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No Way Home	By : Flagg1991 Category: +G through L > The Loud House Views: 2161 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Loud House nor will I profit in any way from this story

Chapter List
- 8
- 9
- 10
Meagan reached across the kitchen table, grabbed the Elmer's glue, and carefully squeezed a series of dots on the back of the wood scrap she took from the garage. It was small and flimsy, about five inches across by five inches tall and came, she figured, from a piece of plyboard. She plastered her tongue to her upper lip in determination and worked with surgical precision, taking great pains not to smear any. Lucas watched from beside her with bated breath, his hands on his lap and squirming like two restless snakes.
They had been working on this project off and on since yesterday afternoon, and so far it was perfect - this was the moment of truth, though, and any slip here could spell disaster with a capital D. The weight of the world, then, was on Meagan's shoulders, and beads of nervous sweat formed at the crown of her forehead.
Done, she sat the glue aside, pinched the wood between her thumb and forefinger, and picked it up. "Rock," she said, and Lucas handed her a small, smooth, oval shaped stone; it was cool, dry, and heavy in her hand, and licking her lips, she tossed an errant strand of hair from her face and slowly, gently, brought the wood and rock together, pressing the latter to the former and smooshing the glue. For a terrible second, she thought she used too much and that it would drip, but, whew, it didn't.
She and Lucas exchanged a glance, and she grinned. "There. Now we just have to let it dry." She sat the...thing aside and laced her fingers on the edge of the table like she was going to pray. She didn't know what to call the contraption, but it was pretty nonetheless. On the face of the wood was a collaborative drawing - Dad in the center flanked on either side by her and Lucas, each holding one of his hands. All of them were smiling. Green grass covered the bottom, and the squiggly sun beamed down on them as if in pride. It wasn't supposed to be squiggily, but drawing on wood isn't the easiest thing in the world, and she kind of messed up.
Over their heads was the legend WE LOVE DAD. She wrote that herself because Lucas's handwriting was still pretty bad even though he worked on it at school.
The rock, which she found a long time ago and kept because it was pretty, was default gray when they started, now it was a rainbow of complimenting colors that reminded her of an Easter egg.
Meagan studied the drawing with a slight frown of annoyance. Of course Lucas's half looked better. Her heart twinged in apprehension when she realized she should have let him do the whole thing so that it would look better.
Hopefully Dad liked it regardless.
Excitement burst in her chest and she leaned forward to see if it was dry yet, but it wasn't because it had only been, like, two seconds.
Lucas darted his eyes from her to the rock and back again. "Not done," she said and sat back with a sigh. She looked at the clock on the wall, then at her brother. "You should draw a picture of Dad." she said, "you know, to fill the time."
He shrugged. "Eh. I only things I love."
Meagan lifted a quizzical brow. "Don't you love Dad?"
"He's alright," Lucas said noncommittally. "I like him. I don't know about love." He drew the last word out. Loooovvvveee. She started to chide him for not loving his own father, but stopped herself because, eh, he'd come around. He basically just met the guy whereas she kind of had a head start.
She looked at the clock again.
Wow, not even thirty seconds. Time's really dragging today.
It was mid-afternoon and they'd been here for nearly an hour, ever since coming home from the park. The first place she went was to the bathroom with Lucas so she could clean his wound. It wasn't very bad and didn't even hurt anymore (until she put alcohol on it), but she had to make sure he didn't get an infection. Infections are nooooooo joke; he could lose his whole leg, and maybe some of his hip bone too. "You remember what Dad said, right?" she asked suddenly.
Lucas's brow furrowed in confusion.
"About not telling anyone he went to the store," Meagan clarified.
Before leaving the park, Dad asked them not to say anything about him leaving, and though Meagan thought it was a little strange, she was committed to not betraying his trust. She wouldn't tell anyone he wasn't there when Lucas fell down, and she wouldn't tell anyone that he smelled like beer and had a glass bottle of it in his jacket.
Not that she was happy about that last part. Dad being drunk was a bad thing and usually lead to fights and arguments, but things were different now, so maybe it wouldn't.
A sharp pang of dread went rippled through her stomach. She hoped it wouldn't. When Dad used to drink before, Mom would get mad and they'd yell at each other, and sometimes even break stuff too. Mom would throw things at Dad, and Dad would flip tables and knock the TV over. Meagan couldn't count the number of times she laid awake in bed listening to them, her heart thumping in fright and her stomach sick. If he could yell at Mom and break her things, then it stood to reason that he could do the same to her. And if Mom could smash stuff against the wall because of Dad, then she could smash stuff against the wall because of her.
