Chapter Text
It is seven am on a Sunday morning when the doorbell rings. Chad gropes around his bed for his phone, mistaking the rude awakening for his alarm. He finds a nostril before his phone, and a distinctly British snort stirs him from his languid reverie.
The doorbell rings again, insistent.
Chad, bleary-eyed, unlocks his phone and double-checks the time. A lick of fire shoots down his ankle, spewing fiercely in indignation.
Why the fuck is he getting company at seven o’nine when he already has company?
“Come back to bed,” a tired voice calls out to him, even as Chad rises to his feet and pulls on a pair of boxers.
When he answers the door, two officers look him dead in the eye. One of them, a woman, tips her cap at him and asks, “We can wait until you’re decent, Mr. Noorzai.”
The cops. On a Sunday. Just milling about his apartment.
Chad heats up. Literally. “Don’t you know who I am? I know my damn rights, where’s your fucking warrant—?”
“You are listed as the next of kin for Kawthar Noorzai.”
They aren’t doing a sweep. Somehow, this brings him no relief. In fact, Chad’s hands start to tremble and shake against the doorframe.
“Where’s Kawti?” asks a voice that is distinctly his but Chad doesn’t remember choking the words out.
The officer begins to assure him that his niece is alive and well, that she is currently a ward of the state in probate court—
Court? Chad has a fucking record.
His parents are still in Herat. They’re not supposed to be back for another two weeks. Oh fuck, oh fuck—Chad starts to hyperventilate—
“What happened to her dad?” Chad croaks out so that he, the officers, and ‘British guy’ who is trying to escape through the balcony won’t comment on the steam wafting off the corners of his eyes.
The last time he came to the precinct, he’d been in cuffs.
Chad pushes through the sensation of dread building in his gut as he prays none of the officers on duty recognize him, either from his villain days or from the Shroud takedown broadcast. He just wants to see his niece because what he’s feeling, she’s got to be feeling it ten times as bad—
“Kawkaw Daryab!” a voice that does not belong at a police station shrieks.
The nine year-old clad in red and pink comes barreling towards him, sobbing at the sight of him as Chad picks her up into his arms and holds her close. “Shh, shh, it’s okay. C’mon, remember what I taught you?”
Sniffling, Kawti answers slowly, “Tough bitches don’t cry.”
“Tough bitches don’t cry!” He says it for her as much as himself, because the only reason he’s allowed to take her home with him is because of his standing within SDN and his contributions to the safety and protection of Los Angeles. And this is just temporary, pending his trial.
But that’s all for him to worry over and figure out. Right now, he’s gotta get Kawti home and distract her from her dad’s passing with Zac Efron and Vanessa Anne-Hudgens pledging their eternal (read: high school) love to one another.
And as much as he wants to spoil her and let her ride in the Firebird without a booster, Chad is not taking any chances. So, at the risk of mutilating his leather seats, he straps Kawti in and angles the rearview mirror so that she can see him as much as he sees her.
“Kawkaw Daryab…”
Chad inhales, wishing Beau had bought her a damn goldfish. (Then again, he might actually try and tell Kawti the cops had to flush her dad down the toilet which, while somewhat vindicating for him, is incredibly inappropriate to say to his niece.)
“Yeah, zargeya?”
“Can we listen to Toni Braxton?”
Oh, thank god. Chad queues up Toni Braxton on his phone and blinks away his tears borne of anxiety. It is, all things considered, a typical stop-and-go traffic ride back home.
Just another typical day in a typical chapter of Chad’s typical semi-charmed life.
Monday rolls around like a fever pitch.
It is six minutes to his first shift and the only thing Chad has accomplished so far is make chocolate chip pancakes for Kawti.
Alice has texted him no less than twenty separate messages. He thumbs up a random one, just to send her proof of life, and the onslaught of texts continues.
He is too despondent to give her an explanation. That being said, there is someone he needs to notify of his circumstances.
Chad scrolls through his contacts:
alice 💎
british guy ✅
club guy
daddy 😩
tesla guy
muscle guy
eater
fister 💀
bob bob 🤏
[ TXT ] i’m not coming in today
Robert texts back before he has the chance to put his phone down: You couldn’t give 24-hours notice?
The slutty Chad of Saturday cruising would have Facetimed Robert just to flip him off. He doesn’t owe his manager jack shit.
Could the cops give him twenty-four hours notice before telling him they expect to see him in court? Yeah, Robert, you aren’t special.
