Chapter Text
"I am not going to pay that much! This is absurd! You're all scammers!" The man’s voice boomed through the garage, echoing off the metal walls like a siren. "I only came in to get my headlight fixed, not to have you rewire my entire brake system !"
With the way he was yelling, Nico was honestly impressed the guy hadn't passed out yet. He peeled off his gloves slowly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes or frankly, punch the guy’s teeth in.
"Look," Nico said, voice tight but calm. "Your brakes were totally fried. If you hadn’t come in, they would've failed on you sooner or later and you’d be looking at more than just a repair bill. You’d be in a damn accident."
The man’s face grew redder with each word, puffing up and scrunching like a pissed-off toad. Nico had seen a lot of angry customers in his entire career, but this guy was definitely the ugliest.
"I get it, this isn’t what you came in for. But we do offer payment plans-"
"Bullshit!"
The man spat the word at him. Literally . Nico blinked when a warm fleck of spit landed on his cheek.
Nico closed his eyes.
Well… that was it. The last damn straw.
He opened them again, jaw clenched, fully prepared to drag this man to the trunk, shove his oversized head inside, and slam it shut repeatedly until he gained a sense of reason, or at least stopped spitting everywhere .
But before the fury could properly ignite, Valtteri stepped in, all calm eyes and that choppily trimmed mustache that somehow made him look even more unbothered.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Henry,” Valtteri said smoothly, slipping between them like warm butter. “This here’s one of my newest employees. Still getting used to the whole work-life balance, y’know? These young folks, they really go above and beyond. Probably figured he was doing you a little favor, checking your brakes.”
He chuckled lightly and clapped a hand on the red-faced man’s shoulder before steering him gently away, toward his desk in the far corner. “Of course, we know how the real world works. Let’s chat about how we can make this right, hmm?”
Nico wiped the sweat off his chin with a greasy old rag, not caring if it was clean or not.
New hire? Nico scoffed inwardly. I’ve been busting my ass in this garage for four whole years. Put some respect on my undivided loyalty, you fake-mustache peacekeeper. Im also older than you what the actual fuck man?
He rolled his eyes and slammed the hood of the toad-man’s car shut a little harder than necessary. But hey, if it broke, he’d be the one fixing it anyway. If that ugly hermit ever had the nerve to come back.
Nico busied himself with rearranging his tools. The garage was always a mess, even on a good day, but Nico was always a bit of a stickler for order. He liked some sense of control in his little corner of the chaos. Still, he couldn’t for the life of him find the damn iron wrench.
Grumbling under his breath, he ducked beneath the car he’d been working on, then moved on to another already suspended a few meters off the ground. He stepped carefully around streaks of oil and old motor grease, muscle memory guiding him through the maze of clutter that neither he nor Valtteri pretend to exist.
Despite the mess, he had grown comfortable here. There was something almost homey about the familiar clang of metal, the smell of engine oil, the buzz of fluorescent lights that never stopped flickering. You noticed it? You fix it!
This garage wasn’t where he had ambitioned to work… but it was where he ended up after everything else had gone sideways.
He’d been here ever since dropping out of uni in his final year. And really, the fewer people who asked about that, the easier his life stayed. Not that his life was very complicated these days, it was just quiet. Eh? Not really .
He just didn’t talk to people much these days. Few months? Years? What the hell yeah, its always been his handful of friends and Valtteri I guess .
Didn’t really go out. Didn’t have time. Actually At the grand age of thirty, socializing felt like a luxury he’d long stopped budgeting for. His idea of a good time? Staying home, sleeping in, and not waking up at the ungodly hour of six a.m. to make breakfast.
Because… well, it’s not like a four-year-old can make their own Frosties .
You’d think at that age they’d have at least unlocked the “use spoon and pour milk” skill tree. Guess what? Nope. Still a walking, talking hazard with sticky fingers.
“Nico, it’s almost four o’clock, boy!” Valtteri called from across the garage.
Shit. Already? Had the toad left yet?
Nico glanced at his watch, soot-stained and smudged, like everything else on him. Forget the iron wrench. Forget the grease. Forget the mess.
He had a kid to pick up.
He shot upright, grabbing his jacket and shoving his arms through the sleeves in a clumsy rush. As he sped past, Valtteri was leaning against his desk, looking equal parts tired and unimpressed.
Nico winced. Yeah, he was definitely gonna get an earful today.
“Thanks, I’m borrowing this!” he shouted instead, jingling Valtteri’s keys in the air before the man could protest. He kicked off his oil-slicked boots and shoved his feet into his outside shoes with record speed.
No way in hell was he going to slip in front of the daycare again. Not like last time. No Jensen, I don’t have a video of it, remember? I was the one falling on my ass.
The usual crowd of parents had already gathered near the gates, milling about and chatting quietly, checking their phones, pretending not to eavesdrop on each other’s lives. On most days, the hoard of people would’ve irritated Nico. The polite nods. The forced smiles. The awkward small talk he had zero interest in. But not when he comes here.
Not when he was about to see her .
It has been a bit over two years now. Two years of picking her up from daycare. Rain or shine. Tired or running late. And yet, every damn day, he felt the same thing, that bubbling excitement that curled warm in his chest the second the clock hit four.