Heh, kid logic, Meagan realized now, but she really didn't want any of that happening again, and Dad getting drunk was always the first step on the road to ruin.
No, she wouldn't say anything; in fact, she'd help him hide it so Mom didn't get mad. Whatever it took to avoid scary fights.
The back door opened and Luya slipped in, closing it behind her. Neither Meagan or Lucas turned to look at her as she went to the fridge and opened it. Since getting home, she'd been sitting under the tree and looking constipated. Meagan was kind of mad at her because she acted like a real jerk to dad all day, and you could tell it was getting to him. In fact, after dealing with Lucas's cut and before sitting down to finish off the project, she went out back to tell her older sister off. You're being really mean to Dad and it's hurting his feelings.
Luya regarded her with a scathing glare that made Meagan want to chafe; she stood firm, though, crossing her arms over her chest because that's what you do when you dress someone down...and maybe because she felt vulnerable otherwise. Dad's a drunk and he's leaving soon, Luya said and looked away. He doesn't care about me, or you, or anyone else. He has no feelings.
Those words took her like a broadsword to the mid-section, and her eyes narrowed. Why would she say such an awful thing? Dad cared a lot about them. That's not true. You're the one who doesn't care about Dad. He's trying to do better and you keep rubbing his face in the past.
Luya tensed, and when she looked up at Meagan again, her lips were a tight, white slash and her eyes burned with intensity that knocked Meagan back a step. Go the fuck away. You wanna be daddy's little girl, go do it, but don't come crying to me when he walks out on you again.
That was not going to happen.
Was it?
For a while, as she colored her end of the drawing, she wondered, but eventually reached the conclusion that it wasn't. Luya was just a snotty teenager who was too dumb to realize that people grow and change, they don't stay the same forever. Dad made a lot of mistakes in the past but now he was trying to be good, and Luya didn't want to see that. She wanted to see Dad as he was before.
He was trying.
Then why is he drinking?
Well...people can drink. There's no law that says they can't. Pirates drink all the time, and so do doctors, lawyers, businessmen, and even priests. Thinking back, it wasn't even really Dad's drinking that started most of the arguments with Mom, it was her not liking his drinking. He'd be fine, sitting on the couch or at the kitchen table, then she'd come out and start yelling at him, calling him a jobless bum, and a deadbeat, and an alkie, and half-inch. It was her fault when you got right down to it.
But she was different now. She didn't yell as much, so maybe things would be okay.
She took a deep breath, leaned forward, and checked the rock-n-wood thing for Dad. The glue was still a little tacky. She glanced over her shoulder when Luya went back out the door, and bunched her lips to one side in thought. She wished Luya would get over it already and stop being an A-hole to dad.
Was there anything she could do? She thought back to a cartoon she saw once where these two sisters weren't speaking to each other, and their brother contrived to get them back together by hosting a spaghetti dinner and inviting each without the other's knowledge. It worked...but only after a giant food fight that left the room a wreck.
That was obviously impractical in real life, but maybe she could get Luya to see the light some other way.
She checked the glue again, and it was dry enough; she was too excited to wait any longer. "Done," she said in a singsong voice and picked it up, being super careful to not break it. Lucas got to his feet and together they went into the living room, Meagan holding the gift in her palms like a Faberge egg and taking slow, cautious baby steps and Lucas walking beside, ready to catch it if she tripped.
Dad sat on the couch, one leg crossed and his arm draped across the back. On TV, a talking CNN head went on an on about the president's lack of foreign policy experience. He glanced over as they walked up, his eyes red and watery, and cracked a tired smile. "Hey, where'd you guys go?" he asked thickly, even though Meagan told him they would be working in the kitchen.
That didn't matter, though. "Here," she said proudly and held out the present, "we made you something."
Dad squinted at it, then held out his hands; they trembled slightly, and as he took it, Meagan's heart leapt into her throat, sure he was going to drop it. He brought it real close to his face and looked at it like he was tired and couldn't see straight, his lips mumbling as he read. Suspense squeezed Meagan's chest and she rocked back and forth on the balls of her heels, her hands clasping behind her back. "Do you like it?" she asked.
