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At some point during the AU, Charles and Arthur go on a lil road trip to make sure Charles's dad hasn't completely disappeared down the bottle. Charles was gonna go just by himself, but y'know. Arthur offered to tag along for support and Charles was like okay, why not.
.
When Charles pulls into his driveway, his dad is already sitting on the porch steps with a mug of something next to him. The whole picture is so familiar to him. The front yard might be overgrown and the house may need a fresh coat of paint, but in his youth, it didn't look much better and Charles still called it home. His father stands up when Charles turns the engine off. Amos Smith has lost weight, but his crooked smile is still the same.
"You good?" Arthur asks from the passenger seat.
Charles just grunts and gets out of the car.
There's a beer bottle full of cigarette butts on the bottom step, and a smattering of butts around it besides. Amos smells like insomnia and Newports, and when Charles glances quickly at the mug, it only looks like coffee. Charles tries to smile, but it doesn't come. "Hey, pops."
Amos puts his hands on Charles's shoulders, and there is a terrible hope in his eyes that Charles cannot bring himself to meet. He's been taller than Amos ever since he was a teenager, but it's like the years have taken even more from his father than Charles could have expected. Not just the man's life, but his body.
"My boy," Amos says, and chuckles slow. "My boy," like he can't quite believe it. And then he pulls Charles in for a hug. Charles hugs back, despite himself.
It's been too long.
"That the white boy been drawing all the pictures for you and whatnot?" Amos asks in his ear.
"Yes," Charles replies. "Don't be weird." He steps back, and in a louder voice, he says, "Arthur! Get over here."
Arthur was leaning against the hood of the car, giving the Smiths their space, but when Charles beckons, he comes.
"Sir," he nods at Amos. "Arthur Morgan."
"Amos Smith." They shake hands. "You keeping my son out of trouble?"
"On the contrary, sir, he keeps me out of trouble."
Amos snorts. He pats Charles's shoulder one more time, then heads back towards the house. "Game's about to start. You like baseball, Arthur?"
"Sure."
"Then I reckon we'll get along just fine."
They follow him up the porch steps, and Arthur gives Charles a silent thumbs-up and a questioning smile. Charles rolls his eyes, but something is lighter in his heart. Maybe this won't be so bad after all.
.
When Charles pulls into his driveway, his dad is already sitting on the porch steps with a mug of something next to him. The whole picture is so familiar to him. The front yard might be overgrown and the house may need a fresh coat of paint, but in his youth, it didn't look much better and Charles still called it home. His father stands up when Charles turns the engine off. Amos Smith has lost weight, but his crooked smile is still the same.
"You good?" Arthur asks from the passenger seat.
Charles just grunts and gets out of the car.
There's a beer bottle full of cigarette butts on the bottom step, and a smattering of butts around it besides. Amos smells like insomnia and Newports, and when Charles glances quickly at the mug, it only looks like coffee. Charles tries to smile, but it doesn't come. "Hey, pops."
Amos puts his hands on Charles's shoulders, and there is a terrible hope in his eyes that Charles cannot bring himself to meet. He's been taller than Amos ever since he was a teenager, but it's like the years have taken even more from his father than Charles could have expected. Not just the man's life, but his body.
"My boy," Amos says, and chuckles slow. "My boy," like he can't quite believe it. And then he pulls Charles in for a hug. Charles hugs back, despite himself.
It's been too long.
"That the white boy been drawing all the pictures for you and whatnot?" Amos asks in his ear.
"Yes," Charles replies. "Don't be weird." He steps back, and in a louder voice, he says, "Arthur! Get over here."
Arthur was leaning against the hood of the car, giving the Smiths their space, but when Charles beckons, he comes.
"Sir," he nods at Amos. "Arthur Morgan."
"Amos Smith." They shake hands. "You keeping my son out of trouble?"
"On the contrary, sir, he keeps me out of trouble."
Amos snorts. He pats Charles's shoulder one more time, then heads back towards the house. "Game's about to start. You like baseball, Arthur?"
"Sure."
"Then I reckon we'll get along just fine."
They follow him up the porch steps, and Arthur gives Charles a silent thumbs-up and a questioning smile. Charles rolls his eyes, but something is lighter in his heart. Maybe this won't be so bad after all.