The Safeword is 'Papa' (ch.2)
#2 of The Safeword is 'Papa'
"Sooooh...?"
I was focused on stamping footprints into the snow and wasn't paying attention when Daddy... err, Nick... paused to lean against the shed wall, arms crossed, looking at me.
"So what?"
"So what was up with you at the hustle today?"
I pulled my elephant hoodie down to palm my face. Even in the Arctic district, work caused me to break out in sweat.
I shrugged. "Just committed to the role I guess."
Nick had his face propped up in his palm and was busy scratching his chin, eying me pensively.
"Y'know... ever since we started doing this bit, I've noticed you've been getting more and more into it. I mean... you talk like a kid... you enjoy getting picked up and held like a kid. It's like you turn into a totally different person. It's difficult to get you out of your elephant pajamas at the end of each day."
My eyes widened, looking down. Holy fuck ~ I was still wearing them, wasn't I?
I scowled dismissively. "Yeah? So what? I don't feel like changing just to get sweaty doing this. Now are you gonna flap your gums all day or are we gonna get these bitches ready for the lunch rush?"
Pushing off the wall, Nick gathered up his bundle of pawpsicle sticks, resuming his station laying them neatly behind me as I went.
"Y'know," he said after a long while, sounding lost in thought. "I've known a couple of guys like you. If you wanted to, we could probably work something out."
My ears perked up. I stopped what I was doing, badly smearing two pawpsicle molds as I rounded on him. "What's your game, Wilde?"
"No game!" Nick held up his paws. "Times are tough. I'm just trying to make a little extra scratch on the side. Debts to pay off, vixens to woo and all that. SO... how about this. Once a week, I'll agree to keep doing the caring parent thing after con hours are over, and you can keep the onesie on. And in exchange, all I ask is for a 60/40 cut of the week's take."
"GET FUCKED!"
"Keep your voice down!" Nick hissed. "It's not as if we pay rent here!"
I glowered at him, simultaneously boiling with rage and slightly curious. He avoided my gaze as he smoothed out the pawpsicle mold with his thumb, neatly laying a stick halfway down the palm. "Tell you what... think on it and get back to me. No rush. And it goes without saying that this deal comes with a judgment-free guarantee. I won't give a fuck about how you get your rocks off, so long as I get paid. Now c'mon... you man the funnel, I'll work the flow. Let's get this done."
* * * * *
I didn't speak to him for the rest of the day.
That bastard, ran my thinking as I sulked on the drive back to my alleyway. Who the hell does he think he is? I am a grown-ass little man, thank you VERY much.
And yet, not even two weeks later, I found myself knocking on his door. Before I knew it, I was in his arms for the very first time, getting rocked gently back and forth against his chest as he hummed an old nursery rhyme. My head swam from the body contact, the warmth of his fur, the friction in my jammies. It was all too much.
To his credit, Baron Von Asshat was a true professional. He never once broke character and seemed to be drawing from some deep reserve of parental knowledge as he took care of me. He was cool and collected, remaining in charge without being too stern, and generally played the part of a single dad to the letter.
That first night, we made rice crispies together. Fucking rice crispies!!
I could tell he really wanted that extra ten percent, because he acted more like a parent who only had weekend custody of his child. That first night, we ran the gambit: board games, Disney movies, rice crispies, and a metric fuckton of cuddling.
I've done cocaine before. In the late 80's. I'm not proud of it, I'm not ashamed of it, but there it is: I've snorted cocaine before. And let me tell you... if I had to choose between a rolled-up twenty filled with baking soda and Contra dust, or cuddling with Nick in my jammies, I'd pick... cocaine. Because cocaine is awesome.
But if I didn't have the cash for an 8-ball, Nick would definitely be a close second.
"Getting sleepy Champ?" he purred as I yawned. I nodded, snuggling down against him.
"Wanna hit the sack?"
I worked my face back and forth into his chest tuft. I knew that once the sun rose through the RV's dusty blinds, my carriage would turn back into a pumpkin and my dress would turn to tatters.
(Hashtag: we watched Cinderella. Hashtag: real princess problems.)
And in that moment, more than anything I just didn't want us to turn back into our old selves. I wanted so badly to stay Papa and Fin a little while longer. I dreaded the dawn stealing us away for another week, replacing us with Finnick the Asshole and Dickbag McGee.
Well, despite my protests, it was past my bedtime. My face unhinged in a yawn as Nick picked me up by my armpits, pressing me to his chest. I fully expected him to place me on the top bunk, to tuck me in. Instead, he layed us down together on the bottom bunk, my cheek nestled in his chest fur, his arm swaddled around me.
I remember thinking how I wanted to stay like that forever. Listening to the rise and fall of his chest. Feeling his fingers stroking gently along the back of my neck, lulling me to sleep.
"G'night buddy," he whispered into the cone of my ear. "See ya in the morning."
But even in that twilight between sleep and wakefulness, I knew his words weren't true.
Papa and Fin were going away, disappearing like fog into the night. They wouldn't be seeing each other again for another week.