TRIGGER WARNING: Domestic Abuse, Transphobia. PLEASE READ:

The first scene of this chapter isn't essential to the story, but it builds on character and plays a part in the plot.

If you want to skip it, please go to the scene break symbol (———) which indicates the next scene. I will also put a note beside it to tell you that the scene is, in fact, over.

** I will write a short summary of the scene after the chapter if you do skip it. ** Love you <3

...

Wilford Warfstache had a younger brother.

A brother who kept him company, made him laugh and find light in the world. A brother who grew up with him just to suffer, subjected to abuse the day he left the womb.

    Wilford had a younger brother who got beat for being weak.

    For putting on a girl's dress when he was seven; for wearing Suzy's makeup in fifth grade; for laughing delicately; for crossing his legs at the dinner table. For asking, "what if I was a girl?"

    Wilford had a younger brother who flinched when someone raised their hand for a high-five, while he had grown so used to the hurt that he rose his chin to violence.

    Wilford had a younger brother he should have protected, but they were both too young, too distracted by delinquent schools and ratty motels and drunk screams and bruises.

    Wilford promised he would keep his brother safe. Held him close, like he always did, when their parents were shouting in another room.

    "Wilford," said his younger brother one night, clutching him close. "Can... can you start calling me... Wilma?"

    Wilford, only fourteen, dragged his eyes from the closed door to his younger brother. His eyes were big. Hazel irises that glittered in the moonlight seeping through the broken window. They slept on the bed together, huddled close, just in case one of their parents stormed in.

    Wilford didn't understand the question, at first. He wouldn't for a long time.

    "Wilma?" he echoed, brows furrowed. "That's a silly name."

    His brother pouted, resting his cheek on Wilford's chest.

    "Wilford's a silly name," he countered.

    Wilford smiled and ran a hand down his brother's head, which had just been shaved. His brother wanted it to grow out long—had begged their father not to cut it—but he had no choice. Father held him by the head and buzzed the hair off himself, slapping him when he kept crying.

    "I never liked the name Walter," said his brother, fingers tangling in Wilford's shirt.

    "Okay, then," said Wilford, gently petting Wilma's shaved head. "Why Wilma?"

    Wilma's fingers curled in Wilford's shirt, and his brows furrowed, trouble glittering in those hazel eyes. He glanced up at Wilford, and in the moonlight, he could see the freckles decorating Wilma's face. The freckles that their father labeled 'feminine,' and tried to scrub off Wilma's face when he was just five.

    "Because..." Wilma hesitated a moment, then met Wil's eyes. "Because it sounds like your name." His eyes darted away shyly. "Because—because you're my brother." Wilma buried his face in Wil's chest. "You won't ever leave me, right? Y-you promise. You won't leave me here with Mom and Dad."

    Wilma looked up, and Wilford sat up, meeting his eyes. He ran a hand down the side of his brother's face.

    "Of course, Walt—Wilma," he said, smiling. "I'll never leave you." He sighed and pressed his forehead against Wilma's. "You and I, we're in this together. And we'll get out of it together. I promise."

    Wilma sniffled, and Wilford examined his brother's face.

    "A-and..." said Wilma. "Um." He knotted his fingers in Wil's shirt. "Can you... can you call me a-a girl?"

    Wilford tilted his head, confused. "Huh?"

    "I-I... I don't feel like a boy," said Wilma. "I'm... not a boy."

    Although Wilford didn't understand, he saw the signs. Wilma, who yearned for dolls just as much as cars; who liked playing dress up and putting makeup on the other girls at school. Wilma, who was never allowed to be Wilma—suppressed by their father who cursed any boy who acted like a woman.

    "So..." said Wilford. "You're a girl."

    Wilma swallowed, and she nodded. Panic flitted across her features briefly. "Don't—don't tell Mom and Dad," she said. "Please."

    "Of course," said Wilford, brows furrowed. "You know I won't say anything."

    A silence fell over them, and Wilford ran a hand down Wilma's shaved head again, wondering what it would look like if she really did get to grow out her hair.

    "So..." Warmth fluttered across Wilford's chest, and he smiled. "I guess that makes you... my sister."

    Wilma's eyes lit up, and the happiness brimming inside her filled up so much she started to tear up. A sob left her lips, and tears rolled down her glassy eyes.

    "I-I was so scared to tell you," she cried, hugging Wilford tight. She buried her face in his chest. "I-I thought you'd—you'd tell me I was crazy, o-or—you'd hurt me like D-Dad."

