#alvareider fic | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

theshipsfirstmate · 5 years

Text

ODAAT Fic: Feel I’m on the Verge of Some Great Truth

Some missing bits from 3x12 -- Penelope deals with Schneider’s relapse, and the aftermath.

A/N: My first Alvareider fic! Holy moly, these two brought the feels almost as soon as I started watching -- which was tragically right before Netflix dropped the axe. I’m still holding out hope for a season 4 pickup, because I need more of the Alvarez fam in general and these two in particular. In the meantime, here, have some of whatever this is.

Title from “Wait” by Alexi Murdoch.

Feel I’m on the Verge of Some Great Truth (AO3 - wc: 3201)

“You don’t have to do that alone.”

She says those words to him, fingers combing through the soft hair at the back of his neck, and for a moment, she forgets who they are to each other. She watches his eyes close in anguish, and she remembers, not for the first time, that she’s done this before.

It was Alex who first brought it up, after Penelope found them sitting next to each other on the laundry room floor. Four sad eyes stared up at her, two rimmed red with liquor and remorse.

“Pen, shit, I’m sorry,” Schneider had mumbled as Alex stood and the two of them helped him to his feet. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt him…”

She had stopped cold at that half-confession, able for a moment to see only bright red in front of her eyes.

“Mami, it’s fine.” Her son's voice cut through the instinctive response and he gave her a pointed look and a nod from the other side of Schneider’s chest, like he knew exactly where her mind had gone. His tone was almost bossy -- if she could have felt anything through the panic, it might have been annoyance -- but he was calm and he didn’t look hurt, only worried. “I’m okay, it was nothing. Let’s just get him upstairs.”

They didn’t say it out loud -- not that she could hear much over the ringing in her ears -- but Penelope’s pretty sure neither of them even considered taking Schneider to his own apartment. Still, he was nearly dead weight, and once they had maneuvered him inside their doorway, they only got as far as Mami’s room before they had to set him down on the pull-out couch.

“If you throw up in here…” Penelope started to warn, but Schneider groaned an interruption before she could think of a suitable punishment.

“I’ll buy you a whole new living room set,” he promised, though he still looked a little green for her liking.

She hustled back to her room then, passing Elena who was sitting at the kitchen table, homework abandoned, eyes wide like they used to go when Victor would wake them up as he crashed around the living room after a long night.

“Elena, come help me in the kitchen.” Penelope heard her Mami call for her daughter as she rounded the hallway, and she put a note on her mental list to say a prayer of thanks later that night for the viejita and her quick thinking. There were only so many things she could worry about at once. “Vámonos, mija.”

In her room, she knew exactly where to look -- the third dresser drawer down, where a pair of Schneider's sweats and a soft, grey henley were neatly folded next to her own pajamas. They had gotten mixed in with her laundry one day, months ago now, and she kept meaning to give them back. But she hadn’t -- a curiosity there just wasn’t any time for tonight. Stepping back into the hallway to chuck them in Schneider’s direction, Penelope wondered, in a brief moment of panic as she closed the curtain behind her, if things would ever be the same again.

It's the second time in two years that she's missed the signs completely, and the memories of another soured night in her Mami’s room didn’t do anything to help ease her anxiety. So she tried to do it herself, taking a few deep breaths before stepping through Alex’s open door, where her son sat at the foot of his bed, considering the stain on his shirt with a quiet pensiveness that made her heart ache.

“Papito? Can I come in?”

“Wow, this must be serious,” her boy answered, with a wry smile that didn’t meet his eyes, and Penelope took a split-second to hate that he’d mastered the art of deflection at such a young age. “You never bother to ask.”

“That's right, ‘cause I pay the rent, so technically it’s my room,” she joked back, despite the fresh tears stinging at the back of her throat. “I just want to make sure you’re really okay.”

“I mean, I'm worried about Schneider,” he admitted, sounding every bit the man she wasn’t ready for him to be just yet, and she immediately folded herself next to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

“But I'm fine.” Alex indulged the hug for longer than she expected, and Penelope couldn’t help but press her forehead to his neck, bemoaning the fact that he was already too big for her to cradle properly. “It really was nothing, he just shoved me a little when I went to call you.”

“That’s not exactly nothing.” The room went a little crimson again and suddenly she was back on her feet, hands flexing into fists. “We’re gonna talk more once we get him settled, okay?”

“Okay.” He nodded and she moved to make her way back to the mess waiting for her in the living room, but stopped short, bracing a hand on the doorframe when she heard his voice go small and soft. “But, Mami?”

Alex was looking at the ground, fidgeting his feet when she turned back, and Penelope’s lower lip pressed almost painfully against the top to keep a sob from slipping out. “I know you have to do your thing, or whatever, talk to him, but don’t be too hard on him, okay? He’s not Papi.”

She tried not to gasp aloud, but the question came out breathy all the same. “Baby, what do you mean?”

He sighed. “I know you think I was too little, but I remember how Papi used to get.” Her tears started coming then, there wasn’t any sense in trying to swipe at them before they could fall. “But Schneider, it wasn’t like that. He wasn’t angry, I think he was just scared. And sad. He didn’t mean to--”

“But he did,” she interrupted. “That’s an addict thing. And that’s something that he, and I, are gonna have to deal with.”

Alex nodded, but she could tell there was more on his mind. “He really doesn’t want you to hate him,” he explained, and there were about a hundred threads to pull on in that admission, and the soft, uncertain way he let her in on it. “Just don’t--”

His attempted warning, however, was cut off by the sound of the curtain sliding open from the other room, and they both paused, putting the moment on hold for the time being -- though Penelope still felt the adrenaline bumping her heart at an unnatural rhythm as she turned to face whatever was coming next.

“You did the right thing by calling us,” she assured her son softly, as Elena and Mami made their way out of the kitchen, supplies in hand -- “That's what our family does, right?” -- and the small smile Alex gave in return eased her nerves just enough to carry on.

Schneider sobers up quicker than she expects, given what was left in the bottle she tossed in the laundry room trash can, and after his heartfelt thanks -- and a stuttered apology to Alex that makes her swallow hard -- Penelope clears the rest of the family out of the apartment with almost too much ease. Then, it’s just the two of them.

