Chapter Text
Lottie doesn’t really remember any of the accident.
Well, that’s not entirely true. She remembers the horrible stench of fire cooking flesh, but when she tries to hold onto it, the memory slips away. Maybe it’s for the best.
One thing she remembers for certain is the screaming.
Fergus screamed the same way he had when they were children, back when he had tumbled out of a window and broken his arm. Only this time, neither one of their parents were coming to his rescue.
The house had been vacant since then. Sometimes Lottie wandered through the hallways, half-expecting her parents to here, to be home. Her eyes lingered on her father’s chair, where he used to lounge, now thick with dust.
And as for Fergus?
Where the hell is Fergus? He said he’d be home tomorrow. Last week! And like a dog, or perhaps a fool, she’d waited, pacing around for days, tapping the counter like it might miraculously summon him.
No call. No text. No nothing. Fergus has independence in spades, but this was certainly not the time to vanish. She was about ready to start searching local pubs for him.
But then, there was a knock on the door: three thuds that echoed throughout the entire house. If it had been a normal Cousland December, the sound would’ve been swallowed up by laughter and drinks clinking.
“Lottie?”
Duncan’s voice filtered through the wood. Oh, shit. She forgot that no one else was around to answer doors on her behalf now. She almost wanted to laugh.
A half-open backpack rested on the couch, slouched over and noticeably light. Duncan said he’d swing round to help her finish packing, but she hasn’t brought herself to start.
She crawled over on her hands and knees, like a child, before rising to her feet and opening the door.
Duncan stood on the porch, snow clinging to the shoulders of his coat, melting in slow, wet rivulets that traced down the rough leather. Behind him, Alistair shifted impatiently from foot to foot, nose red as Rudolph. Two full grocery bags dangled from his hands.
“Hey, Lot,” Alistair greeted, already stepping into the house as though it was his. “Dad said you could use a hand packing, but I figured moral support and food were more my specialty.”
Duncan gave him a look that said not now, but Alistair didn’t catch it.
“It’s so dusty in here,” Alistair continued, sneezing into the crevice of his forearm.
“Alistair, why don’t you take those boxes to the car?” Duncan suggested, clearing his throat.
“Sure thing,” Alistair replied, cheerfully oblivious. “You two keep bossing me around, I’m used to it.”
He whistled his way down the hall. Both Lottie and Duncan stood there until the sound faded, the silence thick and Lottie’s patience thin.
Finally, Lottie cleared her throat, just barely finding the strength to speak.
“I didn’t… know what to pack,” she admitted, eyes low. “In my own backpack, I mean. All my clothes and other essentials are in boxes.”
Duncan nodded. “If it’s easier, take what’s important to you. Nothing more.”
Her first instinct was to reach for the framed family photograph on the table. The corners were chipped and the glass had been smashed in a recent incident with Fergus, but she didn’t mind. She placed it carefully into her backpack, cautious not to injure herself, and zipped it up.
“That’s all,” Lottie mumbled, a little disappointed that she didn’t have much else to show for herself.
Duncan offered a weak smile and headed out the door, trudging through the snow and back to the warmth of the car, where Alistair had already been waiting.
As she tossed her backpack into the backseat, she tried not to look back at the house, but her gaze lingered anyway.
By the time she was strapped in, Alistair was still chatting away about the fun week ahead.
A week, huh? Lottie’s hands felt clammy. She assumed that after all those boxes he carried, he would’ve gathered that it would not be, in fact, just one week.
Alistair had always, always been a strange person. His uncanny ability to talk, talk, then talk some more was unmatched. For someone whose extroversion knew no bounds, he was unfathomably awful at reading the room, or realizing that silence was also an option.
Duncan shot his boy another look, but said nothing. He knew Alistair wouldn’t pick up on it, not yet.
The engine hummed to life and the car heated itself up. Alistair sighed in relief and began talking to Duncan instead. Mostly, Duncan’s eyes stayed on the road, but his attention flickered to Lottie through the mirror every now and then.
He didn’t ask questions; he didn’t push.
He knew it would be a long, long drive.
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“Oh, Lottie, you’ve never actually visited our house, have you?”
It was a modest little building with a small porch and a bunch of Christmas decorations—Alistair’s doing, she mused, vividly recalling the countless texts he had sent as he strung them up. Those messages ranged from tears, to begging for help, to pride at his hard work.
“Lottie,” Alistair repeated.
She blinked hard. “Sorry. I— uh, no.”
A grin appeared on his face at that, accentuating his rosy cheeks. Lottie provided a small smile in return.
“All the more reason to be excited,” he replied. “Right, let's get it moving. I miss my bed.”
Alistair practically bounced out of the car and into the house, not bothering to wait for either Duncan or Lottie. He carried an energy that made her feel both lighter and painfully aware of how out of place she felt.
The two lingered in silence. Once again, their eyes met in the mirror. Duncan let out a lengthy exhale, then averted his gaze to look out the window.