    "Of course not," said Wilford, pulling her in close. He sighed, closing his eyes. "There's no such thing as crazy, Wal—Wilma. We are who we are."

    They lingered there a moment, holding each other close, the faint background of their parents still arguing. Glass shattered, and Wilma flinched, head snapping towards the door.

    Wilford tapped her shoulder and smiled at her. "So," he said, "how'd you find out?"

    "Huh?"

    Wilma's eyes slid away from the door.

    "That you're a girl," said Wilford. "How'd you find out?"

    "Oh, uh..." Wilma blushed, and she sat up, rubbing her arm. "Well, I guess I've... always known." She glanced away. "But—Suzy's mom used to be a boy. Remember, the one girl who did my makeup?"

    Wilford forced a smile at the memory. All he remembered was the beating, Wilma's wailing, and Mom scrubbing her child's face furiously.

    "Yeah," said Wil.

    "Suzy said her mom is," Wilma put a finger to her lips, brows furrowed, "trans... gender?"

    "I've heard of that," said Wil.

    "That's," Wilma nodded, "that's what I am."

    Wilford smiled, and he searched his sister's face, wishing they could have a better life. Wondering how they'd turn out if they did. A life where Wilma could grow freely, express herself the way she wanted. A life where she could decide what to wear, or what to do with her own hair.

    Wilford rolled onto his side and held out an arm for Wilma to hug him.

    "One day," said Wilford, "we're going to leave this place. And you'll get to be Wilma every day."

    Wilma snuggled into bed and hugged Wilford, his arms the only home she ever knew.

    "You said something about your friend," she mumbled. "Arthur... he's going to find a way out, right?"

    "We both are," said Wilford, rubbing her shoulder. "We're going to find a way out, and we'll take you with us."

    "I heard kids at school saying... you were joining a gang."

    Wilford stilled at that, and his eyes glittered with trouble. Wilma couldn't see his expression.

    He simply tightened his arms around her.

    "That's... crazy," he lied. "They use guns and stuff. I don't want to do that."

    Wilford gazed down at his sister, cuddled in his arms. She had fallen asleep, her breaths light. He sucked in a breath and kept still, knowing one small movement would wake her up. That's how they learned to survive, after all. They weren't safe even in their sleep.

    A month later, Wilford went to school and never came back home.

    Leaving Wilma alone, holding broken promises and sobbing skin.

———

(TRIGGERING SCENE OVER; If you skipped it, start reading here!)

———

'Of course... it changes with Wilma.'

    Wilma.

    Changes with Wilma. Wilma. What did Wilma have to do with this?

    The first time Wilford read Celine's message on the phone, he was frozen to his spot. Was so stunned that he couldn't hear what Host or Jim were saying—couldn't see them properly. They had melted into blurs. Faceless. Muffling words, words he couldn't hear.

    Host waved Jim away, and the kid made a confused noise as he sat on the other bed. Wilford felt Host shift closer, until they were side by side.

    A hand on his shoulder.

    "Wil..." Host was saying, trying to get through to him. "Wilford..."

    Wilford sucked in a straggling breath, and he stood up. The room tilted around him, and he stumbled, catching himself.

    "Wil..."

    He tore out of the hotel room and gasped, sucking in the cold air. His hands shook—fingers fumbled for a cigarette. He grabbed one. Dropped it. Bent down. Picked it up, fished out his lighter.

    Wilma.

    'Because you're my brother,' rang her words in his head, all those years ago.

    Just kids. They were just kids.

    He flicked, flicked, flicked the lighter, holding the flame to the cigarette between his teeth. He sucked in fast, coughing up smoke, hoping it would throw all those memories away.

    'Promise me,' rang her words, louder. Crowding his skull. 'Promise me you won't leave me.'

    Wilford's heart ached, his lungs struggling for air, choked up on smoke.

    'I promise,' he'd told her. 'You and I, we're in this together.'

    Wilford ran his hands through his hair and leaned against the wall, screwing his eyes shut.

    It's okay, he told himself. It's okay, just take a deep breath...

    Wilford sucked in a drag, fingers shaking over his cigarette. His brows furrowed in thought, mind racing back and forth.

    How could Celine know about Wilma?

    What changes with Wilma?

    Are they—? But no. They couldn't be.

    Wilford coughed up smoke.

    Are they working together?

    But why... why?

