Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For Corran

“There are people that need me. And that, in itself, is life. There are people I do not know yet that need me. That is life.”

— Bobby McIlvaine, in his personal diary, 22 days before his death.

The kid lying on the tattoo chair is singing under his breath, following along to The Postal Service’s music coming off the tattoo parlor’s speakers. A noble effort, thinks Powder, even though it’s clear by his minute squirms the pain of his first tattoo is getting to him. It should be finished soon, anyway, so she continues her work. At least he has not passed out. Some clients do.

When Powder and Gert had opened Jinxed Tattoos and Piercings, an ironic name given how much of a perfectionist both are with their art, they had expected a clientele consisting mostly of the kind of bike gangs Vander was part of back when he was a no-good troublemaker. Instead, a mention in a Boston Globe article about under-the-radar tattoo shops had attracted hip college kids and middle aged bohemes that otherwise never step foot in their small coastal town. They paid nice, though, especially considering the fact Powder never let them choose what they got — only where.

This kid had wanted to celebrate his high-school graduation with a tattoo on his arm, which was probably as good as it got for a first tattoo. Powder had chosen a grey squirrel she had recently drawn to represent his new beginnings and the foresight he would need in college. With a mohawk and holding a molotov cocktail, of course.

A loud ringing from the front desk interrupts the monotone buzzing of the tattoo gun in Powder’s hand. Gert is out of the shop today, something about her daughter’s ASL lessons, but Powder hopes the call is just an insurance salesman and continues inking. A few minutes later, right as she lets the happy kid out to the street with a finished squirrel tattoo fresh on his arm, the phone rings again. Reluctantly, Powder makes her way to the desk and picks up the phone.

“Jinxed Tats, who’s talking?”

“Prescott Hospital, calling for a Powder Rivera?” The voice is calm, the phrasing sounding habitual.

“That’s me.” A hospital call is never good news, but Powder cannot stop the small part of her that hopes the call is not exactly what everyone fears when talking to hospital staff unexpectedly. Vi’s not on patrol today, Powder reminds herself. Vi’s safe. “This about a blood draw or somethin’?”

“Ms. Rivera, you are listed as Gertrude Sullivan’s emergency contact,” says the woman on the other side of the line in a measured, professional tone. Powder stops being able to feel anything except the dull weight of the handset against her head and the pulsing of blood in her ears. Unwittingly, she grabs the desk with her free hand so hard her knuckles turn white.

“Yeah. Yeah, Gert. Is… Is she okay?”

A pause. Too long, too heavy. Powder knows the words she’s hoping the voice on the phone will not say. Not about Gert. Please, prays Powder to no god in particular.

“I’m very sorry, Ms. Rivera,” the stranger says. “Ms. Sullivan was involved in a traffic accident. The EMTs did all they could. She was pronounced dead on arrival.”

The news hit Powder like cannon-fire. Her knees buckle and she sinks into the front desk’s office chair. Powder’s every limb shakes as if the motion could turn back time.

“The daughter survived unharmed,” the woman continues. “An Isha Sullivan. She is here at the hospital and is clear to leave. You are named as her legal guardian.”

Guardian. Powder tries to speak, but the shock of hearing that on the heels of Gert’s death makes it almost impossible to say anything. Isha. Gert’s mute kid. The little ball of sunshine Powder is now expected to take care of. Instant noodles-Powder. Borderline personality-Powder. Gert expected her to somehow manage to mother her child. 

“Can you come get her?” asks the nurse.

Powder closes her eyes, trying to relax the grip on the desk even though it feels like that is the only anchor she has to the real world.

“Ye– Yeah,” Powder chokes out, voice raspy and numb. “I’m coming.”

⁂

The hospital’s waiting room is cold, its fluorescent lights blindingly shining above Powder covering the furniture in a sickly white. The air smells like rubbing alcohol. Powder is standing by the doorway, rain dripping from her winter coat onto the vinyl flooring. The nurse behind the reception desk looks up to her expectantly, silently prompting Powder to speak.

“Powder Rivera?” she says, uncertain. “I’m here for Isha.”