His stomach growls, concerned that he has yet to eat anything. Chad ignores his traitorous body, too, and wills himself into fitful sleep.
He wakes up some time around noon because ‘Bob Bob’ is calling.
Listlessly, he answers the phone, too numb to give Robert any lip.
“Hello…?” Robert intones after being subjected to actual silence from him.
Chad scrubs at his face. Sighs. He considers hanging up, but Robert will only dial him again. Maybe he should turn on Do Not Disturb.
“Flambae, is everything all right—?”
“The cops showed up at my place, Robert,” a guy who sounds just like him recites, while Chad lays back and watches his life pass him by.
Robert must be taking his lunch because Chad hears the sudden rustle of a plastic wrapper. How dare this stupid man gag on a phallic ultra-processed heart attack while his life unravels in 4k.
Chad waits for Robert to ask him what did you do? but the accusation never comes. Instead, Robert clears his throat and the first thing he wants to know is “Do you need me there?”
Suddenly, a burst of clarity ruptures the apathy swirling inside his head: Yes, Chad, thinks; he needs Robert here.
“I… please. Can you, uhh… fuck, lemme text you, I gotta send you her syllabus.”
He can hear the gears in Robert’s head spin through the receiver.
Pulling his phone away from his mouth, Chad gets up and pads towards the dining room table and rifles through Kawti’s backpack. He snaps a photo, squints at the fact that ‘Royd’ keeps coming up but not ‘Robert’, then remembers - fucking duh - he’s gotta search by B to pull up Robert’s number.
After the text makes it through the cosmic waves of the universe hellbent on screwing him, Chad waits for Robert to spin up a game of twenty questions.
“Is it safe to assume you’re not in remedial English lessons? Because, believe it or not, I always thought you could read beyond a fourth-grade level.”
Relief isn’t the right word. Chad presses his lips together until he’s able to name that feeling in his chest: A sense of normalcy bubbles up his throat as he scoffs at Robert’s usual bullshit.
Rather than yield to another one of their verbal slap fights, Chad is too tired to be anything other than frank with Robert, “I found out my niece was orphaned yesterday.”
“—I was gonna swing by the Dollar Tree but I’ll be there after a quick Target run.”
Chad has no idea what kind of face he makes but he forgets that Robert can’t see him. Or hear him, when he lapses into a dissociative silence.
“Did you want me to stay on the phone with you for a bit?”
“Don’t text and drive, Robbo.”
Chad hears Robert hollering across the office at Mandy to cover for him. Woof. Instead of taking one for the team, the team is taking one for him. Sucks to suck.
The ambience of Torrance crackles over the line. Robert’s voice fills the void inside his chest once more, “I’ve got you on speakerphone, I can go hands-free.”
Chad makes a noncommittal noise.
“How are you holding up?” Robert asks, not at all offended by his inability to hold a conversation right now.
“I managed to feed her. Not myself, though.”
Robert is quiet for a moment, only to mention, “Target’s got Nutella-flavored Uncrustables. I was gonna pick up a box for myself.”
“You’re disgusting,” Chad reacts with an unfamiliar fondness in his voice.
Robert laughs at that. And then the line goes quiet, save for the sounds of Robert’s blinker every now and again.
Chad keeps trying to come up with something to talk about. In the end, he decides to bring up Kawti’s status.
“They’re not releasing her to you guys? Her family?”
Chad retorts coolly, “I’ve got a record.”
Robert lapses for a second. His voice softens, “She lost her father. You lost your brother.”
“Yeah. Turns out your sob story doesn’t matter if you aren’t white.”
Chad’s not sure what he’s trying to accomplish, saying that right now, but Robert seems to take it in stride: “Trust me. I know.”
“And how would you fucking know?”
“I just do, Chad.”
Weird flex, but okay. Chad pulls the phone away from his head and stares at the little dot updating Robert’s location in real-time. He’s still ten minutes out. Heaving a sigh, Chad grumbles, “I’m gonna go check on her.”
“Sounds good. I’ll let you know when I’m almost there.”
Setting his phone on the desk face-down, Chad stares at the old picture frame in the same exact position as his phone. He reaches for it, flipping it back up, and stares at a stranger from over twenty years ago, long before Kawti was born.
They’d been closer as kids, and yeah, they’d tried putting their differences aside when Kawti came along, but—
“Fuck you, Beau, for leaving her behind, too.”