At first, she’s ready to fight. It’s not a foreign instinct, or even a surprising one. Hypervigilance, Pam sometimes calls it, a product of her PTS -- both from the military and life with an abusive alcoholic. Another look into Schneider’s eyes, though, and as the tears well again in her own, she realizes that this is a different kind of battle.

They’ve all spoken different languages, the men in her life. Max is a healer, like her, Mateo a solver. Victor is a warrior, though and through. Even now, with his manicured beard and fancy second wife, she can still see the fire and fight in her ex’s eyes. He’s a soldier, and their life together was a war. Even when they were both back stateside, she never stopped feeling like she was in the trenches.

Schneider, though, he’s a refuge. He’s the door she knocks on when the family is driving her crazy, or she can’t sleep, or it’s three in the morning and she doesn’t have it in her to go another round with the demons that have their own curtain-enclosed living space in her brain. He’s where she looks when she needs strength that feels like it’ll never come, and when she has questions that feel impossible to answer. And now she needs to be those things for him. She has to. Because he’s hurting. Because Alex asked her to. And because...

Penelope’s not entirely sure where that sentence ends. Or maybe she is. Her world’s been upside down since her mother pulled a near-empty bottle of whiskey out of an obnoxiously personalized yoga mat. She doesn’t feel like she’s taken a real breath since the moment she turned to see Schneider finally coming clean, sure that her broken heart was written all over her face, but unable -- and maybe unwilling -- to hide it.

And tonight, the anger goes out of her almost as quickly, replaced by something darker and gnawing -- something she hasn't had the courage to look too closely at until now.

When she learned of Victor’s relapse, that night in her mother’s bed, she hadn’t wasted any time kicking him out. She needed him gone, as quickly as possible, needed to spare herself and her kids and the fragile idea of a family she was just barely holding together with the strength of her own hands and her Mami’s prayers.

She needed to minimize damage. Call it military instinct. Unbidden, the acronym paints itself in neon on the backs of her eyelids: FUBAR.

But Alex is right, this isn’t the same as it ever was with her ex. She doesn’t want to kick Schneider out, and her gut is telling her that she doesn’t need to. If anything, she's preparing to hold on tighter. She wants to keep him in her sights, feels, in the deepest part of her, a compulsion to keep him safe.

It only gets stronger when he admits to her the actual moment when he gave in and had his first drink in eight years. Penelope can see so clearly in her memory the way Schneider’s face had dropped that day when she told him that he was his father’s son. She remembers how he had looked like a stranger in his suit and slicked-back hair, remembers the way he said her name as she kicked him out of her apartment.

“I had one drink, and I actually managed to stand up to him,” he confesses. Then she remembers something else.

“Family’s everything.” Those words, the way she could see Schneider’s devotion to her and the people she loves through his thick-rimmed glasses and teary eyes, had been one of the most profound moments in her life so far. It had made her feel something she wasn't sure she'd ever be able to access again -- a stutter step in her heart she’d thought was lost to someone younger and more naive -- and the way it's tainted now, with the realization that he was under the influence, burns like a betrayal.

This night, this conversation, his relapse, these things aren’t about her, but it's like they were designed to make her confront the feelings she’s been stuffing down only semi-successfully over the last few months, ever since she split from Max. (Maybe even before then, if she’s honest.) She hasn’t been ready to admit to herself that she feels something when Schneider wraps her up in his arms -- which happens more often than it probably should if they’re sticking to the whole “just friends” mantra. She feels something when their eyes linger on each other across the room. It’s foreign and familiar at the same time, comforting and terrifying in equal measure.

She feels safe with him, even when her anxiety has her pinned to the mat -- even when it screams that that kind of safety, especially when found in another person, could be the most dangerous of all.

And tonight isn’t the first time Penelope has learned that lesson. She's done this before, looking into someone’s eyes and pleading with the only person who can save them. But still, it doesn’t feel the same.

Was it harder then, because she knew how she loved Victor? Or is it harder now, because the way she loves Schneider has become increasingly more complicated?

“You’re never gonna trust me again.”

He says it, and her first thought is relief, so strong she almost sighs it out audibly. For once, she doesn’t have to be the one to speak it out loud. For once, she doesn’t have to dole out threats and warnings like grenades, wincing when she looks back to see if they’ve hit their mark. He put his hands on her son, and he knows as well as she does that she's cut people out of her life for far less.

You’re never gonna trust me again. Her second thought is, that he's wrong. Somehow, he's wrong. She trusts him still -- and maybe she shouldn’t. Maybe it will be a mistake. Schneider the Addict is basically a stranger to her, and she knows enough about dependency to understand how situations like these can go from Jekyll to Hyde in the time it takes to blink.

But he’s standing here in front of her, talking about taking her son to his baseball games like it’s the most precious thing she could possibly take away from him, and the truth of the matter is that Penelope can't imagine a world where she doesn't trust him.

He's family, he has been for so long that she didn't even realize it was happening. They're his and he's theirs, and she didn't need to see his eight-year chip on the wall next to her daughter's report card to know how he belongs.

“You’re the only one who’s ever trusted me, Pen. All that goes away now.” They’re similar words, but they don’t feel the same the second time. There's no relief in his resignation, no solace in the way he looks at her like he's drowning, and she's the only lifeguard left on the beach.

She realizes that she’s been silent for a long time then, longer than she ever imagined herself being in a conversation like this one. Her throat aches with unshed tears and plenty more are falling to brush salt across her pursed lips. But it's time to speak now. It's time to make sure he knows.

“It doesn’t go away,” she tells him, and when her voice goes shaky, it occurs to her how much she truly means it. It’d be like missing a limb, life without Schneider. He fills a missing piece for them, and not a just a crack in the drywall or a spot at the dinner table.

“I’m not giving up on you. None of us are.”

Penelope watches as he turns that over in his brain, watches years of conditioning kick in and try to convince him that it's a lie. She saw his father walk out on him with ease, just weeks ago, knows that Avery did the same not long after. Someone needs to fight for him this time. Her hands are already clenching to fists.

