Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Aww, you poor thing, come to mama!” Anne takes the frog kid in her arms, cradling it with a soft lull. She carries it to the bathroom by the reflex, letting them balance on the corner of the sink as she looks through the drawers to find some napkins. 

Marcy has nothing to do but to follow her. It was easy for Sasha to rush into the bathroom first and come back with a broom and mop, dealing with cleaning their one and only room all alone as if it was some unwritten script to perform. Like if this polycule somehow got the memo with instructions on how to deal with such matters – and Marcy was the only one who’s mail somehow sorted it into a spam folder or something. 

But still, it all came too familiar to her. 

“It’s alright, my little guy, it’s okay,” Anne pats the kid on the head (God, their hair. It’s a mess, so bad, so tangled, should they just cut it?) and she smiles so brightly and gently. Marcy knows that smile. She knows the intended recipient and that makes her horrified. This baby-talk, this smiling and patience is her way to handle a pet, of all things. It was something that Anne would do only to a cat. “Let me help you, okay?”

And now Anne rubs off the rest of the vomit from Quibby’s chin, her other hands softly caressing the kid’s spine in reassurance. 

Marcy leans against the door of their shower as her head starts to spin. This situation struck her really familiar because they were experiencing it for so many years now – with a freaking Domino. The girls loved this cat so much that they decided to bring her to their new home as soon as possible. 

Even when they were short on money, or didn’t have enough time to spend with this poor creature. This ended up badly, Marcy still has so many sorrows and regrets about the situation. They wanted a cat. It wasn’t on their mind that they were not qualified to have one. 

Leaving her alone for a long period of time, not being able to always get a high-quality premium food that Domino was used to back in Boonchuy’s house. God, they couldn’t even visit the vet on schedule because they were busy as hell trying to navigate their newfound adult lives. 

It was a hard decision to send Domino back to Anne’s parents. But, at least, the poor girl died peacefully from an old age surrounded by love and care, not all alone in their shitty little apartment. 

And now Anne found herself a new Domino. 

“You alright, bud?”

Quibby slowly nods, sobbing and wiping the tears from their eyes. Marcy sees the trust in the kid's eyes – even Marcy sees that, and she often tends not to understand emotions that cross other’s faces. 

“They need to eat properly,” Marcy says with a sigh. “Probably some stomach issues caused by the lack of normal nutrition.”

“Woah, Marce. Kind of wisdom from comic-related research?”

“I’ve been a babysitter, Anne,” Marcy looks at her with concern. “And this is a whole living, breathing child.”

Not a toy, Marcy wants to say. Not a pet. 

She stays silent. 

“Huh. You were… When?” she leans against the sink, hand still holding Quibby to protect the kid from the occasional fall (it’s a frog, they wouldn’t even notice, they can jump and all that. Marcy bites her lip). She notices how Quibby leans into that touch, almost as starved for it. 

“Well, not all of us were destined to a child labour in a shape of a family’s restaurant,” she shrugs her shoulders. “I was a teenager and needed money. And kids are kind of easy when you are still stuck in the exact same interest zone as them.”

“Huh. I guess I’ve never thought you’d be the one to do that kind of job.”

Marcy looks back at Quibby as the kid now stares into her soul, trying to figure her out or just evaluate if she’s capable of harm or not. With no deep thought Marcy raises her hand and waves it in a greeting gesture – and after a few seconds of silence, Quibby does the same. 

Well, at least they are on good terms, now. 

“Anne, with no pressure to it,” she tries to say it soft and easy, but it was rather hard. And awkward. “Autism doesn’t make me incapable of handling kids.”

“Shit, Marce, I–…”

Marcy doesn’t bother to focus on Anne’s apologies, all of her attention comes back to the kid that was now grasping her sleeve. They were hiding.

“I’m not mad,” Marcy doesn’t lift her gaze from the frog. Tries to observe reaction – hypothetically this would make their fear go away. Of course she knows that loves Anne no matter what; and such little misunderstandings are nothing at all in the big picture of their life. But Quibby doesn’t know what. And they are probably just afraid of people arguing. 

This semi-dysfunctional polycule of three (always bickering, always fighting over something and never paying attention to it), of all people, in this exact moment were the only people to play the role of capable adult figures to that kid.

“It’s just a little misunderstanding, and I’m sorry, and I–…” she still looks at Quibby. And, thank Frog, the kid's grasp softens a little. “I know we’re not legally married, but, uh…” it was kind of hard to say all these things after a long cascade of years; when everything was spoken out loud a decade ago. “We’re stuck together.”

“Aw, Mar-Mar!” Anne, to her credit, played that little adult role to her fullest. Even tears up, stepping forward to embrace Marcy in a tight hug. “I miss when we were talking like that.”

Something tells her that Anne wasn't a play-pretend. Ouch. 

“Well I’m not!” she spreads her hands wide as Anne almost lifts her up from the floor. “Not every day needs to be a therapy session!”

