#nanaratch

He extricated himself from the quiet, wiping his forehead with an old rag he tucked back into a frayed pocket, “Ma, you shouldn’t be outside- you could fall or twist something from the mole mounds-”

She huffed, chuckling in tones colored by bourbon and strife, “Come on now, child’o’mine, you know me an’ this here soil go way back. T’wouldn’t hurt me if it wanted to.”

A sigh and a shake of his head as she turned back around, the end of her cane thumping gently on hard packed dirt and memories of days in sepia.

He hustled his steps, keeping by her side and wrapping a boughbranch arm around her shoulders to keep her shawl in place. Strong as the trees and wild as the winds; he stood head and shoulders over her but still measured his steps to hers with mathematical perfection.

He would not be here, after all, had she not willed him into being with crystal tears and a forgemaster’s temper.

“Mimi done got alla the kids up and ready for bed- you oughta give that girl a check y’know. She’s got somethin’ hidin’ in her spirit. Makes her eyes dull like a toad in winnertide.”

He nods, frowning at the rickets in the stairs as he let her lean against him with each step. Sure as stone and riverbanks but still with a shake he never remembered from before.

“Annat Quickdraw- beautiful baby boy but he’s got a stuck shed now; like ‘ose ol’ lizards you caught as a munchikin. He needs to breathe, let himself rest and wiggle on free. It’s ‘at SCHOOL a his I just know it-”

He let her continue her muttering, unable to stop the smile it brought to his face as the front door opened and they headed in- he ducked to just miss the doorframe and she shook her head, huffing something about “Boys growin’ like ol’ weeds til they git plantid in the ground.”

He veered carefully off to the side bathroom- the first floor restroom, “powder room” his mother and grandmother always called it. The water in the sink hissed to life with the twist of a yellowed knob and he washed the grease and oil from his skin and hummed a tune he had heard that morning on the radio.

He ignored the grey curls he say at his temples.

The house was quiet, but not. He heard the huffs and snuffles of the snoring kids and adolescents through the old vent system as he dried his hands and then the scuffle of the attic bats that his mother had grown begrudgingly attached to since they ate the mosquitoes and sweatbees.

The house was country quiet, and it felt.... like home. Like home in a way Iacon and the Rebuild Zone and New Altihex didn’t.

The crick-creak of his mother’s rocking chair greeted him as he stepped out. He blinked, seeing a familiar little basin and boarbristle brush- and a familiar old comb.

Aged and still shining, wooden with a silvery handle made of songbirds and ivy.

He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off to show his tshirt, toed his shoes off and nudged them nearer to the overburdened shoe rack by the door.

“Ma?”

“There ya are- c’mon now, siddown. Yer hair’s a mess and yer voice is gettin’ that allergy rough.”

She pointed at the mug on her side table, steam rising in gentle coils like sweaterwool and quilt stuffing.

“Ma, I’m grown now, I can-”

“And? Don’t right care how grown y’git, babyboy.”, she said with a beckon of her finger, “You can be a million million years olde’n the oldest star, but you’re my baby boy.”

She turned, her eyes soft and wet and knowing, “And I know you been burnin’ it at both ends, baby. You got the candlesmoke round your curls like a lost comet. C’mere- it’s high time Mama took care a you for a li’l while.”

Something cracked in his chest. He wasn’t sure if it was his heart or the ribcage holding all his mourning but his steps were shuffled and unsteady as he went to her chair, and sat down with a soft thump on the carpet that still smelled lightly of fresh lavender and washing soda and sunshine.

When was the last time someone healed the healer?

He scooted over, like a tired son or a lost boy in a fairytale about fearing time- And leaned against his Mother’s knee as she used her fingers (swollen and arthritic and only half a full set) to damp down firepit curls enough for the comb to glide. She paused long enough, to pass him tea with honey and molasses and a little cream just like young boys like when the flowerdust makes them sneeze.

He curled on instinct, eyelids already heavy halfway through an off white mug worn from aeons of tiny hands clinging tight, heard the soft sssh-sssh of curls being combed back and patted dry while his mother hummed a lullably.