They're seated on the couch now, and it's like the willpower has drained out of him. She knows she needs to move them towards the next step -- needs to get him to a meeting -- and so she plays her trump card.

“You want to be a good role model for the kids, right?”

She tried never to use Elena and Alex as bargaining chips when it came to Victor’s sobriety. It wasn’t fair, she had repeated to herself, and besides, it never had the intended result. A mention of their family was like pouring gasoline on a fire, it only made him rage about ultimatums and equity and the things that were his.

But this too, is different with Schneider. His eyes close, almost peacefully, on a sigh, and something in her chest sparks anew at the fact that, out of everything, this is what will push him to try again. Her kids. Their family. “This is your chance.”

In the last hour alone, she's seen her daughter tell this man that she loves him -- anyone who didn't know Elena well would have thought those words came easy for her -- and watched her Mami hand over sopa de pollo like she knows something Penelope doesn’t. Alex forgave him without a thought, and while she knows there will be more to unpack between them, there isn't a bone in her body that doesn’t believe the two of them will come out the other side even stronger.

But still, all Schneider seems to have are doubts. So she quotes his own words back to himself -- “Don’t quit before the miracle happens” -- and watches him smile for the first time in what feels like far too long. Penelope’s always fancied herself too practical for miracles, but maybe there's a time and place for everything.

This is his time. They can be his place.

“You don’t have to do that alone.”

He finally looks back at her then, and she realizes she's been waiting for it, longing to meet his eyes again and see the spark of the man she knows so well underneath all that hurt and embarrassment.

She's struck suddenly, with the urge to press her lips to his cheek or his forehead, remembers him waxing poetic once about nontraditional kisses. It would be too much tonight, she tells herself, with everything so close to the surface. So she suppresses the urge without looking too closely at where it came from, and settles instead for drawing his head to rest on her shoulder -- a mirror image of the way he’s comforted her so many times before. They exhale a heavy breath at the same time, and for some reason it's then that's she's certain they’re going to be okay.

Later, they'll return to this same spot -- a new chip in his pocket, his first name on the tip of her tongue. He'll apologize again, and she'll shake her head and offer to let him sleep on the couch so he doesn't have to face day two alone. He’ll nod in grateful acceptance and smile in a way that makes her forget her earlier conviction and drop a kiss to his hairline that lingers on her lips as she heads to bed.

Maybe there’s a miracle coming, after all.

#alvareider #alvareider fic #penelope x schneider #penelope alvarez #pat schneider #schneider #odaat fic #odaat #one day at a time #one day at a time fic #penelope alvarez fic

94 notes · View notes

fandammit · 6 years

Text

With sorrows to impart (12/?)

[A/N: I’m sorry this took a while, but in return, I have given you 7K+ words of struggles and snuggles. Strap yourself in y’all -- this chapter is a rollercoaster of emotion. I had so much fun writing it, so let me know what you think! Also, shoutout to @actuallylorelaigilmore for her lovely beta work and cheerleading!)

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7 || Part 8 || Part 9 || Part 10 || Part 11

The door barely has time to click shut before Lawrence shifts in his chair, his expression smoothing out to something almost pleasant. Not friendly, exactly, but that professional kind of niceness a realtor might greet you with -- the kind that smiles because it wants something from you.

“I apologize that you had to witness that, Ms. Alvarez. Now you see why I thought it might be better for you to spend your time in a more pleasant way than what you just had to sit through.”

“No, I'm glad I stayed. It…” She tips her head back and forth, trying to find a way around saying what she's thinking, which is that it gave her a quick and easy way to see what a complete asshole he is and apparently always has been. She gives him a tight lipped smile. “It was enlightening.”

He arches his eyebrow and nods at her.

“So, Ms. Alvarez. Would you like a drink?” He stands up and walks over to a side panel in the unit behind him and opens it up. “I don't keep anything alcoholic in the house when I know my son will be visiting, but I do have plenty of soft drinks and juices at your disposal."

“Uh, just water is fine, thanks.”

“Sparkling ok?”

She nods, watches him take out green bottle and pour it into two separate glasses. He comes over and hands it to her, then stands just off to the side of the desk.

“So, how is it that you know my son?” He asks, looking at her from over his glass.

She takes a small sip of her water, then sets the glass down. She's not sure why he's asking -- it feels like there must be a purpose other than the obvious -- but can't think of any reason not to answer him truthfully.

“I live in the building.”

Lawrence raises his eyebrow slightly before he nods.

“And how long have you known him?”

Again, she's not sure what he's looking for, so she just goes for the truth.

“We moved in about seventeen years ago, but it was mostly my parents living in the apartment while my husband -- ex-husband now -- and I were deployed.”

He purses his lips, and she has the feeling that he's impressed without really wanting to be.

“What branch of the armed forces?”

“Army Staff Sergeant, deployed as a medic.”

“And now that your enlistment is done, you run your own clinic?”

She chuckles.

“It sometimes feels like I am.” She takes another drink of water. “I'm a nurse at a doctor's office and going to school to become an NP.”

He nods.

“That's an admirable career path.”

She gives him another closed-mouth smile.

“I think so, too.”

Lawrence walks back over to the drinks cabinet and opens up a bottle of ginger ale.

“And my son?” He asks, topping off his glass before looking up at her. “Who is he to you?”

He asks in the same easy tone as before, but his stance has changed -- his shoulders squared, his feet firmly planted. Almost like he's ready to go into battle.

Alright then, she thinks. Bring it on.

“Your son is important to me,” she says, meeting his gaze directly, making sure her words are firm and direct. “He's someone I care about deeply.”

It comes out easily, as though this isn’t the first time she’s ever really had to think about or say out loud what Schneider means to her. And why shouldn’t it, though? Both those things are true, and have been for a long time now.

“Hm. And what is it exactly that you see in him?”

It's a strange question and she really doesn't know what he means by it or what he's trying to figure out, so she replies with the most honest answer she can give.

“He’s a good man.”

He arches his brow.