He looked up at her and smiled. "I love it," he said. He leaned over, sat it on the coffee table, and held his arms out. Meagan hugged him, and the stale smell of alcohol and sour sweat filled her nose, bringing a slight frown to her face. Next he hugged Lucas. "It's really pretty. Thank you, guys."
"You're welcome," Meagan said.
When she and Lucas were alone again in the kitchen, he furrowed his brow. "Dad smells funny."
"No he doesn't," Meagan lied and sat at the table.
"Yes he does."
Meagan shrugged. "I didn't smell anything."
But she did, and it smelled like trouble.
In the backyard, Luya took a drink from a can of Coca-Cola then sat it in the dirt next to her. It was getting late and the light was beginning to take on a feeble, too-golden hue that signified the coming sunset. Shafts of brilliance fell through the wavering boughs above, casting shadows across the ground, and a gust of wind blew across the yard, sending goosebumps racing up her arms. She was cold, but it was more than the blustery day; it was a deep, marrow-deep chill that permeated her entire body from within.
Dad was drinking.
That meant she was right; he hadn't changed. He was the same old selfish drunk he always was. She'd been telling herself this since yesterday, but even so, there was a small, gemlike flicker of hope in the center of her heart. Hope that she was wrong. Hope that he really was serious about being a father to her and not getting blitzed anymore.
Now that hope was snuffed and she was face-to-face with the realization that her father was a lost cause. Earlier, at the park, that stung deeply, but now, soothing numbness was starting to creep in and you know what? It didn't seem so bad. Oh, she was mad at him for being such a piece of shit, but she'd gone almost four years without a father, and it wasn't that big of a deal, hadn't been that big of a deal until she found out he was coming back. A year ago, a month ago, even a week ago, she was fine with her life, but then Dad came along and ripped all her old wounds open again. They hurt and they bled, but now the flow was staunched. Looking back over the past two days, she saw how dumb she'd been, and she was ashamed of herself. Well...no more. She wasn't giving her father any power over her, positive or negative. She wasn't going to think about how much she wanted him around, or how much she wanted him to leave, or how mad she was, or anything. She fucking refused to be one of those pitiful little girls with daddy issues. Oh, my father wasn't around, boo hoo; let me fuck every guy in the world to try and fill the hole in my heart. Hell no, fuck that. If Dad left a hole in her heart, she'd rather just take the whole goddamn thing out.
Tomorrow, she was staying home whether Mom liked it or not, and this time she would fight her on the matter, no more yes, Mommy, whatever you say, Mommy. Starting now, that man in there was dead to her. No, actually, he never even existed.
She snatched the can up, denting in between her fingers, and took a sip, the cold liquid bracing and sweet.
It wasn't her fault that he avoided her, wasn't her fault he never came to see her after he and Mom broke up, wasn't her fault that on the rare occasion she did see him, he acted awkward and strange, like he'd rather be somewhere else. Oh, yuck, it's Luya, my stupid daughter; beam me up, Scotty.
No, it was his fault for being a stupid boozehound.
But then there was Meagan and Lucas.
He never did that to them. Even when Leia dumped him and he spent a few months living with her and Mom, he made time for Meagan, brought her over for the night, played with her, cuddled her, never once acted like she was a regret instead of his daughter. Luya remembered peeking around her door frame and watching them on the living room floor, laughing and playing dolls together, remembered hating her little sister's guts and wanting to hurt her so she felt the same thing Dad made her feel. In the present, her lips twisted and her nails dug into the padding of her palm; throbbing hurt and rage filled the center of her chest like an abscessed tooth, and the memory of Dad paying all his attention to Meagan while giving her shit made her want to march inside and punch the little bitch's glasses in, made her relish all the times she pulled her hair or stuck out her foot and tripped her. One time, Meagan took off her glasses and sat them on the table. When she came back, they were gone, and she never found them again; Luya broke them and threw them out her bedroom window. As far as she knew, they were still in the tangled grass, rotting like a corpse in a shallow grave.
It wasn't him, it was her. It had to be. What did she do? What could she have done or said differently?