And soon, comb and brush were absent, the sound of an old movie lacking color but overflowing with tone mumbling out into the air... 

She shakes her head gently, taking the mug from calloused war-hero hands and setting it back upon the table. She leans, kissing the mop of damp but tight curls and feels hands that resurrected God cling to her skirt like when he was so small, so small and fiery and scared just like her. The same fear she swallowed down when her belly swelled seemed to have rooted in the little boy she protected with the fierceness of Nature.

And he grew, oh he grew.

He snored, too- soft and stuttery and she couldn’t help the brimming tears in her eyes. She nudged him, he mumbled, blinking in dim light but seeing nothing.

“Come on, Ratchet. It’s time for bed.”

“Mm. Mkay mama.”

Her good arm guided her tired son through old halls, coaxing him to drop into the bed that had grown with him and stayed even after him. He burrowed his face into the pillows and yawned- with a sneeze at the end. As he always did.

“Mmmmllergies.”

“I’ll make ya more tea in th’mornin’, sugarplum.”, she said to him, her voice soft and loving and motherly and all manner of safe.

She pulled his blankets up, carefully tucking just the edges in in case he tossed in his sleep (he’d always slept restless- the first sign something was wrong was how still he slept now).

He hummed in his sleep, nuzzling into warmth and the smell of laundry on the line.

She kissed his temple, running fingers through his curls he still never really took care of.

“My li’l spitfire.”, she said fondly, “I hope... I hope to all the heavens you know.”

She used her shawl to dab her eyes, “I hope you know, for all my bourbon bitter and old snark. I’m proud of you, baby boy. I’m so, so proud of you. Rest now. Let the ol’ world turn wi’out you for a while.”

“L’ve you mama.”

How sleepy he sounded, how young without youth. Were it not for the bulk of years on battlefields and the grew wisps at his temples, why... It could be her little boy once again, home from a long day of baling hay to help pay for his courses uptown.

“I love you too, Ratchling.”

Her steps were quiet as she left the room, her heart warm and sore like a soldier’s march home.

Ratchet slept peacefully, moonlight dim through the window as his mother bedded down for the night.

Tomorrow was another day; the fence was run down now, and the old truck had a busted axle and bald tires.

Ratchet stared at it in shock, stuttering over his words as he read the names and read them over and over and tried to process what he was seeing.

He had received a court summons. He had received official notice that he was to attend a hearing... to decide CHILD SUPPORT.

His communications were overrun- clogged with conversations between him and his mother, him and his lawyer (on retainer, a contact from before his graduation, an old friend dressed in gold and just fiery enough to bicker unending), and attempts to call the other name on the paperwork.

Perceptor’s number went dead after three days of frantic calls.

His lawyer (dressed in gold, dressed in loopholes) calmed his nerves, assuring him that, without a doubt, “such hellish demands won’t be allowed in MY courtroom, come now” and “everyone has a bitter ex, Doctor, it stands to reason that they’d want a slice of a pie they have no right to.”

Ratchet pretended he didn’t see a similarly gilded intern stare at them both in disgust.

Ratchet’s mother, the woman and medic whose name he inherited, gave him nothing but brimstone words and a hellfire snarl- a lecture on responsibility and a heavy accusation.

“DAMMIT BOY, I DIDN’T GIVE AN ARM FOR YOU TO TURN INTO YOUR DADDY!”

And Ratchet fumbled his words, snarling back about how could he have known, he wasn’t told until now, this isn’t his fault-

His mother breathed fire on the videocall, her eyes burning and her nostrils flaring like a bull about to charge as she spat, “WHAT’DJA THINK WAS GONNA HAPPEN, DIPPIN’ INTA ALL THOSE COOKIE JARS?!”

And Ratchet froze for only a moment, just long enough for her to dig her claws into every argument he had roiling in his head and heart to tear him down to the foundations- to expose his ego to the sun and let it shrivel like mold, like hyphae burned by the very air it needed as they searched out soothing words to nourish his self-image.

He saw movement behind his mother, and locked onto it- Hearing a soft coo and a mumble as his mother sighed softly and leaned to the side.

