Spaghetti Hoops

Locke collapsed over the couch like the worst looking throw ever, or like one of those weird bear rugs that stared deeply into your soul. Locke hated them — his dad had one, and as a kid it scared the living hell out of him. Now he really understood how those poor bastard rugs felt.

He was absentmindedly flipping through channels, trying to find just anything to placate his tornado of a mind right now. Fuck, he hated this. He finally landed on the true crime channel, staring up at the ceiling and lamenting just how much he needed a smoke right now. He fiddled in his pockets for his lighter, staring at it briefly before getting up and grabbing the packet of cigarettes on the coffee table in front of him. He walked towards the door, fishing a cigarette out of the box and putting it between his lips.

But as he opened up the door, there stood Injury, and despite Locke still being confused about their alien physiology, they were clearly crying. And crying hard, at that. Instinctively, he kneeled down a bit to meet their eyes.

“Shit kid, you a’wright?”

Injury practically collapsed into Locke, giving him a hug that, in the moment, he didn’t reciprocate. He was shit at hugs, and they always spooked him when they happened. He fumbled for a bit before, as politely as he could, disconnecting the hug.

“Do you — uh, ya like spaghetti ‘oops?”

Injury wiped away some of their tears and nodded, to which Locke shut the door and sighed, “You’re in luck then, we’ve got’ tin left.” — Locke led Injury to the kitchen, holding their hand the whole time. Wasn’t his choice, they had an oddly strong death grip on it. He wasn’t about to stop them.

He pulled out one of the kitchen chairs for them, patting the seat bit before softly taking his hand back. Injury took a seat, kicking their legs in the empty space between them and the table. Locke took this time to rummage around the cupboards, pulling out a bowl and tipping the can of spaghetti hoops into it with a gross, yet satisfying ‘schlorp’ sound. He slammed it into the microwave, putting it on for 2 minutes and letting it spin.

“Right,” Locke leant his back against the counter, folding his arms against his chest and looking at Injury, “What’s happened?”

Injury shrugged, shrunk into themselves, unshrunk a little, and then stopped kicking their legs, “No money. Lady mad. She shouted at me.”

Locke pulled a face between a grimace and a scowl, slamming down his lighter and unlit cigarette on the counter and pulling his phone out of his pocket. He sent, in his opinion, the shittiest text he could produce to his landlady without getting kicked out.

‘Leave the kid alone, I’ll pay their rent this month, so add it to my bill. Never yell at them again, they don’t deserve it. Final warning’

Give or take a swear word or seven. As he finished, the microwave dinged. He put down his phone on the countertop near his lighter, opening the door to take the bowl out. He casually grabbed it, placing it in front of Injury along with a fork.

“Warm. Hurt hands?”

“Huh?” Locke looked down at his hands, and then vaguely laughed, “Oh, right. Nah, I lost feelin’ in these bad boys years ago now.” Locke carried on the ‘years’ for a few seconds.

He showed the palms of his hands to Injury, showing scars upon scars. Some were white, some were pink, some seemed new, a lot seemed old. Injury tilted their head, sticking a mouthful of hoops into their mouth as they did.

“I burnt me hands a lot when I started smokin’,” Locke half-lied, “Got an issue in my hands where they’re not very still.” Not a lie.

Locke would’ve continued, but his phone started buzzing. He turned to look at his phone, then back to Injury, “This’ll take just a sec.”

He grabbed his phone, grunting in annoyance as he saw who was calling him. He let it ring a few more times before picking up and putting the phone to his ear.

“Fuck you want?” Locke spat.

“That’s no way to speak to your dad.”

“You ain’t my dad, you’re me father, get it right.”

“Don’t get pedantic with me now. —“

“I’ll get as pe-dan-tic as I fuckin’ want, you melt.” Locke loved making fun of his father’s vocabulary. Injury mumbled something, Locke couldn’t hear it properly.

“I need you.” His father’s voice sounded upset.

“Oh what, can't you skive off mum?” Locke laughed.

“Locke Aoife Byrne,” Locke subconsciously flinched at the name, “You know me and your mother don’t speak anymore.”

“Yeah, thank god for ‘er or she might go fuckin’ bonkers.”

A deep sigh from father, Locke was good at getting on people’s nerves, “I need money.”

“Oh!” Locke dragged it out for a long time, “So me siblings aren’t fundin’ you anymore, huh? Stopped being fuckin’ doormats?”

“Locke. —“

“I ain’t got no money for you, you ugly munter. Don’t fuckin’ call me anymore.”

Locke ended the call as his father tried to scramble to save his ass. He let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

“Munter.”

Locke flinched, then slowly turned around to face Injury.

“What did you jus’ say, kid?”

“Pe-dan-tic. Melt. Ugly munter.”

Locke paused, then laughed, then laughed out of nervousness, “You were listenin’?”

“Loud.”

Locke paused again. He was loud, they weren’t really wrong. He walked over to the table, and sat down on the opposite side to them, looking at them. He tried to be serious, but he was smiling, “You don’t say that around anyone else, and I’ll take you to get waffles. Deal?”

Locke stuck his hand across the table. Injury considered, put the last forkful of hoops into their mouth, and grabbed his hand.

“Deal.”