“I see.” He tilts his head at her and studies her expression. He comes back around and sits down at the desk, setting his drink down in front of him. She works on keeping her face as passive and neutral as possible. Whatever it is he's hoping to find, she wants to make it as hard as possible on him.

After a long moment, he nods, tapping his fingers across the top of his desk.

“You know, being a good man has never been the problem for my son. It’s certainly never what I’ve found myself wishing for.”

“So what is?”

He shrugs.

“There are times I would’ve rather had a stronger son. A smarter son.” He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms in front of him. “A sober son.” He makes an acquiescing gesture with his hands. “And yes, he's sober now -- though I always wonder for how long -- but I've had to give up on the other two.”

She shakes her head, not bothering to hide the distaste she feels towards him.

“You're wrong, Lawrence. Schneider is both those things.” She holds up a hand. “Maybe not book smart, but smart enough to keep that building running, to fix anything that breaks himself, to know what it is that people need -- whether that's a new faucet that won't leak or an extra hour every afternoon so they aren't lonely.” She blows out a harsh puff of air, allowing herself to fully sink into the frustration and anger she held back on the entire time he and Schneider were arguing. “He is so much stronger than you give him credit for -- so much stronger than even I ever really gave him credit for. And you know how I know?”

She doesn't expect Lawrence to say anything -- and he doesn't -- just raises an eyebrow.

She gives him hard stare.

“I know because now I've met you and I understand what it was like for him when he was growing up, and despite all that, he still grew up to be kind and caring and so incredibly loving. He was strong enough to not just be a better man than you, which would be easy, but to be a good one.”

He gives her a long, thoughtful stare. He doesn’t even seem offended at her words -- more curious than anything.

“How serious is it between you and my son?”

She doesn’t say anything. Partially because she doesn’t really know what to say -- it’s a question that’s both too soon and too late, really -- but also because even if she did, this man in front of her is the last person she’d talk to it about.

He tilts his head, studying her closely.

“You’re here with him at an emotional and difficult time in his life, which means that you understand the importance of emotional support and that he trusts you to be that support for him. He’s never brought anyone with him back home the few times he has visited, which means that you must be something different to him.”

She nods, but otherwise tries to keep her expression impassive.

“Like I said -- he’s important to me. And not just to me -- to my kids, to my mom. To basically everyone in the entire building.”

He tilts his head at her.

“So you have children.”

She nods.

“I do.”

“And yet you don't approve of the way I chose to protect mine.”

She shakes her head, not even bothering to deny it.

“No, because this wasn't about protection, it was about control.”

Lawrence scoffs.

“And what makes you so sure of this?”

“Because there are a lot of other options you could’ve taken before you went full Bond villain.” She draws herself up in her chair as she leans forward. “If it was really just about protection, you could’ve granted her parenting time when he was a child based on having her take a drug test. You could’ve written sobriety testing and drug interventions into the custody agreement. After he turned 18, you could’ve tied the trust account to her continued sobriety or given her the opportunity to amend the agreement if she ever showed progress in staying sober.”

She shakes her head.

“But you didn’t do any of that. Because it was never about his protection, it was about you getting to control the people around you.”

He presses his mouth into a firm line before he clears his throat.

“From the way you feel at liberty to criticize my own choices, it would seem as though you have some experience with something similar to my own circumstances.” He shakes his head. “But your choices are your own, just as mine are my own. I don’t regret what I did, and I doubt I ever will.”

She huffs angrily and shakes her head.

“Of course you don’t, because damn whatever it did to the people around you as long as you got to do what you wanted.”

Lawrence takes a deep breath, real anger flashing in his eyes for a moment before his face smoothes out to that infuriating stoniness once again. He steeples his hands in front of his face and she has to bite down hard on her lip to not point out the fact that doing so only reinforces what a villain he is.

Briefly she wonders if maybe that's the whole reason he does it.

“Ms. Alvarez,” he begins, his voice frustratingly placating. “Say you have a dog and that dog wants a piece of chocolate cake. But you can’t give that cake to your dog because you know it’ll poison him. You know it may kill him. And while that dog may beg and plead and cry, while he may hate you for not giving him that cake, you know that that dog cannot survive eating it.” He brings his hands down in front of him and leans forward across the table. “So you do what your dog cannot understand -- you take his ability to have the cake away from him. For his own good.”

“Schneider isn’t a dog or a pet or your plaything!” She cries out, feeling like she has never before understood the phrase tearing out my hair like she does at this very moment. “He’s your son, and you had no right to take away his choice to have a relationship with his mother.”

Lawrence shakes his head.

“Surely you’ve noticed by now -- my son hasn’t done so well making his own choices.” He lists each point out with a tap of his finger against his thumb. “No college degree, no career, no real direction in life. Nothing to show, despite a life filled with every opportunity money could buy.”

She stands up in her chair, her palms flat on the desk.

“Maybe none of those things would’ve happened if he knew someone cared about him. If he knew that someone loved him -- that he was someone worth loving!” She knows her voice is rising but she doesn’t care. It’s beyond her to think that someone like this raised Schneider and can’t see what a shitty job he did of it. “Maybe it could’ve been different if he knew that his mother hadn’t just abandoned him for thirty years of his life for no reason, if he knew that his father loved him!”

He scoffs.

“Please, Ms. Alvarez. I’m far too old and you’re far too smart to think that love can solve problems like these.” He taps his fingers across the top of the desk. “His mother was an addict. My son is an addict. Love wasn’t going to solve either of those things.” He shakes his head. “And as far as how I treated him, it wasn't love that he needed but money. It was money that needed to be applied to that issue. Money that kept her from him, money that got him sober, that got him that building, that is responsible for the man he is today.”

She shakes her head angrily, her next words cold and low in her throat.

“Schneider is responsible for the man he is today.” She leans across the desk at him and glares at him. “Not you, not your money. He is the man he is today because he worked for it.”

Lawrence huffs out a harsh laugh.

“Really? Then it would be the first thing he’s ever really worked at.”

That one in particular hurts, in part because there is some version of her that would've once said the same thing. But that was before she took the time to understand how difficult of a journey his sobriety had been, before she knew what kind of man he might have been and actively fought against becoming.