“I know baby, c’mon. Nana is sorry she was loud, she knows better.”

Ratchet felt his breath catch as he saw wild tousled curls he knew from his old school pictures- now in Perceptor’s India ink black. Bright eyes looked at the screen, and a pudgy hand reached out and wiggled fingers in a wave.

“Henyo!”

“Hi there.”

Nana, as she had called herself, looked at her grown son, her frown etched into her face, “Ratchet, meet y’r son. First Aid. Percy came t’me after he fu- flippin’ caught you an’ Pharma of all people.”

“...”

“He wanted t’surprise you that night. He’d just foun’ out he was carryin’. You surprised him instead, didn’t you.”

“...Look, I paid for my faux-pas okay; I get it, I was wrong, but it doesn’t explain these outrageous claims he’s demanding-!”

“I told him what t’demand.”

The words fell like boulders over a cliff edge- careening down his spinal cord to crash into his stomach and tighten it with betrayed nausea.

“You... Ma, you what?”

“You made a baby, son.”, she said coldly, “You made a LIFE. An’ that means you got responsibilities. And by god, I won’t let you dodge them; not like he did. You are gonna help raise this boy, Perceptor willing- or you’ll give the means to make this baby’s life perfect, do you fuckin’ understand me?!”

The child in question gasped softly, patting his Nana’s cheek with a tiny Perceptor-grade scowl at her saying such a naughty word.

“I know baby, I’m sorry.”

“Okie. Sowwy mean no soap.”

“That’s right.”

Ratchet looked at his mother, at his... his son, his CHILD... And thought back to the struggle he’d lived through once. He felt a knot tie in his stomach as he covered his mouth with his hands- the realization that he nearly DID choose the same route as his own absent father. 

“Perceptor graduated, not that you’d care.”

“How would you kn-”

“Didja call him? Didja REMEMBER?”

“...”

Nana cooed at the little boy perched on her lap happily, huffing a laugh when he reached for her hair (grey and platinum and wound round into a bun, today, like it had been so long ago) before she looked back to Ratchet.

“I raised you better’n this, son. I raised you t’be better than the man who left you be’ind. Only for me to see you pull the same bullhockey. I’ve seen the communiques between lawyers, now- I’ve seen the accusations levelled at the person who carried this child for nine months and four days.”

“How do you-”

“Percy’s been livin’ with me since Aid came into the world. He had no one else t’turn to.”

Ratchet felt his face go cold at the rage in his mother’s eyes.

“And my family ain’t ones to run. Well. I thought that’s how it was.”

She adjusted her hold on First Aid.

“Lookin’ at you, maybe I was wrong. Next time we talk, it’ll be legalese son. I gotta go make sure Percy’s hormones ain’t makin’ him sick again. Good aft’rnoon to ya.”

The screen went dark.

Ratchet sat with his reflection, feeling the hot tears beading in his eyes like they always did when his mother was right and he didn’t want her to be.

He murmured for his console to videocomm his lawyer.

“Hello Doctor Ratchet, Intern-”

“Tell him to drop our side. Tell him I’m acquiescing to Perceptor’s requests, all of them. None of them are out of line, as we once thought... Perceptor was right to make his demands.”

The intern paused, and smiled, “As you wish sir. And... Good on you, for stepping up.”

Ratchet nodded, and the comm shut down.

The little family was excited- Perceptor laughed from his belly when Ratchet sighed and suggested it, clapping his hands together once and nodding eagerly.

“You owe Mama R a visit anyway, dear.”

“But what about you, and Storm, and Whirl-”

“We’ll be fine, we’re grown. You and the kids need the time- they have much of you in them, after all... And the Vaporex air was able to work it’s magic on you for a lot longer.”

“It’s not magic, Percy.”

“Your mother says it is; and she has ways of Knowing.”

The younger ones were curious- all but Mimi and QD, of course. They led the pack, with their tiny memories- dim but all they had to run with. Whispers of their grandmother’s stern expression, the way she seemed to call the thunderstorms with nothing more than a nod and a huff and a muttered ‘Need a good rain, grass is thirsty.’