“Come o-o-on, sweet Marbles!” Anne grins, eyes closed in such a pleasure rush that it’s almost unbelievable to Marcy how this goof is a scientist. “Say it.”

“What?”

“You know what!” and she really lifts her, leaving for Marcy only support in her tights. Both let out a sigh, almost a groan that comes out of breath from the sudden squeeze. “I’m waiting.”

“Put me down!”

“Nope, you’re in an air prison until you die from starvation.”

“Anne, I’m taller than you, this is unacceptable!”

“Say it.”

“Come on, say it, big monster!” Quibby laughs. 

Both look at the kid, whose legs are swinging from the corner of the sink. Marcy and Anne share a glance before Anne’s hold hardens and she breathes in Marcy’s face. 

“You’ve heard the kid. Say it.”

“What am I even supposed to say?”

Anne rolls her eyes. Her legs and arms are shaking from the weight, but she still stands with her back bent more and more back. 

“Repeat after me, then,” finally she puts Marcy down, but still not letting her go. “Anne.”

“Anne.” Marcy echoes. 

“I.”

“I.”

“Love.”

“Love.” she chuckles. 

“You.”

Marcy waits. She looks at her wife, then at the kid sitting behind her. Smiling, kicking their legs, with their clothes torn and dirty. A real

Child. 

“Come on, say it.” a sudden voice comes out behind their shoulders. Sasha, leaning onto the doorframe, grins widely at the sight. 

Marcy huffs. 

“Anne, I love you,” she pokes her wife’s cheek with a thumb. 

Sasha comes closer, hugging her from behind and holding onto her waist – arms circle around while she holds something very familiar to Marcy. Fabric is in front of her eyes, but she can’t help but shift her focus from it to Sasha's breath on her nape. 

“I’ve brought a change of clothes for Quibs. Poor frog is wearing scraps,” her head lies onto Marcy’s shoulder. “Had to sacrifice one of your plushies, my love. It’s nothing, isn’t it? We’re stuu-u-uck together, after all.” she can hear the wicked mimicry in her voice. 

“How long have you been here?” Marcy spits out of breath. 

“From the start!” Quibby, now standing up on the edge of the sink and holding onto Anne’s finger for a balance, smiles with all their teeth. Anne chuckles. 

Marcy is afraid to acknowledge how much affection her wives show towards the kid. 

With a lot of troubles and headaches they’ve finally made their couch more comfortable for a small frog. A lot of blankets, a pillow that was on its own like an entire bed for Quibby, and a small heating pad underneath to keep the kid warm. 

Maybe it was too much. Now all of the blankets they had in their apartment were covering the couch to the point that it was hard to know if there was even a couch underneath it in the first place. 

But the kid looks happy. They’ve run all the way from the bathroom to the living room, slash one and only bedroom (peeking at every corner of their apartment along the way), and try to look into every drawer they have. 

Anne was horrified when Quibs tried to look at the drawer that wasn’t meant for kids in any way. Deep within Marcy hopes that this little situation would help her to understand that the child is more serious labour than a pet. 

“Well, this was… a lot.” Sasha says, voice muffled as she buries her head against Marcy’s neck. They finally got to lay in bed again, even though it was almost morning. The sun rises slowly; room filled with light-blue and pink colours. 

“Come on, we’re doing a good job!” she can hear how tired Anne’s voice is. “First nights are always hard. It will be easier tomorrow.”

It won’t. Marcy is pretty sure that this logic only applies to cats. 

“If we got to wake up by then.” 

“We’ll sort out a schedule.”

“With a child?” Marcy finally speaks up. “It won’t work. It’s a child. We should call Mr. X.”

“We should, yeah…” Sasha repeats lazily, half-asleep. 

“Guy-y-ys.” Anne groans. She immediately stands up, leaving the other two on the bed, and walks toward the Quibby. 

The kid is still asleep, drools over the couch with such a peaceful smile. Anne never got to see such a serene face on Quibby before. She tugs the blanket over them, stays for a bit to see how they settle more comfortably, still asleep, still smiling – and then Anne turns back to her girls with a concerned look. 

“Aren’t we supposed to be more than fit for this job? Who else can help this little frog if it’s not us?”

Something changes in how Sasha shifts a bit, head moving on top of Marcy’s neck. Her hug relaxes a bit, softens as she looks with a spare eye at the sleeping child. She’ll understand, Anne knows that – serious-and-fearsome-Waybright always had a soft spot for kids. Especially troubled ones. 

And, after all, Sasha was a good human being despite everything. She cannot just kick the child out on the streets. 

“Oh, fu-u-uh you. ‘lright. We’re keeping it,” she moves to her back,  little moan escapes in defeat. “Marcy?”

Marcy is silent. She’s nervous, scared a bit – leg taps on the bedsheet just by the pure reflex, and head turns away to Sasha with no intent to even look Anne in the eyes. 

“Marce?” Anne repeats the question. 

“…Let’s talk tomorrow.”