    Wilford sucked in another drag like it was his lifeline, wishing the smoke in his lungs would soothe him. All this time, after all these years...

He thought his sister was dead.

    The night he never returned home, he worried about Wilma. Constantly. Wondered if she waited for him; if she huddled in their room, hugging herself at night when he should have been there to soothe her from their parents' screaming. Wondered if she kept calling herself Walter, just to be safe at home, or if she wore her identity with pride.

    And then, as weeks bled into months, and months bled into years, Wilford eventually stopped thinking about Wilma.

    He'd never heard about her ever again.

    Until now.

    The door creaked open, and Host peered out, eye landing on Wilford's dejected figure. He lingered a moment, studying the mob boss, before walking forward and standing next to him.

    He didn't say anything for a while. Let the silence hang over them, the memories buried under years, until the silence stretched too long, and he broke it.

    "We searched the phone," said Host gently, "for any other mentions of your sister."

    Wilford sucked in a breath, and he plucked the cigarette from his lips, letting it hang at his side. He didn't meet Host's eyes. Felt that shame, from all those years ago, burning back into his skin. Felt that shame for leaving his sister, all alone, when he promised he'd come back for her.

    He had no choice. Had no time to explain, just had to leave or he'd be killed—promised himself that he'd look for Wilma when it was all over, but...

    Wilford closed his eyes and sighed. "Well?" he prompted, bracing for the worst.

    Host shifted forward and held out the phone, which presented a row of messages between Celine and Freddie. Wilford looked down at it with disdain, almost with dismay, and reluctantly took the device.

    He shifted it in his hand and gazed down at it. All the guilt that came washing back carefully subsided, replaced with shock the more he read.

    'Ok, say you put Wilford on blast,' said Freddie's message. 'He's gonna rebel. I've seen it before.'

    'I don't have time to text you, Miss Lounds.'

    'You want me to write for you. Spill. Please? Girl talk.'

    And then his eyes landed on Celine's next reply:

    'Wilma will take care of him.'

    Wilford stilled, and he glanced at Host, searching his face. His friend sent him a solemn look and nodded at the phone.

    "Keep scrolling," he said quietly. "There's more."

    'Take care of him how?' said Freddie's text. 'That's the sister right?'

    Wilford's fingers tightened, and shock stabbed him through the chest. His eyes widened at the next text.

    'Isn't it obvious, Miss Lounds?' said Celine's reply, like she was talking about the weather. 'Honestly, you've worked with these kinds of people before. She's going to kill him.'

    Wilford dropped the phone, and it clattered to the sidewalk, cracking at the edge. Host didn't move, watching his friend carefully.

    He didn't say anything for a while. Mulled over the texts, let them fill his head.

    'She's going to kill him.'

    "I-I..." Wilford swallowed, slumping against the wall. His throat tightened. "I don't believe this."

    Host sighed, and he leaned against the wall, shoulder brushing Wil's. "Jim will publish the article in the morning," he said. "He's writing a few more now, with the photo evidence."

    He searched Wilford's face, which was still blank, eyes shrouded with shock. Host sighed and tugged Wil closer, extending an arm. Numbly, the mafia boss leaned against him, arms hanging limp as Host hugged him. Something they hadn't done in years.

    "You had no choice," said Host, breath in Wilford's hair. He rubbed his back. "If we hadn't followed Anti's orders, he would've killed all three of us. You, me... Wilma."

    Wilford dropped his cigarette and stomped it out.

    "I promised her," he breathed.

    "Some promises just can't be kept," he said. "Especially for people like us." He pulled back and held Wilford at arm's length. "You did something you didn't want to do so Wilma could live. If you tell her what happened, she'll understand."

    "Still, I—" Wilford glanced away, fumbling with words. "I could have looked for her, once we were back on our feet." His breath wavered. "All this time, I could've looked for her."

    "What matters is what we do now," said Host firmly.

    "I-I don't even know what she looks like now," he muttered, voice shaking. "How can I even look for her? What if—what if she's seen me, or, or I talked to her, and I didn't even recognize her—"

    "Wilford," said Host, tapping the side of his face. "We'll work through this. Just like we always have."

    Wilford sucked in a breath, blinking back tears. "I can't believe Celine," he breathed, voice full of emotion. "Everything, everything's gone to shit the moment she set eyes on me and Dark." He ran his hands over his face, and Host took a step back, giving the mafia boss space.

    "It hurts," huffed Wilford, "so much, Host."