“What do you think my son is going to do with free reign and five million dollars?” He leans back in his chair and shakes his head. “If I were a betting man, I’d say he’s back in rehab by the end of the year.” He tilts his head at her. “And I also bet that you’ll be nowhere to be found at that time. And it’ll be me once again, who’ll pick him back up, to get him better and to get him back on his feet.”

“You’re wrong, Lawrence,” she says, the words jagged and angry. "He's so much stronger and smarter and better than you think he is, and the fact that you never thought that is part of the reason why he’s struggled so much to stay sober. Which means you're part of the reason he struggled so much to stay sober.” She sits back down, her knuckles turning white from the force of her grip on the table. “And you know what? He’s going to be just fine. Because even if -- God forbid -- something does happen, I’m gonna be there for him. I’m gonna be with him and support him no matter what. And my daughter is gonna be there, and my son is gonna be there, and my mother is gonna be there. And he’s gonna be ok. For the rest of his life, he's gonna be ok, he's gonna know that he matters, he’s gonna know that he’s loved, no matter what. You better believe that I'm gonna make damn sure of it.”

Lawrence lets out a bitter laugh.

“If that is true, Ms. Alvarez...” He tips his head to the side as he looks at her with slitted eyes. “Then I have to wonder if you would've been so inclined had he not just inherited five million dollars.”

“Are you kidding me?” And she just barely manages to keep herself from adding an expletive right after the word 'you’. “Not everything is about money, Lawrence! We are not all you!”

“Ms. Alvarez, my son is an absurdly wealthy yet weak-willed man desperate for affection. You're a divorced single mother who is -- I assume -- the sole provider, or close to it, for two children and an aging mother. It isn't difficult to see what's going on here.”

“What's going on here,” she says through gritted teeth, her body nearly vibrating with anger, “is that I care about Schneider and I want to be there for him no matter what. I couldn't care less about how much money he has in his bank account.”

Lawrence barks out a sharp, grating laugh.

That's how I know how calculating you are, Ms. Alvarez.” He shakes his head. “The way you said that was almost enough to make me believe that you aren't a liar.”

“That’s enough, father,” Schneider snarls from the doorway, the words cracking through the air, propelled forward by cold fury.

He advances towards his father with his fists clenched at his side, his eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched so tightly she can see the muscle working in his cheek. For a brief moment, she actually thinks he's going to hit his father.

Maybe Schneider does too, because he stops abruptly at her chair and grips the back of it tightly. She immediately reaches back to rest her hand on his and feels him shaking with rage.

“I don't care what you say to me, but you will not talk to Penelope that way. Understand?”

Lawrence doesn't say anything, just looks curiously at the two of them, like they're a math problem he can't quite figure out.

She feels Schneider getting ready to push off from her chair and -- what? Throw something against the wall? Fist fight his 70 year old father? She's really not sure, and she really doesn't want him to do anything he'll end up regretting, no matter how much she thinks Lawrence has it coming.

So she wraps one hand around his wrist, rests the other heavily on his hand and squeezes.

He takes a deep, shaky breath, and she hears him grinding his teeth together so loudly that she winces at the sound of it.

“Do. You. Understand.” He repeats, the words a grating rasp, ripped out through gritted teeth.

His father levels a long, long look at him, then barely inclines his head.

“Apologies, Ms. Alvarez.”

She doesn't say anything to that -- she'd be pretty ok if she never had to say anything to him for the rest of her life. Instead she nods and picks up her clutch from where she set it down by her feet and stands up. She immediately moves next to Schneider and laces her fingers with his, wraps her other hand firmly around his forearm.

She feels him relax a little at her touch and moves closer to him. She can still feel the waves of rage and emotion radiating out from him, and she wants to make sure she can keep him grounded enough to get out of here as quickly as possible. Of course, she's angry too that Lawrence would assume some kind of manipulative ulterior motive behind her actions, but, at the same time, the notion that she'd ever be interested in anyone -- particularly Schneider -- solely for their money is so absurd it comes back around to honestly being hilarious.

“The paperwork is all signed and I have an appointment with Aunt Emily regarding mom’s will, so we’re leaving.” His voice is pitched low, the words taut with tension. “I’m sure anything else can be handled through our lawyers.”

There's a finality to his words that makes her think that he means them to be about more than just the trust account. She tries to see what Lawrence's reaction is, but Schneider apparently has no similar interests in such a thing. He doesn't wait for his father to say anything, just turns around and heads for the door.

She tilts her head back slightly so she can catch anything he might say -- a plea to wait or an explanation or even a goodbye -- but the last sound she hears from the room is the door thudding shut behind them.

Schneider has about a full foot of height on her, something she's noticed before but never really thought about with too much depth.

She's thinking about it now as they walk down the hall, and she has to break into a half-jog to keep up with his pace. He's taking the longest possible strides as quickly as he can, like he can't get out of the house fast enough.

She doesn't say anything, even though she's pretty sure she's currently developing blisters from the pace. She watches as the tension fades from his shoulders every step away from his father that he takes, sees the way his expression relaxes -- eyes losing their dark ferocity, the line of his mouth softening, the furrow between his brows smoothing out.

Still, she's glad when he stops at the top of the steps and takes a deep breath before closing his eyes and turning his face up towards the sun. She's a little bit out of breath as it is, and there's no way she could've kept up with him going down the steps in heels.

“I've never talked to father like that before,” he says quietly, his eyes still closed. He takes another deep breath before opens his eyes and looks over at her. “But I felt like I needed to say it.”

She nods and leans into him.

“I'm glad you said it to him. He deserved to hear it.” She squeezes his hand. “How do you feel?”

He chews the corner of his lip, then tilts his head and meets her gaze.

“Weird but...good. Lighter, I guess, if that makes sense? Like maybe I should've said a lot of those things to him a long time ago.” He turns around and stares at the house for a long moment. “I don't think…” He clears his throat. “I'm never coming back here again.”

It's a goodbye and a promise wrapped into one, melancholy and satisfaction chasing one another across his features. He turns back around to face her.

“There is one place I wanna go before we leave though.” He gestures to a gravel path just to the left of them. “You wanna walk down to the beach? There's a little walkway down to it -- it's not far.”