“Charlotte, I— erm.” He paused, searching for the right words. It was evident in the way his eyes scanned the entire car twice. “I was always very close with your father, and I just wanted to say—“
“Don’t,” Lottie sharply interrupted. “Please, just don’t.”
Her gaze fell back on the house as she opened the car door and started to jog, breath puffing out in front of her. The fairy lights looked like magic against the evening sky; Alistair did a good job.
They entered the house together, and Lottie took note of how the Christmas decorations seemed to multiply by a thousand. There was a massive tree in the living room, draped in bright tinsel and angel ornaments. The house also had a religious charm to it; Lottie knew that Duncan was a devout Catholic. Alistair, however, had strayed from his faith. Throughout their home, there were crosses, pictures of Jesus, bibles and general items of worship scattered around each room.
It was oddly comforting to be surrounded by Him, even though she didn’t consider herself religious. Lottie’s parents were Catholic, sure, but they weren’t as devoted. Attending church was out of the ordinary and praying was rare.
The moment she entered her room, her eyes landed on the painting of Mary hanging above her bed. When Duncan left, she straightened it out. Later, she collapsed on her mattress, drifting off to sleep without bothering to unpack.
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Meanwhile, downstairs, Duncan lingered near the doorway of the kitchen, just relieved that Lottie was safe and soundly asleep.
When word spread, he hadn’t hesitated; he instantly began making preparations for Lottie to stay for as long as she wished. He’d even offered Fergus a home, but the boy declined, always too damn independent for his own good.
Poor girl, he thought. She was young, just shy of twenty, and already carried so much invisible weight on her shoulders. The thought that she wouldn’t have to bear it alone was small comfort.
It had been a dreadful few weeks. So dreadful, in fact, that he overlooked one very real problem.
Alistair.
What was he supposed to tell Alistair?
The news that Alistair wasn’t his biological son, that he was adopted, was still fresh. These days, Duncan had noticed the hesitation in his eyes whenever he said Dad. It was becoming increasingly more clear that things had shifted between them.
Part of Duncan wishes he told Alistair from the beginning. Instead, he had spun a web of lies, but only ended up being the most tangled in it.
The only person who knew was Lottie’s father. But he isn’t here anymore, is he? So Duncan just has to deal with this on his own.
The sound from the television soaked into the peaceful air as a late-night rerun played. Alistair was shirtless and sprawled across the couch with a fluffy blanket half-draped over him, all while a bowl of popcorn balanced precariously on his stomach.
Duncan allowed himself a bit of peace. After all of this chaos and change, Alistair was still his boy.
Blood meant very little to Duncan. He felt similarly about Lottie and Fergus, though he, of course, hadn’t raised them like he did Alistair.
Alistair turned his head at the sound of Duncan’s sigh, spotting him standing in the doorway.
“Hi,” he said, scooting over to the far side of the couch. “I was just gonna go to bed, actually.”
Duncan’s shoulders were tense. For once, Alistair noticed.
“Is this… to do with Lottie?” Alistair blurted out. “Because, if so, I’d rather you hear it from me.”
Duncan’s face betrayed him. It was his eyebrows that struggled to stay neutral. First, they rose, then furrowed deeply, then rose again.
“…What?”
A sudden panic gripped Alistair’s entire body. He winced before his mouth started moving faster than his brain, as it always did.
“Right, I think I said something stupid—well, I did say something stupid— because Lottie’s been too quiet lately.” Alistair paused to fidget with his hands. “I… erm. I may have said something earlier about—“
“Alistair.”
“Oh, she already told you, didn’t she? That’s why you took so long in the car—“
“Alistair!”
When his own name reached his ears, he realized that it had been a long time since Duncan yelled. Alistair froze like a bunny caught in a crosshair, jaw gone slack, but then, eventually, he set it firm again. The way Duncan was looking at him made his stomach twist and tie in knots.
“This isn’t about what you said, son.” Duncan exhaled, the weight of it wrapping around them. “It’s just about Lottie.”
His eyebrows furrowed. “What’s wrong with Lottie?”
Only the sound of the laugh track on the television kept the world from going completely still. Everything felt wrong. It was shifting out of place, spiralling out of control.
“Dad, why can’t you just tell me?” He whimpered, voice cracking. Concern rested heavily on the brims of his eyes.
His mind went places he as a father could never venture. What if this was Alistair in Lottie’s shoes?
“Dad?”
“It’s Lottie’s parents,” Duncan finally told him. His voice remained balanced, as if breathing too hard might shatter him. “They were in an accident. A car accident.”
Alistair ran his hands through his hair, gripping at the short strands and tugging hard.
“Oh, no. That’s horrible,” he mumbled, shaking his head in disbelief. “God, wow. Well… I… take it they’re in hospital, yeah?”
Tears caught in Duncan’s eyes, burning with unspent grief. He couldn’t. He couldn’t.
But one thing about Duncan is that even when he was a single crack away from breaking completely, he had to be brave.