The nurse’s expression softens instantly as she gets up from her chair.

“Yes, of course. Right through here,” the nurse says, leading Powder down a hallway to a room marked as ‘Pediatric Waiting Room’. Inside, the small frame of a young child is sitting with its knees pulled up to its cheeks on a chair by the corner.

“Isha?” asks Powder.

Isha pulls her head from behind her legs and stares at Powder. Her face is pale, her body stilled by the shock of the accident. She is clutching a monkey plushie. Gert had found the plushie in a thrift store with Powder the same day Powder found the red-and-black choker she is wearing. Looking at the empty expression in Isha’s eyes, Powder wonders if Isha understands what just happened. What is going to happen to all of them. 

“She hasn’t said anything,” the nurse mentions from behind Powder. “The shock might wear off in the next few days.”

“No, she’s… She’s mute.”

"Ah."

After a pause, the nurse taps the door frame to get Powder’s attention.

“I’ll give you two some time, just drop by the reception desk so you can check her out of the hospital and fill some forms. The guardianship ones might take a while, they’ll probably come through the mail.”

“Thanks,” answers Powder.

She sits beside Isha, relieved to have a couple of quiet minutes to let the situation sink in both for Isha and herself. While mindlessly fidgeting with the sleeves of her leather jacket she feels a weight slam into her left side. Reaching out with her left arm, she starts rubbing circles on the child’s back as Isha’s wracking sobs echo through the hospital halls.

“Me too, kid,” Powder says. “Me too.”

Chapter Text

The wind rattles the door of Powder’s home as she makes her way down from her parked car, Isha following close behind. It is a dilapidated beach house from when Boston Brahmins would vacation in Prescott during the Cold War. Powder never got around to fixing most of its issues. She fumbles with her keys until finding the right one and unlocks the door latch then pushes the door in with her foot. Vi keeps ragging Powder on about fixing the handle but she never feels like doing it. Sometimes she is just too tired from work, but most times she just… cannot bring herself to do it. The shrink’s got some big words for that feeling, but Powder never has bothered to remember.

Powder steps inside the home, Isha’s shoes squeaking against the worn wooden floors beside her. The hallway is dark, its faint smell of dust and sea vapor mixing into the homely scent that does not really feel child-friendly to Powder. She turns on the hallway light with a flick of her finger. The two orphans just stand there, neither doing anything. Powder should say something to Isha, some kind of optimistic platitude to fill the void in the conversation. What is she supposed to say, though, she wonders? ‘Hey kiddo, sorry your mom got T-boned by a moron high on fentanyl? Sorry your whole life just fell apart and there’s nothing you can do about it? Sorry I have no idea what I’m doing?’

Instead, she just waves vaguely at the hallway and mutters “Home, I guess.”

Isha says nothing, her hands still clutching her monkey and refusing to sign any word to Powder. Did Vander have it equally hard to coax answers from Vi and herself when he took them in? 

“The bathroom’s at the end,” Powder says eventually, pointing with her finger. “The kitchen’s through here. Let’s uh… let’s get you settled, yeah?” 

Isha gives a small nod and follows Powder to the living room. Inside, there is an old sofa Gert and Powder had picked up for free off a retiree moving to Florida and a cheap IKEA coffee table. The blanket Gert used last time she was over for movie night (which they now did during the day during Isha’s school hours) lay folded on one of the sofa’s armrests.

“You should sleep here tonight,” Powder tells Isha, who is hovering by the door frame. “I’ll figure out something better soon. I’m going to get you something to sleep in, yeah?”

Isha sits down on the sofa in acknowledgement, so Powder goes to her room to see what she can find. She opens her dresser drawer, finding an old semi-cropped shirt that probably fits Isha like a dress. Back downstairs, she hands it off to Isha.

“Here, it’s clean.” Isha takes it, leaving her monkey on the sofa. “You can change in the bathroom, if you want.” Isha shuffles down the hall, her tiny shoes squeaking below her.

The kid returns swallowed by the shirt and Powder fails to stifle an awkward, idiosyncratic chuckle. Isha’s pout makes Powder wave her arms in a goofy way of apologizing.