Hot tears welled in her eyes, and that pissed her off to the point of shaking. She snatched the can, drew it back, and threw it across the yard; it flipped end over end, spilling amber cola as it went, and landed next to one of Lucas's dumb riding toys. Fire swept through her, and she got to her feet, her shoulders rising and falling with each primal, nostril-flaring pant and her hands balling into fists. She looked around for something to hit, something to destroy, something to let it all out on, and her eyes fell upon Meagan's pink foam pirate sword. Luya stalked over, picked it up, and tore into it with her cracked, black-painted nails, ripping chunks out and scattering them across the grass. That wasn't good enough, though; the hate didn't go away...if anything, it got stronger, darker, more malignant. She spun, crossed to the tree, and slammed it against the rough bark as hard as she could, her hips twisting like a batter on the mound. Her lips pulled back from her teeth in a sneer and her watery eyes flashed with icy malice. Beads of pain slid down her cheeks like flecks of diamond, and feeling them pissed her off even more than she already was.
She threw the sword aside, went over to Lucas's riding toy, drew back her foot, and kicked it; hot pain burst in her foot and snaked up her leg, but she didn't care; in fact, she savored it, letting it flow through her like the spreading warmth of a stiff drink. It skitted away and landed on its side. She stalked to it and kicked it again, with the other foot this time. She hissed through her teeth and looked around for something else to kill, but the world was a shimmering blur. She blinked her eyes and pressed her quivering lips together, telling herself she wouldn't cry but knowing that she would anyway.
Covering her shame, she turned and hurried over to the tree, passing her spot and sitting on the other side, hidden from the house. There, she drew her knees to her chest, hugged them tight, and gave into the tears.
It started when Leia came home, because of course it did. She was fire and ice, the alpha and the omega, a good thing and a terrible thing all rolled into one. He knew in an abstract way that it would happen, but as the Captain dulled his senses and swaddled his mind in warm cheer, he stopped caring. He'd cross that bridge when he came to it.
She got home from work shortly after five. She came through the door, grinned at him, and leaned over the back of the couch to kiss his cheek. She drew sharply back at the last minute, her brows angling down in an angry V. Oh, great, here it comes.
"Have you been drinking?" she spat.
Why yes, dear Leia, I have been drinking. I'm an alcoholic after all.
For some reason that made him snicker to himself. It was true. He was a drunk and he couldn't help it. He told himself he could stop whenever he wanted, but that bottle came with a hook at the bottom, and for almost twenty years it had been lodged firmly in his cheek. When he was sober, it bothered him, but now, wrapped in wool and high above the ground, it didn't, because why would it? Everyone needs something to get through their day - for him it was alcohol. It's not like he was a violent drunk or went into work pissing and falling down. Why did everyone make such a big deal out of it?
Leia exhaled through her nose, her clear eyes muddling. "Yeah, real funny," she said, her voice tight.
"It's not that," he said, "I just...I had a funny thought. Yes, I had a little bit, but I'm weaning myself off, okay?"
He turned to look over his shoulder; Leia stood over him like a stern mother, her arms folded over her chest, her eyebrows raised incredulously, and her pink lips puckered as though she'd just tasted something particularly sour. That was a look he'd seen a million times in the past - about his drinking, about not cleaning the house from top to bottom while she was at work even though when he came home from work, it was a disaster and she had an excuse, about not making enough money, about leaving the toilet seat up, about not taking his shoes off at the door, about not picking the right tampons up at the pharmacy. It was an expression you gave an especially stupid child after he wears your patience paper thin; insulting, condescending, lofty, and contemptuous.
A million other people gave him that same look over the years, and it mildly offended him, but when Leia did it, it fucking enraged him. Turning away, he pointed his eyes at the TV and took a deep, calming breath. "I can't go cold turkey, okay? I've done it before and it gives me the DTs."
He was half expecting Leia to take mercy on him.
But she didn't; she sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes. "I've heard that before." Her tone dripped with sarcasm and Lemy's nerves grated.
"I'm being serious, I-I'm stopping."
