(no subject)

[dickbiscuit]

In retrospect, it had been an excellent idea. Nothing could have gone wrong - it was supposed to be a leisurely afternoon with his five year old twins, pots of fingerpaint and plenty of paper for them to get their tiny little handprints on. What could have been bad about that?

What's that saying .. hindsight is always twenty-twenty? Well, right now, York is pretty sure that he's looking at his past self of half an hour ago and silently screaming what the hell did you think you were getting yourself into?

His daughter is still looking at him from her place at the coffee table in the middle of the living room, arms folded and expression the epitome of unimpressed. Her paper and paints lay untouched, and she proceeds to tell him that she has much more important things to do than sit around and do something as silly as paint.

"'Nessa and I were going to read, Dad!" she insists for what feels like the hundredth time, and James can already feel the headache starting just behind his eyes. (Never mind the fact that she's nothing like her sister Bella and has always had to call him that instead of daddy like any normal child.) Ripley is too much like her mother to think anything like this is anything but a waste of time, and again, in retrospect, he should have thought of that. Sometimes he wonders just how he ended up with the set of twins that were polar opposites; the gorgeous little girl with auburn hair and sea-green eyes that is always going to be too serious for her own good, just like her mother, and that goofy little boy that is nothing less than a clone of himself at that age only with red hair and possibly more freckles.

"Would it hurt just to give it a try, Ripley?" he asks, knowing full well that pleading with not only a five-year-old, but this five-year-old is going to be as eventful as beating a dead horse. He gestures to the paints, all that blank paper and ends up taking some for himself, dipping a finger into the bright green paint and starting a design of his own.

It ends up looking like something that a three-year-old would smear across the page without a care in the world to what it looks like, but damn it, he's really trying here.

His little girl, however, still isn't sold on the idea. "It's Dante's Inferno!"

"You can read any other time you want, I promise, but - who said you could read that?" He might not have read much in his earlier years, but he distinctly remembers that book not being suitable for children.

Ripley just smiles. "Mama did!"

.. Of course she did. Roxie, why ..

Meanwhile .. "Daddy, look! It's Mama!"

Instinctively, James looks to the other side of the table where his son should have been, but when he realizes there's nothing there but the beginning of a horrible mess and a couple of pots of paint are missing, his eyes immediately fly to the far wall. "Zeke, wh-"

Well. At least he's giving his father's afternoon activity the good old college try. Except he's completely ignored the paper and has drawn a stick figure directly on the wall that bears a striking resemblance to a certain redhead that is going to be absolutely furious if she comes back anytime soon and sees this.

Zeke turns around, face smeared in bright red and cyan paint, smiling from ear to ear. "Isn't it good? I worked really hard on it!"

"I'm .. I'm sure you did, buddy. It looks great. It really does." Why did I think this was a good idea again ..?

".. Dad. Papa's always telling us that reading is important to make our brains stronger. You want me to have a strong brain, don't you?" And that, of course, would be why Vanessa is so insistent on them reading together. Barring the fact that they're only two years apart and can still have interest in some of the same things, Evan's daughter is just like him, just like his twins and very nearly always have their collective noses stuck in some book or another.

Evan, I swear, you make my life more difficult, so indirectly, that sometimes I just wanna smack you.

"Daddy, look! It's Mama!" Zeke pipes up again, and James just .. sighs.

"I saw it, kiddo. It looks really good. You've got some real talent."

"Nonono! Mama's home!"

.. OhjesusfuckchristI'mdead.

James very, very slowly turns around, gaze coming to rest on a redhead with grocery bags in both arms, both eyebrows raised almost to the point where they look like they're in danger of disappearing into her hairline. He realizes he has about three seconds to explain the mess, to explain that he'd had every freaking good intention on the planet to have a nice afternoon with their children and it just so happens that it had turned into a complete and total disaster.

"Hi baby. Nice trip to the store?"

Please don't yell at me please don't yell at me pleasedon'tyellatmehe'syoursontoo.

"Of course. I got a package of boneless, skinless chicken breasts on sale, so those will be for dinner." Pause. "What, exactly, happened in here?"

"Oh, this? You wouldn't believe it, Roxie. Our son is the next .. Picasso, or something. You see that masterpiece? You're his model!"

There's complete silence. Silence so thick that it's deafening, palpable, something you could cut with a butter knife if you really wanted to.

And then James is sitting on the floor in front of his son's masterpiece with a spray bottle of cleaner and a rag, scrubbing away while Zeke sits on the couch and watches cartoons with a blue popsicle hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

"You could have helped me out, man. Defended me. Somethin'." Scrubscrubscrub.

"You're the one that gave me the paint, Daddy. You can't blame me for your bad life choices."

James picks his head up, stares at his son for a moment in disbelief. And then: ".. Can I at least have a bite of that popsicle?"

"Uh-uh. S'the last one."

There's a grumble that sounds distinctly like you tiny little Judas -

And then he's back to scrubbing.