“No, no,” she says between laughs, “you look great. I just forgot how big it would look on you. Ready for bed, then?”

Satisfied with the explanation, Isha gives her a thin smile, walks to the sofa and lays the monkey down beside herself under the blanket. It is the first time Isha’s smiled since the crash. Powder just watches from the door as Isha’s breaths turn shallower and shallower until she is deeply asleep. In the resulting silence, Powder hears the dark waves of the Atlantic rolling into the beach outside to the harmonies of the wailing New England wind. Gert is gone. Forever. 

⁂

That night, Powder is shuffling in bed, incapable of finding sleep. Her mind is torturously awake, replaying memories of Gert over and over again. Her voice. Her laugh. Her absurd eyeshadow. Their roadtrip to New York. Her usual order at Jericho’s Diner. Her–

The creaking of floorboards snaps Powder to attention. A small shadow is hovering in the hallway.

“Isha?” asks Powder. “Come in, kid, it’s okay.”

Isha shyly pushes the door open and walks to Powder's bed, hugging the monkey fiercely. Her eyes are reddened and thin lines run down her cheeks from having cried.

“Bad dream, Isha?” A nod.

“Wanna come sleep with me?” Another nod.

“That's okay, kid. Come in.”

Isha quickly squeezes herself under Powder’s blanket and she lets the poor kid grab her body like she’s afraid Powder is going to disappear too. Powder used to force Vi to let her sleep together for the same reason. She has never stopped having that fear. Isha might not either. But Powder has built a life regardless and Gert trusted her to help Isha do the same. Tonight, looking at Isha's tear-stricken face as the kid falls asleep again, Powder knows she will do everything she can to make sure of it.

“I promise,” she whispers into the empty room. “I promise, Gert.”

Chapter Text

The spare room looks closer to a storage room than a bedroom. It is filled with boxes of forgotten items and things Powder never unpacked after coming back from dropping out of college. When you grow up with little, it becomes hard to think of anything as worth throwing out in case you suddenly need it. Powder is not surprised to find a coupon for a free second family-size pizza that expired four years ago hidden between some of the boxes. Those little things feel easiest to start with in order to clean the room. Easiest—not easy. Cleaning out this room feels dreadful to Powder, like crawling through a minefield with mines in the shape of memories. When she finally starts to move the boxes into the hallway and sorts through the first one, she finds a cache of sketchbooks. Their cardboard covers are flaking at the edges and the wire bindings are bent into all manner of odd directions. The pages are filled with skulls and explosion bangs in loud highlighter yellows and sharpie black. Some are annotated with lyrics from terrible local punk band’s songs Gert and her would scream out as they balanced drunkenly on the town’s lighthouse pier. Powder does not notice she is muttering the words under her breath as she reads them until she hears the soft taps of Isha’s feet on the hallway floor.

“Hey kiddo,” Powder says gently, “just getting your room ready.”

Isha, without answering, turns to look into the room. Powder wonders what the critter is thinking. Maybe Isha is having one of those Inside Out imagination moments, placing imaginary furniture around the room. She would not know, never having had a room for herself until she came back from college.

“I was thinking we could put a big bed in here,” Powder continues, thinking of what a kid that age would like, “some posters, a shelf for story books…”

Isha is brightening up as Powder offers more ideas, nodding like a building site manager at some and shaking her head at others. Gert always said that somehow Powder understood Isha’s cues better than others, but Powder always thought that Isha was pretty obvious in her meanings. There is a big difference between a ‘yes’ nod and an ‘if you think so’ nod. It is not her fault others do not pick up on Isha’s punchline nods or back-handed insult nods. She turns to Isha and kneels down so their eyes are level.

“Don’t worry, fuzzball. It’ll feel like home soon. Just a bit more time.” 

Isha hugs her then and it feels miles better than hearing thanks.

⁂

The supermarket smells like industrial cleaner and cold seeps out of the refrigerated shelves as Powder and Isha enter, Isha sitting comfortably on the shopping carriage’s kid seat. Isha’s holding her monkey tightly against her lap as she looks around at the colorful displays in the store. They begin on the cereal aisle, Powder realizing only then that she should have made a shopping list like the responsible adult she is expected to have become overnight.