    "I know," said Host, rubbing the side of Wil's arm. "That's what she wants. But we won't give her that. We'll keep pushing."

    Wilford nodded, and he sucked in a breath and closed his eyes, calming himself down. He still couldn't believe what he'd read—that his own sister wanted to kill him—but there was still so much he didn't know. What he did to her was wrong. Even though he had no choice but to leave, he could have come back for her. Should have looked for her, took her with them like he promised. But he never did.

    "I guess I'm glad that Dark isn't here, in a way," Wilford tried joking, his smile wavering. "I would hate for him to see me like this."

———

Dark sat in the middle of his room with nowhere else to go.

    He sat on the edge of his bed, staring out at the city beyond the glass walls of his penthouse.

In one hand was his phone, showing his contact list. He had tried to call Wilford, but he realized he didn't have his number. He never needed it.

In his other hand was the phone Celine had given him, replaying a video he dreaded.

He didn't need to look at it this time. It was a black screen, but the voices were clear.

A groan came from the phone speakers, filling the room. And then a voice he recognized all too well; a voice his heart once fluttered for.

"H... hello?" came Mark's voice, weak. A moment of silence, and then his breaths picked up, loud. Clothes shifted. Metal creaked. Chair legs scuffed.

"No... no, this can't be happening."

Dark's chest tightened, and his throat closed up, full of guilt.

"Let me go." Footsteps clicking. "Let me go right now, or I swear—!"

A slap echoed through the phone. Mark's shout.

The first time Dark watched the video, he tried desperately to see anything that would give the location away. But there was nothing—just a black screen. Celine wanted him to hear everything that happened to Mark, while he struggled to grasp where he could possibly be.

Dark closed the video and opened the messaging app, where one single contact lay.

Larose.

He clicked on it and texted her:

'Give me a hint.'

A minute later, she read it, and a minute later, she left him on seen.

Dark, desperate, tried once more:

'Please.'

And even after an hour, he was still left on seen.

Dark dropped the phone and buried his face in his hands, feeling utterly lost, hopeless, and dejected.

What the hell could he do now?

———

A gentle knock came through the hospital room door, and Amy sucked in a breath, the efforts catching in her throat. She wiped her eyes, tears still in her lashes, and croaked out a small, "Come in."

    The door opened, and two men that she didn't recognize—one brawny, one thin, both adorned with the FBI badge—stepped inside. The door clicked shut, and they faced Amy's bed, giving her a few feet of space.

    "Agent Nelson," said the brawny one, his voice low. "We heard what happened."

    Amy sucked in a breath, and she swallowed, pained with the reminder.

    "The Director..." said the thinner one, glancing at the curtain that separated the room. "How's he doing?"

    Amy shook her head. "Not well," she said quietly, glancing between them both. Her eyes lingered on their badges. "Why are you here?"

    "What do you think?" said the brawny man. "The Director's bound all of us together. Someone messes with him, or anyone else in the precinct, they mess with us."

    "It's too late," said Amy with a sigh of defeat.

    "It doesn't have to be," said the man. "Let us help."

    "Help?" echoed Amy, voice quiet. She thought of Abe vaguely, then—how he'd react to these mens' presence. The detective had gone without the precinct's help for years. And now, these two officers—no doubt part of those who made fun of him and doubted him—were offering to help. "How?"

    The thinner man stepped forward. "Everyone's already on board," he said, and he glanced at his friend.

    The brawny man nodded and met Amy's eyes. "We're going to join you on the Warfstache case."

...

...

Here's the summary of the triggering scene for those who skipped it:

Flashback of Wilford and his younger brother, Walter. Wilford is fourteen, Walter is eleven. Their abusive parents are screaming in the next room. They're huddled together in the same bed, and Wilford soothes Walter.

Walter comes out to Wilford as transgender and asks to be called Wilma. Wilford accepts her and makes her a promise. Here's a quote that is important for future scenes:

"You won't ever leave me, right? Y-you promise."

"Of course, Walt—Wilma," he said, smiling. "I'll never leave you." He sighed and pressed his forehead against Wilma's. "You and I, we're in this together. And we'll get out of it together. I promise."

...

What are your thoughts? If you have any critiques, please comment them! Especially for scenes like these, it's important for me that I improve and approach them ethically <3

...

Also a reminder that Wilma's character belongs to Crabymcpinchclaws !! Go check them out here and on Insta and send all the love <3

Thank you for reading, and have a wonderful day/night!

Love, Vic xoxo