She stared down at him and drew a deep breath through her nose...then shook her head and walked away, climbing the stairs with sharp, angry steps, her ponytail lashing from side to side. Lemy watched her go with a mixture of longing and hatred. That was Leia for you; all she did was nag. He could never do right in her eyes. I have high standards, she used to say in a snotty tone. Yeah, but she only held him to those standards, no one else...not even herself. She never missed an opportunity to lay into him, and you know what? He had just as much chance to return the favor, but he didn't, because he didn't want to fight...and because he loved her, and when you love someone, you shouldn't delight in ripping their head off. Some days he came home from work and the house was a fucking disgusting pigsty - toys and dirty clothes strewn across the living room floor, crumbs ground into the carpet, full diapers balled up and tossed into the corner...and there was Leia asleep on the couch with baby Meagan, without a care in the world because she knew Lemy wouldn't make a stink. Yet when it was his day off, he'd vacuum, sweep, and pick up after himself. What did she do when she came through the door? Latched onto the one thing that wasn't done and dress him down for it like he was a fucking piece of shit. You were home alllll day and you couldn't do the dishes? Really, Lemy? And that wasn't the end of it, she'd get all pissy and then nurse it for the rest of the day, snapping at him for the slightest infraction and talking to him like an idiot. Then she'd honestly wonder why he sat in his chair and watched TV instead of lavishing her with love and affection. Kind of hard to do that when you want to punch that person in their face.
Then there was Meagan. Leia never let him be a parent. If he tried to discipline her or make a decision, Leia would swoop in like the angel of death and smite him into the ground. Oh, he was good enough to change every single diaper and give all the baths and feed their daughter, but not not to be a father.
A nanny. That's what he was, her fucking nanny.
Now his mood was dark.
Thanks a lot, Leia.
He looked around, made sure no one was watching, then pulled the bottle out and took a quick nip before replacing it.
And she wondered why he drank. He did it to get away from her. He loved her and wanted things to work, but he didn't think they ever would. She was always going to be a fucking control freak and that was that.
He didn't know whether to be angry or depressed, so he lapsed into both, and was still fuming fifteen minutes later when Dad and Lana got home, Lana going up the stairs and Dad hanging his jacket from the rack. "Can you come in my office, Lemy?" he asked, and Lemy tensed. What a fucking smug thing to say. Step into my office hur hur hur. Just having an office was kind of snobbish. What, you can't do your taxes at the kitchen table? You have to feel important and have an "office"?
"Yeah," he said and got unsteadily to his feet, vertigo descending over him like a ton of bricks. He told himself that he was being dickish because of Leia, but that wasn't the whole truth. He had a lot of resentment built up toward his father and if he wasn't careful, his loosened tongue would unleash it all.
Sure that he wasn't going to fall, he went around the side of the couch and stumbled a little. A flicker of concern ran across Dad's face...then he sniffed the air, and the corners of his mouth turned down. Yeah, I'm drinking, what of it? Lemy thought defiantly. I'm not even bothering anyone.
Turning away, Dad lead him into the office and sat at the desk with a weary sigh. Lemy closed the door behind him, crossed to the armchair, and sank into it. Dad turned in his seat, leaned forward, and propped his forearms on his knees, looking for all the world like a coach preparing for an Important Talk with a wayward player. Lemy had seen that expression a million times too. Lemy, you have to quit drinking; Lemy, you need to find a job; Lemy, stop cooking meth in my garage. He swallowed a smirk at that last thought. Believe it or not, it wasn't his idea to make that shit, it was that girl he was seeing. What was her name? He couldn't remember right now and he didn't fucking care, she was trash. Hey, I know how we can make some extra money, me and my ex used to do it all the time. She was right about the money part - he made more selling that crap in a week than he made at Taco Bell in a month. He didn't use it, though...not much. He was careful with hard drugs; he shot up here and there, smoked the occasional rock, and did smack now and again, but none of that junk ever hooked him like the bottle.
Dad stared down at the floor for a long, tense moment, then looked up, her eyes pooled with worry. "So, you're drinking."
That statement hung heavy in the air.
Lemy shifted and took a deep breath. He hated having to explain himself to Dad...and to Leia...and to everyone else. His family always questioned and second-guessed everything he did.
Like he was a fucking child.
"Yes," he said, his voice tight and guarded, "I'm working on weaning myself off. I can't just quit."
Dad nodded. "I know. I understand that. But you've said that in the past and I find it a little hard to believe."
His tone was even and low, lacking accusation and bounding with patience. Still, it rubbed Lemy wrong, and he balled his hand into a fist. "Well, I really am this time," he lied.
Dad pursed his lips and studied him as if for signs of deceit, and Lemy squirmed under his appraising gaze, his eyes darting shamefully to his lap. Sighing, Dad said, "Alright. If you say so, I'll take your word for it."
That sounded like patronizing bullshit to Lemy, but he ignored it.
"I wanted to talk to you about...possibly...moving in."