He misses her. He always misses her. Even if she's only gone for a handful of hours.
If Nico had it his way, he’d never have to send her off at all. If the world made even a bit of sense, he’d get to spend every morning making her late breakfast, every afternoon napping beside her on the couch, and every evening watching her do her ridiculous little dances in mismatched socks.
But no. The world didn’t work that way.
So here he stood, boots swapped out for clean sneakers, grease still probably smudged somewhere on his jaw, quietly waiting just outside the cluster of “normal” parents. The ones who looked like they’d come straight from offices or errands or evening yoga classes. He kept to the edge, arms crossed, watching the daycare gates like they held the answer to everything.
Because they kind of did. For him.
Behind those gates was the one tiny human who made up his everything, every frustrating customer, every missed wrench, every six a.m. wake-up, worth it.
His little girl.
The first thing Nico saw, before the rest of her, before the tiny sneakers pounding the ground, were her bright yellow hair clips.
She really loved those ridiculous little clips.
His smile stretched wide, arms already opening as he braced for the incoming collision. Like clockwork, she came tearing down the path in a full-speed sprint, barreling toward him like a missile with yellow bunny clips. She never walked. No matter how many times he told her not to run on the hard tarmac.
“Why, Papa?”
“Because if you fall, you're going to hurt yourself.”
“Is the floor gonna get hurt too?”
“… Yeah, yes it is.”
He caught her with a soft grunt, knees bending slightly to absorb the impact as she slammed into him and wrapped her arms around his neck like she hadn’t seen him in a year. Nico’s whole body relaxed as he pulled her close, pressing his face into the top of her head and taking her in.
Her little fists clutched the back of his jacket, and sure enough, he felt her nuzzle in, rubbing her face against the fabric like she always did. That’s why he kept this jacket spotless. No garage grime. No oil stains. It was her designated hug-jacket.
He caught a glance from one of the daycare volunteers, she gave him a quick nod and a smile before turning back to wrangle a group of shrieking four-year-olds. He nodded back in silent thanks.
“Missed you, Papa,” she murmured into his chest, voice muffled.
“Missed you more, sunshine,” he whispered, kissing the crown of her head.
He hoisted her up with practiced ease, settling her snugly on one arm like she weighed nothing, even though her legs were getting longer by the week. She clung to him with the natural trust of someone who believed he could carry the world and for her, he would.
Her Cars -themed backpack dangled from his opposite shoulder, obnoxiously bright red and decorated with a chaotic assortment of racing decals. It was loud. It was hideous. And she loved it. Nico still remembered the argument in the store.
“But this one’s got a pink car on it?” he had tried, lifting a softer pastel option from the shelf.
She had gasped, horrified. “But… but! Mac-Queen!”
“It’s Lightning McQueen, dear,” Nico had corrected gently, already sensing the loss.
“YES!” she’d declared, victorious.
Yeah. He never stood a chance.
“What did you do today?” he asked now, shifting her a little higher on his hip.
Instead of answering, she patted the top of his head like she was winding him up, her tiny hand tangling briefly in his hair before she launched into her daily, unfiltered daycare report.
“Lucy finally knows the goldfish’s name” she declared solemnly, as if this revelation carried the same weight as an ancient prophecy.
Nico blinked at her. Her dark brown eyes were wide with wonder. She cupped his face between her small, slightly sticky palms, waiting for him to react accordingly.
He played along, lips pursing dramatically. “Oh? And does Lucy know what that name is?”
His daughter giggled, the kind of high-pitched, delighted laugh that seemed to clear the last of the smog from his soul.
“He’s called… Job,” she said, frowning thoughtfully, as if the name didn't sit quite right in her mouth.
“ Job ?” Nico echoed, already opening the car door and sliding her backpack into the front seat. “Are you sure the fish isn’t a librarian?”
She squinted at him, clearly not getting the joke but sensing that something was funny. He chuckled and bent to help her into the car, finding the child seat exactly where it always was.
Valtteri had long stopped removing it from his passenger side. “Eh,” he’d shrugged once, catching Nico trying to unbuckle it. “It’s a pain to take off and put it back on all the time. Might as well stay ready.”
Nico had rolled his eyes, but secretly, he’d been touched. His boss and friend really weren't exactly loud with his affection, but he showed up in quiet, reliable ways.
Nico clicked the seatbelt across her chest and double-checked the straps. She swung her legs with excitement, hands clutching the sides of the seat like she was preparing for takeoff.
“Wait,” he said, pausing before shutting the door. “You said his name is Job , but is the fish a boy?”
She gasped like he’d just committed a crime.
“No! It’s a girl ,” she corrected, one tiny finger raised high like she was citing the law. Her face scrunched into a firm little pout. “Girls can be named Job, Papa.”
“Of course they can,” Nico murmured, grinning.
Before pulling away, he leaned forward and smothered a kiss to the tip of her nose.
She squealed in delight, instantly clapping her hands over her face. “ Nooooo , Papa! My whole nose!”
“Darn right I did,” Nico said, shutting the door gently and making his way to the driver’s seat.
As he slid in and started the car, he could hear her softly giggling behind him, still cradling her nose like it had been stolen. The sound of her laughter filled the space between them, sweeter than any song on the radio.