“Yeah, definitely.”

The corner of his mouth curves up before he turns and leads them both towards the gravel path.

“My mom would take me down here all the time when I was a kid -- we’d spend hours swimming and playing and building forts.” He gives her a small smile, though it's shaky at the edges. “Even when she stopped coming around, I still loved it. I stayed out here the whole night before I had to leave for America.”

They stop at the top of a flight of narrow stone steps. Schneider squeezes her hand before he lets go and walks down in front of her. She reaches down and takes off her shoes before starting down behind him, holding the handrail as she looks out at the landscape before her.

It’s different than the beaches she’s used to -- miles of open sand with a skyline dotted with palm trees. Here, the stairs wind down into a thinly wooded area with a rocky, log lined beach just on the other side of the treeline. The smells here, too, are different -- earth and pine mixed in with the salt spray of the sea.

Schneider reaches the treeline and looks back up at her, the wind brushing his hair, the edges of his wool coat ruffling out behind him. He’s set against a backdrop of trees, the sun breaking through the clouds in the exact right place to frame where he’s standing. She’s never really considered herself as having much of an eye for photography, but as she stares down at him, hands in the pockets of his long, dark gray coat, his tailored black suit perfectly fit to his frame, she thinks -- goddamn, that’s art.

“Everything ok?” He asks, his blue eyes made brighter by the cool tones of the forest around him.

She smiles.

“Just appreciating the view,” she calls out, and maybe she lets her tone dip into something that might be described as flirtatious.

The uncertain look on his face fades into a grin. “You know, it’s even better up close.”

She lets out a delighted laugh, partially because it’s the kind of cheesy line that would make her laugh, but mostly because it’s the exact kind of cheesy line that Schneider would say and the fact that he’s saying it now means that he’s feeling more like himself. The grin on his face blooms into a full smile, the remaining tension leaking away from his shoulders as he takes a deep breath and leans against the railing. For the first time since they got to the house, he's back to looking like her Schneider.

Whatever it is that means.

He waits for her to come down to where he’s standing before he starts down again. The last step drops off onto the beach and Schneider hops down before reaching up and holding his hand out to her.

“Wait, you should take off your shoes first -- so you don’t get sand in them.”

He nods, toeing them both off and stuffing his socks in them, then leaving them up on the last step. She sets her shoes next to them before she takes his hand and jumps off into the sand, threading her fingers through his the moment that she lands.

“There’s something really relaxing about feeling the sand beneath your feet, you know?”

He smiles down at her and nods. She leans into him as they walk towards the ocean trying to steal some of his warmth as a shiver running up her spine as a gust of wind whips off the ocean.

He glances down at her with a worried look on his face, then tugs her over to row of bleached logs.

“Over here ok? It looks like the one sunny spot on the beach right now.” He frowns as she tries -- and fails -- to suppress a shiver. “Or we can just go back up. I forgot how cold it gets close to to the beach -- I’m sorry, Pen.”

She shakes her head.

“Schneider, it’s fine, I’m just being a wimp.” She bites her lip as an idea pops into her mind, then before she can change her mind she decides to just go with it. “Here, I have an idea -- sit down right there -- .” She points to a sunny patch of beach right next to a large fallen log. “You can lean back against the log and I can lean back against you, and that way we’ll both be warm.”

She’s says it matter of factly, as if there is no other possible way to keep warm on a windswept beach other than the cuddle close to one another (and, really, it is the best way to stay warm and therefore stay down at the beach). Schneider, too, takes it in stride, his eyes only widening momentarily before he nods and drops down to the sand, his coat flaring out beneath him as he settles back against the log.

His legs are splayed out in front of him, knees bent, with his elbows resting on top of his knees.

She smiles before she walks out in front of him and carefully sits down on the ground in between his outstretched legs. She eases herself back until she’s right up against his chest, his arms immediately moving down to wrap around her waist. She sighs and leans back into him, and she rests her arms on top of his as she laces their fingers together.

“Are you warm enough?” He asks, his breath ruffling the hair against her cheek.

She nods even as another shiver lances through her.

“You sure?”

She chuckles before sinking further back into him, his arms tightening around her as she does.

“This is perfect.” She rests her head back against his shoulder. “In fact, you might not be allowed to ever move from this spot again.”

He hugs her close to him, and she can feel him rub his cheek against the top of her head.

“That’d be ok with me.”

They’re quiet for a long moment -- just listening to the crash of the waves against the shore, the gulls crying out in the afternoon sky. Schneider sighs behind her, his whole body shifting with the gesture.

“I’m sorry about father.”

She turns her head so that she can meet his eyes as she shakes her head.

“Don’t be, Schneider. It’s not your fault that he’s the way that he is.”

He looks away from her and lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug.

“I shouldn't have left you with him.” He chews on the corner of his lip before he glances back over at her then away again. “I’m sorry that he said those things about you.”

“Hey.” She reaches up and rests her hand against his cheek, turns his head so he’s facing her again before resting her hand back down on his thigh. “I was fine. And you don’t need to apologize for the things that your father said. I don’t care what he thinks about me or says about me.” She tilts her head, wondering. “How much did you hear?”

He clears his throat.

“You were both pretty loud -- I could hear you two down the hall.” He looks down at her. “I heard him say that he thought you were using me. I heard him say why he thought so.”

“So then you also heard what I had to say about that line of thinking?”

He nods, and suddenly seems bashful and unable to look her in the eye.

“You didn’t have to say those things about me, Pen.”

“Why wouldn’t I? They’re true.” She tips her head down and angles it so she can meet his gaze, but he keeps shifting his eyes so that he looks out towards the ocean instead.

“Father thought that we were together. Not just here together but -- you know -- something more.” He takes a deep breath before he looks at her. “I’m really, really sorry about that, Pen. I’m sorry that he thought that.”

It’s the strangest apology, mostly because she’s not even really sure what it is exactly he’s apologizing for. She studies his face, trying to puzzle it out. He won't meet her eyes, but she can read his expression well enough to see the self-loathing and uncertainty lingering in the downturn of his mouth and in the corner of his eyes.

