my apartment?”
Trudy sighs and shrugs. “Children are a great mystery, Otis. But thank you for taking care of Oscar, hey! I really appreciate it.” Her demeanor and attention change when she looks down. “Alright Oscar, how about you come home with me tonight, huh? You can meet my husband, it’ll be a blast!”
“I get to meet Mr. Platt?” Oscar’s eyes twinkle with excitement.
Otis snorts.
“That’s right you do, and have you ever heard of a pull out sofa bed? Oh kid you’re gonna love this.”
Otis shakes his head retreats into his home. Trudy is surprisingly good with kids.
——————————————
It keeps on happening, even after Trudy takes him for a night. The kid doesn’t want to go back to the foster group home. Too afraid of the stove.
Oscar expressed to Trudy that it is safe at her house and at Otis’ house, and Trudy explained that Oscar is confident that if a fire starts, they will be able to punch the fire into submission.
The kid keeps showing up at Otis’ door, and Otis keeps on not minding.
In fact he starts not minding enough to look into foster care. He doesn’t mind enough to take necessary classes, Casey and Boden even give him fucking PTO to take the courses, some program through the city.
And eventually, he doesn’t mind to the point that his TV room turns into a bedroom. Oscar’s bedroom. He moves the TV out to the living room, where he and his foster son can watch movies together.
——————————————
“You think I remember anything about fractions?” Otis nudges Oscar playfully with his shoulder. “Okay, let’s see what we have here… three over four plus two over three. Very tricky.”
Actually it is tricky, because Otis does not remember anything about fractions from school. He does his best to think of it in terms of baking.
He clears his throat. “We’re making pancakes.”
“We are making pancakes?” Oscar completely perks up from where he’s tapping his pencil in boredom.
“On here we are.” Otis taps the paper and pats Oscar’s head when he pouts disappointedly. “So I need flour to make pancakes. I put three fourths of a cup of flour in the bowl, then I put two thirds of a cup of flour in the bowl. How much flour is in the bowl?”
Otis crosses his fingers while Oscar squints in concentration, tapping his pencil again. Finally he turns to Otis with hopeful eyes. “Enough for pancakes?”
Otis laughs until his phone rings. Sean’s face appears on the screen. “Hold up bud, gotta take this. You keep going.”
Otis takes the call to his bedroom. “Hey Sean, what’s up?”
“Hey Bri. A client of mine gave me a very large, very expensive looking and good-smelling bottle of bourbon. Any interest in helping me crack it open?”
“Sorry Sean, can’t. I have to drive Oscar to school in the morning before work.”
“Oh.” Sean’s voice is flat now, devoid of any seductive undertones. “I forgot he’s really living with you now. No uh, no chance you could just drop by once he falls asleep? You know I’ll be up all night.”
Otis chuckles. “Sorry Sean. Someone has to be here if he has a nightmare.”
Sometimes Oscar wakes up crying about white vans, and Otis has to heat up a frozen waffle, douse it in syrup, and then play the Little Einsteins theme song in English and Spanish until Oscar’s breathing calms.
“Okay, yeah I get it. It’s important. Do you know how long you’ll have him for?”
Otis groans. “Weeks, months? However long until his tia Lucia can get back to the states.”
“Any updates on that?”
Otis sighs. “No, we haven’t been able to reach her in a few days, actually.”
Sean falls silent. “You know Brian, I know it isn’t easy raising a kid, even fostering one. I know it’s not cheap. If you ever need-“
“Stop.” Otis snaps, a bit harsher than he meant. In his soul, he appreciates the offer. He even tucks it away in a dark, moldy cabinet, in case there’s ever a real emergency. “Sorry, I really appreciate it Sean, but I just- I just don’t want that from you, okay? I gotta go, Oscar needs help with fractions.”
—————————
He hasn’t been intimate with Sean, or anyone else, since taking in Oscar. He hasn’t had a night out at Molly’s that hasn’t been in some way business-related. Oscar needs new clothes, so looks like he won’t be donating to the zoo or seeing a hockey game this week.
Also last year the fire department stopped random drug tests and Dimitri has introduced Otis to the wonders of medical marijuana. He’s had to stop smoking completely since Oscar moved in. He allows himself a beer in the evening, and that’s it.
His brain always goes to a dark place when he has the urge to drink to drunkness.
What if Oscar slips in the tub and bumps his head? What if the TV falls on top of him? What if he has an allergic reaction they don’t know about and needs to be driven to med at top speed, no time for an ambulance?
If he’s drunk in any of those very unlikely scenarios that he doesn’t spend hours at night staring at the ceiling worrying about, listening to make sure nothing has fallen or thumped in the apartment, Oscar could die.
On top of everything else, taking care of Oscar is winning him major Trudy Platt points. Ever since he took in the little guy, Platt comes over at least once a week with a casserole. It’s great, Otis hasn’t had to pay for lunch in over a month.
Trudy is also better at fractions than Otis.
“How’s Sean?” He can’t help but ask when Trudy is over one night with a beautifully baked Macaroni and Cheese dish.
“Officer Roman reports for duty every day on time.” Trudy informs him. “Would you like to write a note so I can pass it to him in gym class?”
Otis goes red in the cheeks. “Uh, no. No that’s okay. Any uh, any word from Lucia?”
“Actually yes.” Trudy’s voice lowers. “Lucia Morales is safe in Guadalajara. She says she’s meeting with people who might be able to help her get to Maryland. But they’re expensive.”
Otis wrings his hands and looks at where Oscar is listening to music. “How expensive?”
Trudy looks grim. “It’s sounding like they want ten thousand. US.”
Otis stares at the ceiling with a new problem tangling his stomach that night. How is he supposed to wrangle up ten grand?