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witticasterSTEALS PLOTS FROM THE BABY-SITTERS CLUB AND ADDS BLOWJOB REFERENCES wtf self. DX
Though Tharkay missed the first, clattering noise from upstairs--there must have been some sound, but in his study, it was muted at best--it was impossible to miss the faint, sharp cry which meant that someone was currently bruised or bleeding. He pressed the "ctrl" and "S" keys even as he was jumping from his seat and heading towards the door, sparing no glance towards his laptop as he went.
When he was not entrenched in the small crises that followed children like shadows, it was difficult not to wonder at the way he had been trained over the past six years to respond to such things. That particular shriek, somehow distinct from all the others the twins made quite cheerfully, was singularly piercing; it demanded attention from Will or Tharkay immediately, even if the alternative was a spectacularly good blowjob (as had been the case when Martha had pinched her finger in a door when she was three). Within those first moments after hearing one of their children scream, however, Tharkay was all movement and worry, taking stairs two at a time to the sound of Martha shouting "Tharkay, Tharkay!"
Of "bruised" and "bleeding," this afternoon it was both: George was weeping in a heap in the bathroom, the shower curtain and rod having fallen all around him, while Martha, apparently unhurt, looked on the verge of tears. A dribble of blood oozed from his lower lip, and Tharkay suspected his forearms would be black and blue before dinnertime.
"What's happened?" Tharkay asked, inspecting George over for other injuries, a broken bone or two perhaps. "George, what hurts?"
George simply pointed at his mouth, and Tharkay nodded curtly, then scooped him up as gently as he could and set him up on the counter of the sink.
"We were going to play chin-ups, like at school," Martha said, her voice all atremble. "But we couldn't reach--"
"And managed to pull the entire rig down," Tharkay finished, wetting a flannel to dab at George's lip with. "That was very dangerous. Martha, are you hurt?"
He watched her shake her head in the mirror, then ask, "Does Georgie have to go to the hospital?"
"I don't think so," Tharkay answered after a moment, once he had cleaned the blood away and could have a good look at the cut. It wasn't terribly deep, though it would likely make meals uncomfortable for a few days. Realizing then that George was still crying, Tharkay offered his son a hug and nearly fell backwards from the force of George throwing himself at him. Murmuring assurances that all would be fine, Tharkay stood there in the ruined bathroom for several long minutes. Finally, he shifted George's weight in his arms and, giving up any plan to finish that article before Will returned home, said, "Let's get some ice for your lip, George, and then perhaps we can read a story."
George was willing to walk when Tharkay set him down, and so the three of them walked, hand in hand, down to the kitchen. When Will came home, twenty minutes later, they were all three curled up on the sofa, a large stack of picture books on the coffee table.
Though Tharkay missed the first, clattering noise from upstairs--there must have been some sound, but in his study, it was muted at best--it was impossible to miss the faint, sharp cry which meant that someone was currently bruised or bleeding. He pressed the "ctrl" and "S" keys even as he was jumping from his seat and heading towards the door, sparing no glance towards his laptop as he went.
When he was not entrenched in the small crises that followed children like shadows, it was difficult not to wonder at the way he had been trained over the past six years to respond to such things. That particular shriek, somehow distinct from all the others the twins made quite cheerfully, was singularly piercing; it demanded attention from Will or Tharkay immediately, even if the alternative was a spectacularly good blowjob (as had been the case when Martha had pinched her finger in a door when she was three). Within those first moments after hearing one of their children scream, however, Tharkay was all movement and worry, taking stairs two at a time to the sound of Martha shouting "Tharkay, Tharkay!"
Of "bruised" and "bleeding," this afternoon it was both: George was weeping in a heap in the bathroom, the shower curtain and rod having fallen all around him, while Martha, apparently unhurt, looked on the verge of tears. A dribble of blood oozed from his lower lip, and Tharkay suspected his forearms would be black and blue before dinnertime.
"What's happened?" Tharkay asked, inspecting George over for other injuries, a broken bone or two perhaps. "George, what hurts?"
George simply pointed at his mouth, and Tharkay nodded curtly, then scooped him up as gently as he could and set him up on the counter of the sink.
"We were going to play chin-ups, like at school," Martha said, her voice all atremble. "But we couldn't reach--"
"And managed to pull the entire rig down," Tharkay finished, wetting a flannel to dab at George's lip with. "That was very dangerous. Martha, are you hurt?"
He watched her shake her head in the mirror, then ask, "Does Georgie have to go to the hospital?"
"I don't think so," Tharkay answered after a moment, once he had cleaned the blood away and could have a good look at the cut. It wasn't terribly deep, though it would likely make meals uncomfortable for a few days. Realizing then that George was still crying, Tharkay offered his son a hug and nearly fell backwards from the force of George throwing himself at him. Murmuring assurances that all would be fine, Tharkay stood there in the ruined bathroom for several long minutes. Finally, he shifted George's weight in his arms and, giving up any plan to finish that article before Will returned home, said, "Let's get some ice for your lip, George, and then perhaps we can read a story."
George was willing to walk when Tharkay set him down, and so the three of them walked, hand in hand, down to the kitchen. When Will came home, twenty minutes later, they were all three curled up on the sofa, a large stack of picture books on the coffee table.