Lemy tensed at the final two words.
"I still want you to sign the paperwork," Dad continued, "but those kids need their father, Lemy, and they need him sober. I want you to come back and do what's right, I just want to make sure that you're serious this time. I won't stand for the shit that went on before. I won't let your drinking, or your drugs, or anything else affect them."
A burning blush crept across the back of Lemy's neck and his heart blasted a rhythm of wrath against his ribs. Dad's gaze was firm and unwavering; he meant it, and Lemy couldn't help the abiding humiliation in his breast. "I want you to come back and do right by your kids. I know you want it too. You've had a lot problems over the years, but you're a good man, Lemy. You just need to realize that your actions impact the people around you. You might think that you getting drunk doesn't bother anyone, but it does."
Lemy blinked. He had that same thought in the living room - why does everyone make such a big deal out of it?
Glancing down at his hands as though he couldn't look Lemy in the eye, Dad sighed. "Do you remember the night Lizy was at work and you were taking care of Lucas?"
Lemy's face crinkled in thought. There were a lot of nights like that - Lizy left in the evening and he babysat Lucas until bedtime.
Then it dawned on him, and his face flushed with shame. Once, not long after Lizy left, he started drinking and that's all he could remember.
"He was standing in crib crying and covered in shit." Dad said now. "And you were passed out in the corner...full of piss and puke."
Lemy swallowed thickly. He didn't like to think about that...was glad he couldn't remember it, and hoped that no one would ever bring it up again. "I wanted to strangle you," Dad said, repeating the same line Lemy had heard again and again. "Honestly, I was furious." He turned his face up, and Lemy could see the ghost of that rage in his eyes like a swirl of ash from a fire long extinguished. "I sat by and watched as you systematically neglected, rejected, and dismissed the most precious thing in the world -"
"I didn't -"
Dad held up his hand, palm out. "I'm talking," he said. "You have a responsibility to these children, Lemy, and you smirked it. You might not think you did, you might not have meant to, but you did. I'm not trying to rub your nose in it, I just want you to understand how serious this is. These are your children. They need you. Please, change. Don't do it for me, don't do it for Leia, don't do it for yourself; do it for them."
For a long time afterward, Lemy stared down at his lap and considered his father's words. He was right, he supposed; his actions did impact his kids.
Now he felt even more like shit than ever before.
"Alright," he said.
"They love you, Lemy, and they really want you to be their Dad. They don't want me, they don't want their moms, they want you."
That sentiment rang through his head as he went back into the living room and sat in front of the TV. His children needed him and he turned his nose up at them because he was selfish, a fundamentally broken person. Why, he didn't know. He suffered no trauma in his childhood, Dad wasn't evil or abusive, no one molested him, nothing stuck out. He just...he wasn't put together right, he thought, and no matter what he did, he'd always be a shattered wreck. He could hold himself together with glue and duct tape, but under pressure, he'd come apart, like a ceramic mug with a fracture along the side.
His kids deserved better than him.
They deserved…
They deserved his father.
He felt like crying.
Instead, he reached into his jacket, took out the bottle, and drank deeply, the liquor filling and rocking him in its comforting arms. Dad was right about him being selfish - everyone who said he was selfish was right.
Not anymore. He'd sign the paperwork...then he'd leave. Meagan, Lucas, and Luya would be better off without him. Dad said they wanted him, and that might be true, but even a drunk like Lemy Loud knew that sometimes, what you want and what you need are two totally different things. His kids wanted to have him but they needed to not have him.
That dark realization followed him for the rest of the evening, wearing at his heart like cancer and gnawing the lining of his stomach. At dinner, Meagan sat on one side of him and Lucas on the other, Luya across and slightly down, next to her grandmother. There was something different about her, she seemed...wrung out, the sullen energy that had characterized her actions for the past two days gone and replaced by cold apathy. She was the one he hurt the most, and before he left, he was going to sit her down and tell her everything...everything about him, and everything about her. At least everything he knew.
Something tugged on his sleeve and he looked down at Meagan; two French fries were shoved under her upper lip, giving her the appearance of having fangs. Lemy blinked, his blurry vision swimming into focus. "Bet'cha didn't think pirates could be vampires too," she stated.
It was silly and cute...and it hurt him so bad he almost cried. "No," he muttered, "I thought they were…" he trailed off as he searched his addled brain for the right word. "Mutually exclusive."