“What type of cereal d’you like, Scuttle Butt?” Powder asks, making Isha give a short laugh at the nickname. It really is great that small kids have the same humor as she does.

When Isha points to a box of Special with “Red Berries”— It’s just fucking strawberries, honestly thinks Powder—she cannot help but scoff at the choice.

“But that’s so boring ,” she says with an exaggerated pout. Isha only hardens her eyes and emphatically points again at the box.

“I’m not some soccer mom, Isha, why don’t you pick something you actually want? No need to get all healthy on me, kid.”

Mom signs Isha in response and points again. She is visibly on the edge of a tantrum, eyes glassy with tears as she looks up to Powder, whose eyes are suddenly equally on the verge of crying.

“Okay, okay. We’ll get you Mom’s special cereal, yeah?” she says as she grabs two boxes of the cereal and drops them in the carriage. They move through the rest of the aisle, Jinx throwing things in thoughtlessly (oat milk, juice boxes for kids, oranges that will probably rot in the fridge, a 6-pack of dried ramen) and not so thoughtlessly (a bottle of Polish coffee vodka).

“Cute kid,” comments the cashier when they make it to the checkout.

“Yeah,” is all Powder says. The scanner’s beep echoes through the store beneath a pop jingle by some white, blonde industry plant.

⁂

Isha is sitting at the table in the kitchen, a small semi-circle that hugs the wall and can fit three people on a good day. 

“Dinner of champions,” mutters Powder as she pours some milk into the cereal bowl in front of Isha. When she sees the kid fail to react to her brilliant wordplay, Powder turns back towards the sink. It is filled with dirty dishes, but with no other options as no clean ones remain, she begins scrubbing them. As she finishes half of them and decides that will have to be enough for now, an alarm blares from her phone. Powder dries off her hands and opens the kitchen drawer where she keeps all her medicine, picking up a thin white cylinder with a teal kids’ lock. SYMBYAX 12/50, ONCE DAILY the label reads. Powder takes one red-and-white capsule out and swallows it dry. When she sits down to pour her own night cereal, Isha taps on the table to get her attention.

‘What swallow?’ asks Isha. 

“Oh, those are my anti-villain pills,” answers Powder with an unnatural seriousness that lets Isha know she is joking. “You see, if I don’t take them my superbrain gets too powerful, I become too evil and then… I will take over the world.” This last part she whispers while poking Isha’s tummy to make her laugh while letting out a boisterous, high-pitch villain laugh of her own. It is not the perfect explanation for chronic, treatment-resistant depression, but then again, Isha is only ten years old. It will have to do.

⁂

Powder cannot recall how long she has sat on the floor of her room or why she has an open carton of milk in her hands. She takes a brave swig of the carton and when a familiar warmth settles in her throat she realizes she mixed the coffee vodka in with the oat milk. The world’s shittiest White Russian cocktail just like how Gert and her used to mix it. Powder blinks and the room shifts. Gert is there, leaning back against the wall, looking beautiful and ethereal and alive. She has her half-smile and her glowing tan skin and her classic black lipstick and… and Powder blinks again. The wall is back to being just a fucking wall.

Powder’s hands shake as she sinks into a ball, hugging her legs for comfort. She cannot hold back the tears that pour out of her like a river after heavy rain. It is all so unfair. Why Gert and not her? Why Gert and not that fucking driver? Why does everyone that Powder loves, everyone that manages to break her walls and worm their way into her heart die like some shitty Greek tragedy? Her ears buzz from the pain and inebriation. Just then a soft creak in the door forces her into attention. Once again, Isha is there, red eyed and holding her monkey. It has taken one whole day for her to see Powder drunk and lying on the floor. What a way to keep promises, Pow-Pow. But like the angel she is, Isha does the one thing that can make Powder feel better and, unafraid, walks into the room and hugs her guardian. Somehow, they make it up to the bed together. Somehow, a new day comes.