The steady tap of her old hardwood cane- gnarled and dark with shellac and (QD theorized) definitely-probably-blood-maybe. 

The constant smells of sassafras and chamomile and dandelion and clover. Of rosehip honey in the cupboard next to a first aid kit and a heavy jar of molasses.

When they boarded the shuttle the day after summer break started, they were all abuzz as much as Ratchet was quiet and tense and glaring at any who dared stare at him before Mimi dug a coffee thermos out of her backpack and passed it over to him.

His grateful sipping was all she needed as she settled beneath the small pile of her tired siblings to watch the sun rise through the shuttle windows.

When her shoulder was shaken, she mumbled sleepily and huffily; annoyed that she’d fallen asleep so easily on the long ride. She rubbed her eye with one hand- and felt a cane tap her wrist.

“Don’t touch y’r eyes, young’n. You’ll go blind.”

“Nana!”

The kids all stirred in surprise, blinking and yawning and stretching as the cackle of their grandmother rose high and gentle like old bourbon and sweet tea. Mimi pushed forward, arms going around the waist of Nana like a vise until she felt creaking hands ruffle her short hair.

“Lan’sakes child- Who cut y’r hair now, a weedeater? Fshaw, I’ll be diggin’ out m’clippers tonight then.”

“Ma, she’s fine.”, laughed Ratchet before his mother’s squinting gaze turned on him as he levelled himself easily out of the back of the old truck they’d been riding in.

“I got some words f’r you too son’a’my heart.”, she teased, “Curls erry which way now, lookit ya- like a dannylion puff bout to bust!”

He huffed with a frown, and she turned back to the kids- taking a quick count and clicking her tongue.

“Like rabbits.”

“MA.”

“Am I wrong?”

Mimi and Quickdraw couldn’t help snorting at the long-suffering sigh Ratchet let off while Nana’s hand tugged easily at the truck’s tailgate and let it drop open with a rattle.

“Outchya’ll git, now. Had a frien’ take your bags on ahead so they’re in the house a’ready. But you lot needa good ol’ fashion lunch so go wash on up and gather in the dinin’ room.”

“Yes’m!”, chimed Mimi, seeming to relax as her voice slacked down- to a soft roughness; as if simply breathing in the noontime air calmed something in her soul. The younger siblings squinted at her for a moment before being shepherded by her and Quickdraw into the house.

Nana stared for a moment, listening to Mimi’s prosthetic steps and Quickdraw’s light-footed taps went up the front steps and into the open doubledoor.

“How much she lose, son.”

“Everything from just above the knee down.”, sighed Ratchet, “QD ran her to my hospital. Three miles, full sprint.”

“Mm.”

“She’s up and walking,  and doing better since starting to go to the Primal gardens, I don’t know if it’s the prayer or the community-”

“Pah. Religion.”, she scoffed, “It’s the green, son. It’s the green.”

“Eh?”

“Stoppat, say what like a grown man. Now; she needs the green. She needsat world-touch, y’see.”, continued Nana, “Young Mimi is a doer, like you an’ like Percy, now. If she ain’t DOIN’ she’s DYIN’, but not like normal cityfolk die. Her spirit’s sick, I can see it. She needs this air, these trees. They helped you, they’ll help her, and QD, an’ the younger’uns too. They got that soulsickness.”

“..Ma, you know how ridiculous it sounds for a doctor to tell another doctor that someone’s SOUL is sick, right.”

“Spirit-chasers and shamans invented our science, son, and you’d be of good mind to remember that the basis of medicine has always been- on some level- magic.”

Ratchet frowned, but Nana grinned and tapped the side of her nose.

“Wasnit a mushroom what cured the pox and plague?”

Ratchet paused, eyebrows raising in a glimpse of understanding as his mother cackled and waved him to walk with her, putting a shaky foot on the first front step.

“Now come help y’r mama- we got li’l uns to feed and chores to settle out.”

He couldn’t help the fond smile hovering on his face now- breathing the deep scent of forest-edge honeysuckle and feeling his chest lighten.