"Nope," she chirped and turned back to her plate. She took the fries out, held one in her fist, and tore a bite off the end like it was a stick of beef jerky. "Everyone can be vampire. All it takes it a little grunting and straining."
At the head of the table, Dad snorted. "Is that all?" he asked.
Lemy caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye, and turned his head. Luya stared at him with open hatred, her eyes narrow and her lips arranged in a grimace. His heart crushed and he looked away...only to find Leia looking at him with almost the same expression, hers trending more toward disgust.
"...really. I read it in a book." Meagan stopped and thought for a second. "Or maybe it was a TV show. I can't really remember. It was really cool, though."
Leia looked down at her plate and went back to eating, but Luya kept glaring, and Lemy swallowed nervously. The air was suddenly too hot and stifling, and the walls seemed a little closer than they should have been, looming, ominous, threatening.
Without a word, he got to his feet, took his plate into the kitchen, then fled up the stairs, the gazes of everyone at the table hot on his back. In the bathroom, he locked the door, crossed to the toilet, closed the lid, then sat. His hands trembled as he took the bottle out of his coat, unscrewed the cap, and drank. His mind sank even farther into the shadows and he tried to think, but it took too much effort.
He twisted the cap back on, got up, and swayed toward the door. He was feeling drunk now and he needed to sober up a little - it was his last night with his kids and he was going to enjoy it come hell or high water.
Stipping naked, he got in the shower and turned the water as hot as it could go, hissing in pain as it blistered his skin; it did not burn away the fog in his mind, though. He cut the temp, turned around, and leaned forehead first against the slick wall, his chest rising and falling as he fought to catch his breath. The room was starting to twist back and forth and his stomach gurgled sickly. He swallowed hard and turned, letting the water pound against his chest. He had to get his kids...hang out with them, something, he didn't know, his mind was murky like a river heavy with silt.
He cut the spray, grabbed a towel from the hook, and dried himself off; his skin was flushed from head to toe and his head ached. He felt like he was going to be sick, and as he pulled his jeans on, he fell back against the sink and almost went to the floor. He cackled mad laughter because it was funny, then he surprised himself by starting to cry, his hand going to face and his shoulders shaking. He ruined it. He ruined everything just like he always ruined it. Everything he saw, everything he liked, everything he loved, he turned to shit, good old King Lemy with the magic touch.
Getting ahold of himself, he stooped down, grabbed the bottle from his jacket, and took a drink, stopping when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror: Red eyes, head thrown back, Captain Morgan tilted to his lips, sucking like a fat, greedy baby at its bottle. Self-loathing shot through him like bitter wine, and he drank even more to forget. He pulled it away from his lips, sat it on the sinktop with a clink, and fought to get the cap back on, his hands shaking and his body swaying like a weeble wobble. When he got it, he bent at the waist to return it to the coat, but toppled forward and crashed headfirst into the floor, red, cracking pain bursting in the center of his skull.
Too bad it didn't kill me, he thought with a humorless chuckle. He pushed shakily to his feet, pulled his shirt on, and sat heavily on the closed toilet lid. His socks were hard, crusty, and stank, but he didn't care. His shoes were ratty and the soles covered in holes, but it didn't matter. Metaphor for his life, he thought and stood. He grimaced and shrugged into his jacket, then took the bottle out and stole another drink.
In the hall, he shambled to Leia's room; the door was slightly ajar, and the lamp cast a bar of light across the bed. He sat, propped his elbows on his knees, and held his throbbing head in his hands. He wanted to curl up and go to sleep, but couldn't. He still needed to talk to Luya. And tell her he was sorry.
Getting to his feet, he rocked from side to side and nearly fell, throwing an arm back and catching himself on the bed. He spotted something on the nightstand and furrowed his brows. It came into focus - that thing Lucas and Meagan made him. A fond smile touched his lips and affection filled his chest. They were good kids.
Which is why he had to leave before he turned them into shit like he turned everything else into shit...like he turned Luya into shit.
His smile fell into a frown, and he went downstairs, intent on talking to her. He froze on the fifth step from the bottom when he saw Lupa; she stood by the front door with her arms crossed uncomfortably over her chest, clad in rumpled blue scrubs and white tennis shoes. Confusion came over him; he knew there was there way in hell it was the end of her shift. She must have gotten off early.