She narrows her eyes as she realizes what it might mean, and it makes her want sprint back up the stairs and confront his father all over again.

She shifts in his arms so that she can more easily face him and reaches over and lays her hand on his cheek and waits until he finally looks over at her.

“Hey.” She brushes her thumb against his cheekbone. “You know that your father thinking that we’re together isn’t an insult to me.”

He looks away from her again.

“He meant it as one.”

“Well, it’s not. Schneider, hey.” She trails her fingertips across the curve of his cheek, which has the intended result of making him look back over at her. “It’s not an insult. At all.” She shrugs and gives him a small smile “And it’s not even that crazy of an assumption to make -- the two of us being together. I’m here with you, and I’m here because I do think that you’re important and I didn’t want you to go through this alone. So however he meant it, that’s true.”

He stares at her intently, his bright blue eyes suddenly the color of the sea in a storm. The sound of the waves and the wind and the gulls drops out behind them completely as he flicks his gaze momentarily to her lips before he lets out on unsteady breath.

“I feel like I should tell you that I really, really want to kiss you right now.” He swallows, then forces his gaze back up to meet her eyes. “But I don't think it's a good idea.”

She laughs and drops her head forward, shaking it from side to side because this whole situation is absurd and intoxicating and a little bit scary.

She takes a sharp breath in and lifts her head to look at him. Sees the uncertainty and fear and hope warring across his features and decides that he deserves the same kind of honesty and openness he’s offering her -- that he’s always offered to her.

“Well, then I'll say that I really, really would like to be kissed by you --.” His eyes go wide and he starts to lean towards her, and it’s only the loud cry of a gull that jolts her out of the moment enough to hold her hand up towards him. “But I agree that it's not a good idea.”

He takes a deep breath and nods slowly, though he’s still staring at her lips.

“Uh, ok. Just --.” He bites his lip and looks intently at her, and that movement is way more attractive than it has a right to be. “Can you tell me why you think it wouldn’t be a good idea?”

“Because in the past four days, you found out your mom had died, that she was a recovering addict, that your dad had set up a contract forcing her to stay away from you and that because of it, you'd inherited five million dollars.” She tilts her head up at him. “That's a lot of emotional turmoil, Schneider, and I once heard that you shouldn't reply to someone when you're mad, make promises when you're happy and make decisions when you're sad.”

He narrows his eyes at her.

“That sounds like it was something you would’ve posted on your Instagram.”

“It wasn't.” Schneider raises a brow at her. She huffs and presses her lips together firmly to try to keep from smiling. “Ok, it was but it doesn't make it less true.”

“Yeah, no, you’re right, you’re right.” He lets go of one of her hands and runs his fingers through his hair.

“Why did you think it was a bad idea?” She asks, mostly to distract herself from the sudden, ill-timed desire to run her own fingers through his hair.

He bites his lip and shrugs.

“Well, first of all, I didn’t think you would actually want to kiss me back. I kind of thought you’d say ugh or that is my nightmare or have you been bodysnatched while you were in your father’s house, and then of course I’d have to convince you that I hadn’t been bodysnatched by answering a bunch of questions that -- .”

“Schneider.”

“Yeah, yeah, right.” He clears his throat. “So, that was before. But now that I know that you would in fact kiss me back I think it’s probably a bad idea to kiss you because then…” He takes a deep breath and stares at her with some absurdly attractive mix of tenderness and longing. “Well, If I kissed you now, I would never stop kissing you.”

She stares at him for a long, heady moment then scrambles away from him and stands up, her arms outstretched in front of her.

“Yeah, I cannot be in this same --.” She waves vaguely in his general direction. “I can’t be that close to you right now,” she finishes up, shaking her head with her hand out in front of her like she’s trying to ward him off. “That was too good a line.”

“It wasn’t a line, but I agree.” He gets up enough to sit himself down on the log and then scoots over to the far side of it. “I should probably just be over here for -- uh -- a bit.”

“I mean, yeah, right?” She spins her hands in front of her in a circle as she begins speaking. “There’s a lot that’s happened, there’s a lot of changes that have been going on, and this feeling is just so new for the both of us -- what?”

He folds his arms across his chest and shakes his head.

“Nothing, I think you’re totally, absolutely, 100% right, I definitely agree with you on everything you just said.”

“You made a face.”

He squints at her and tilts his head to the side, his arms flung out on either side of him.

“Maybe this is just my face?”

She shakes her head.

“No, I’m pretty familiar with all the Schneider faces.” She walks up closer to him, her eyes narrowed. “You made a face, Schneider -- what was that face?”

He sighs heavily and uncrosses his arms, holding his hands out in front of him plaintively.

“Just, uh - this feeling -.” He motions to the space between them. “It’s not exactly new for me.”

She draws her brows together.

“What do you mean?”

He takes a deep breath and lets it out again slowly, his hands burrowing deep into his pockets.

“Well, uh, you know. It’s kind of like the moon -- sometimes it’s full and out there and it’s all you can think about. Sometimes it’s just a tiny sliver and you can almost forgot it’s even there. And sometimes it can seem like it’s not there at all.” He shrugs. “But even at those times, even when you can’t necessarily see it, you know it hasn’t really gone anywhere. And you know...” He gives her a small half smile. “You know that having it around makes everything in your life better.”

She tilts her head at him and smiles, because even if her emotions are a jumbled, confusing mess right now, she still can’t help but think this whole thing is unbearably adorable.

“We’re still talking about the moon?”

“Yeah, the metaphor kind of fell apart there at the end.” He huffs a laugh, then runs his hand over his beard. “The point is -- wanting to kiss you...it’s not new to me.” He shakes his head and looks at her helplessly. “Sometimes it’s all I can think about.”

She bites her lip and takes a deep breath.

“But you’ve never said anything. Before, you know, all this.” She makes a vague gesture towards his father’s house.

“I mean, you never...did anything or hinted at...something. At least nothing that --.” She stops abruptly, because what she means to say next is ‘nothing that I would take seriously’.