She felt his eyes on her and turned her head, then hurriedly away. He got the feeling she would try to avoid him, and you know what? He didn't care. Fuck her.
Ignoring her, he went down the rest of the stairs and rounded the newel post. Dad, Meagan, Lucas, and Lori sat on the couch in front of a cartoon while Lola sat in the armchair. Lana sat on the coffee table next to Lucy, and Leni was perched on the arm next to Dad. Humph. Gang's all here.
Pack of fucking assholes.
Luya came out of the kitchen with a soda in her hand, took a drink, and sat it on the dining room table. She stopped when she saw him, and her face darkened, which made Lemy's heart skip a beat.
It was too late.
She was leaving.
For a moment, they stared at each other like two gunslingers at high noon, then Lupa's voice shattered the silence. "Come on," she said sharply.
Luya darted her eyes away from Lemy and started past, her shoulders hunched defensively. Watching her come, blearily studying the set of her jaw and the hardness in her eyes, he knew deep in his heart that it was too late. She would never forgive him.
Pain, rage, sadness, and self-loathing washed through him. He couldn't say or do anything to make it better - the time for that was past.
At this point, all he could do was hug her goodbye and wish her luck.
When she was within reach, he tried to draw her into an embrace, but she pulled away and shot out her hands; they connected with his chest and he stumbled back, his hip catching one corner of the table and his feet nearly tangling. "Don't touch me," she spat.
"Luya," Lupa admonished in a half-hearted.
"Leave me alone, stop talking to me, stop trying to touch me, stop thinking about me." Luya said, her voice lowering to a menacing growl that sent icy blades of pain through Lemy's stomach. "Go away. You're a drunk and a piece of shit."
Lemy winced, and Dad barked her name from the couch.
She ignored him, her glinting, hate-filled eyes zeroed in on Lemy like two laser-guided missiles. An unexpected emotion welled suddenly up from the depths of Lemy's drunken haze: Anger. He got it, okay? He fucked up. Did she really have to not even let him hug her? He tried every which way but loose with this fucking girl. He begged her, he apologized, he tried to make friends with her, but she rejected him every step of the way. "I really wish you'd get over yourself," Lemy blurted. He realized even as those words left his mouth that they were the final nails in the coffin, but he couldn't stop himself.
Luya's lips pulled back from her teeth and her eyes flashed black and cold. "I really wish you weren't my father."
Lemy spoke before he could stop himself. "I'm not your father."
Luya flinched, and perverse satisfaction filled him when the smug expression drained from her face.
The air sucked out of the room and everyone stared at him, but he didn't notice, wouldn't have cared if he had. It felt good to get that out, good to admit that she wasn't his...and that ultimately he owed her nothing. "Your mother was a fucking prostitute. You could belong to anyone."
Luya's jaw dropped into a stupid expression of shock that, for some reason, pissed Lemy off all the more. He wanted to destroy her, blot her out from existence, to forget her and maybe, just maybe, to forget his own guilt and shame. "You never had a father," he slurred, then leaned in, her eyes widening, "and you never will."
For a moment she gaped at him, then tears filled her big, dark eyes; she whipped away and fled through the living room, her hands covering her face and her sobs trailing behind her. He followed her with his eyes, watched her slam through the door. Lupa stood there in horror, then gave him the nastiest look he'd ever seen...nasty enough to penetrate the mist in his brain. He couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw a single tear beading down her cheek. "You son of a bitch," she said tightly. Before he could reply, she turned and went out the door, slamming it behind her. For a second, no one moved, then Lucy got up and hurried after.
Lemy blinked and swayed. Good fucking riddance. When Lupa got pregnant and had no one, he stepped up and helped her out...he adopted her daughter as his own and tried to be a good father to her, but neither one of them appreciated it. None of his family appreciated anything he did.
Shaking his head, he realized that everyone was staring at him, their expressions ranging from shock to disgust. Dad's face was pinched in something approaching loathing, and Meagan looked at him with wounded eyes...almost like it was her he went off on.
That's when it occurred to him that maybe he went a little too far.
He needed a drink and he didn't care who knew it. He took the bottle out, twisted off the cap, and lifted it to his lips. No one spoke, no one moved; they only tracked him with their eyes as he made his way to the stairs, the knowledge of what he'd done beginning to sink in and panic closing around his heart and lungs like a cold fist. He fucked up.
Again.
And this time, something told him there was no going back.
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