And maybe that’s the problem -- that it never really occurred to her to take him seriously. She takes a deep breath, then walks slowly over to him and wraps his hand in hers.

“How come you never said anything before now?”

He looks down at their clasped hands and hunches his shoulders up towards his ears, his next words so soft that she has to lean in closer to hear them.

“Because you’re the moon, Penelope.” And the way he says it makes her think that her name has never sounded lovelier. He looks up at her, his blue eyes soft and tender. “Beautiful, but always out of reach.”

Holy shit.

She doesn’t mean to say that out loud -- doesn’t even realize she has until Schneider’s eyebrows shoot up and he starts laughing.

She feels her face warming up before she starts laughing too. She tugs him forward and up onto his feet, moving towards him and wrapping her arms around his waist. She buries her face in his chest as his arms settle on her shoulders, his chin resting on top of her head.

“Your talent is wasted on your Instagram captions.”

Schneider chuckles softly.

"I'm just happy that you're finally admitting that you actually like my Instagram captions.”

She moves back from him enough to look up and meet his eyes.

She means to tease him and point out that his Instagram captions don't necessarily seem like the thing he should be happy about at this moment, but then she sees a melancholy kind of uncertainty in his eyes and realizes that she’s avoided answering the question he didn’t even mean to ask.

She steps away from him -- still close enough to see the worry flare up in his eyes, but far enough away where she isn’t distracted by the warmth and closeness of him.

“So you know there are footprints on the moon, right?”

He furrows his brows -- though the uncertainty in his expression lifts, a desperate kind of longing pushing in at the edges of his gaze.

“Yeah, I know.”

“So that means it isn’t out of reach.” She laces their fingers together and smiles at him. “And neither am I.”

Schneider’s eyes go wide as a slow grin starts to crawl across his features.

“So you’re saying I’m an astronaut?”

She laughs and thinks that she really must be in deep because his response makes her want to kiss him instead of want to roll her eyes.

“I’m saying that we have some things we need to figure out.”

“And you want to figure them out with me? Together?”

She nods, the smile on her face so broad and bright that her cheeks hurt. The only reason she doesn’t feel completely ridiculous about it is because Schneider’s is equally -- if not more -- wide and bright.

“Yeah, I do.”

He nods at her, an almost dazed look of happiness on his face.

“You do. You do. Ok, wow. So you -- um -- wow. I mean, what -- uh. How --. Huh. Um.”

He shakes his head and looks so completely and adorably overwhelmed that she laughs out loud and steps forward again to give him a hug.

“I don’t mean that we need to figure it all out -- you know -- right at this moment.” She rests her chin on his chest and looks up at him. “I’m not sure one of us even can figure it out right now.”

He smiles as he brings his arms up around her.

“No, probably not.” He sighs deeply, a brief look of apprehension flashing across his features. “And we don’t really have the time, either -- we’re gonna be late to meet Aunt Emily as it is.”

She blinks rapidly up at him.

“Oh, that's a real thing.” She grins at him when she sees the confused expression on his face. “I kinda thought it was just a thing you made up to give us an excuse to leave.”

He shakes his head.

“No, she really is expecting us.”

She nods, then steps back away from him.

“So, we should get going then?”

“Yeah, we should get going.” Again, that look of apprehension flickers across his features, so heavy and dark that she could get away with calling it dread. Before she can ask about it, he clears his throat and gives her a grin that she can only describe as (and really, thank god for that SAT prep book) -- salacious. “But we could also just stay here a little longer and figure things out.”

She scoffs and steps back from him, mostly because it seems easier to say no to temptation if she’s further away from him.

“Please. You are not that cute.”

He tilts his head at her, his grin softening into something less suggestive and more charming.

“Nah, you think I am.”

She rolls her eyes at that, though she can’t fight the smile on her face as she does.

“Shut up,” she says, reaching out towards him with intention of pushing him away.

He catches her hand in his, his long fingers wrapping around her own. Slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, he brings her hand up and softly kisses her palm.

It makes her literally go weak at the knees.

“So you're sure you don't want me to kiss you?” He asks, his voice soft, rough with emotion -- or maybe, the holding back of it.

It’s almost enough to make her shake her head no -- to make her close the gap between them and press her lips against his.

But then she thinks about that look of apprehension on his face, the dread that flashed across his features, and lays her hand on the side of his face instead.

“It depends. Do you want to kiss me to kiss me, or because you want to avoid thinking about going to see your Aunt Emily?”

He closes his eyes and sighs as he leans his face into her palm.

“Both, I guess?” He sighs again before opening his eyes and giving her a rueful look. “Yeah, ok. I see what you're saying.”

She smiles, soft and warm, and lets her fingertips trace a line down his jawline.

“When you kiss me, I want to kiss you back knowing that I’m not just a way for you to forget that you’re sad or angry or worried.” She brushes her thumb across his cheekbone. “And I think that’s what you want, too.”

He nods, his hand coming up to cover hers as he turns his face to kiss the pulsepoint at her wrist.

“Yeah, you’re right. That is what I want.”

She brings her hand down from his face and laces her fingers through his.

“So we should get going?”

He nods and smiles at her, and even though that same look of apprehension flickers in behind his eyes, she can tell the smile is genuine.

“Yeah, we should get going.”

They walk quietly over to the steps. Before he pulls himself up to the first step, he turns around and looks out across the beach. He lets out a long exhale, and she thinks he looks sadder to leave the beach than he did leaving his father behind.

She squeezes his hand.

“We could always come back.” She smiles up at him. “I mean, not to this beach, but some other one. Or whatever other places you love in Vancouver.” She leans against him, reaches over with her other hand to wrap both their intertwined ones. “It’d be nice to come back with you when it’s not so cold.”

He looks down at her and smiles, wide and bright and incandescently happy.

“Ok.” He says quietly, that one simple word brimming hope and happiness and affection. He lifts her hand to his mouth and presses his lips to the back of it. “We’ll make sure to come back when it’s not so cold.”

#alvareider #penelope x schneider #one day at a time #odaat #my fic: alvareider #fic: with sorrows to impart #ngl i'm pretty sure this is my favorite chapter that i've written

86 notes · View notes