I'm probably not going to do this justice, but what the hell, right? I might as well try it out. :) I'm a sucker for sappy fics. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Characters: Harry, John, OCs. Lots of OCs. Kinks/Pairings: None. Maybe hints of John/Harry? Warnings: Some potentially offensive Italian-American stereotypes? (*Is totally a small-town Canadian-by-way-of-Ireland, and has honestly never even met an Italian, period, let alone anyone of Italian ancestory. But I did a bit of research? Kinda?*) I completely don't mean to offend, and hopefully it isn't too incredibly bad. I apologise in advance if so. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter one
I clutched my little suitcase of odds and ends; a couple pictures of my parents, a few changes of clothes, a few books, a few mementos and things that seemed important at the time, and basically anything that would fit. I'd left most of my other stuff – a bunch of junk that I'd collected over the years - back at the orphanage. The younger kids would probably enjoy it more than I did, and I'd no doubt be back there pretty soon anyway.
My breath was shaky. My mouth felt dry. I wiped my hands on my newest pair of jeans; I was starting to sweat. Great, I thought. That's going to make a good first impression, Harry. You're going to go in there huffing and puffing and soaking wet, with clammy hands, and they're going to be so disgusted that they'll --
My self-deprecating thoughts cut off abruptly as we rounded the corner and the lady who was driving me pointed to the house. It was this compact Victorian-looking thing. It was painted entirely yellow. There was a veranda, with a lady sitting in a rocking chair on it, knitting or something. It had a white picket fence around it. Swear to God.
It was - dare I say it - picturesque. Cute, even. I tried not to gape, I really did, but it was hard.
The lady-driver stopped the car on the side of the street, right in front of the house, and turned to me. She ruffled my hair. “You ready, kiddo?” she asked.
No, I wanted to say. But instead I nodded, took hold of the door handle, licked my lips again, and took a deep breath. I turned back to her.
She smiled at me a little. She was a nice lady. “It'll be fine, Harry.”
I nodded again, building up my courage. C'mon, Harry, don't be a baby, I chided myself. With that thought in mind, I opened the door quickly, before I could think about it.
I stepped out onto the sidewalk, still clutching at my suitcase.
I opened the little white gate.
I stood there for a few moments. I was a little shaky; okay, if we're being honest, I was completely, utterly terrified.
I looked up at the little old lady on the veranda.
She looked up from her knitting at me. A brilliant smile lit up her face, and she yelled something I didn't catch into the house.
“Hi,” I told her. “I'm-”
I didn't get to the next part, as I was abruptly bombarded by half a dozen screaming children running out of the house, slamming the screen door behind them. They circled me, all of them apparently trying to squeeze me to death.
“Uh,” I said intelligently, tangled in a bunch of little arms, my eyes wide.
“You're Harry, right?” one of the older guys – a few years older than me - asked, grabbing at my suitcase.
“Ye-yeah?”
“Come on,” he said. “We've been waiting for you all day.”
“Um, okay?”
He took hold of my arm, his other holding my suitcase, and dragged me up the little walkway. I looked up at the house again. The veranda at the front of the house was filling with people. A lot of them were laughing at the expression on my face. I must've looked positively shocked.
It was all... a little much.
A man came up and nodded at me before taking the suitcase from the guy who had taken it. A woman came with him. She took my face in her hands and – I'm not joking – kissed me on both cheeks.
Hells bells. I thought people only did that in movies.
“Welcome to our home, Harry,” she said. “Sorry about” - she gestured vaguely to all of the people - “It's usually not quite this crazy. They were just so excited to meet you. You're our first foster kid, you know.” She grinned at me.
Fill: Mia Famiglia 1/?
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Characters: Harry, John, OCs. Lots of OCs.
Kinks/Pairings: None. Maybe hints of John/Harry?
Warnings: Some potentially offensive Italian-American stereotypes? (*Is totally a small-town Canadian-by-way-of-Ireland, and has honestly never even met an Italian, period, let alone anyone of Italian ancestory. But I did a bit of research? Kinda?*) I completely don't mean to offend, and hopefully it isn't too incredibly bad. I apologise in advance if so.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I clutched my little suitcase of odds and ends; a couple pictures of my parents, a few changes of clothes, a few books, a few mementos and things that seemed important at the time, and basically anything that would fit. I'd left most of my other stuff – a bunch of junk that I'd collected over the years - back at the orphanage. The younger kids would probably enjoy it more than I did, and I'd no doubt be back there pretty soon anyway.
My breath was shaky. My mouth felt dry. I wiped my hands on my newest pair of jeans; I was starting to sweat. Great, I thought. That's going to make a good first impression, Harry. You're going to go in there huffing and puffing and soaking wet, with clammy hands, and they're going to be so disgusted that they'll --
My self-deprecating thoughts cut off abruptly as we rounded the corner and the lady who was driving me pointed to the house. It was this compact Victorian-looking thing. It was painted entirely yellow. There was a veranda, with a lady sitting in a rocking chair on it, knitting or something. It had a white picket fence around it. Swear to God.
It was - dare I say it - picturesque. Cute, even. I tried not to gape, I really did, but it was hard.
The lady-driver stopped the car on the side of the street, right in front of the house, and turned to me. She ruffled my hair. “You ready, kiddo?” she asked.
No, I wanted to say. But instead I nodded, took hold of the door handle, licked my lips again, and took a deep breath. I turned back to her.
She smiled at me a little. She was a nice lady. “It'll be fine, Harry.”
I nodded again, building up my courage. C'mon, Harry, don't be a baby, I chided myself. With that thought in mind, I opened the door quickly, before I could think about it.
I stepped out onto the sidewalk, still clutching at my suitcase.
I opened the little white gate.
I stood there for a few moments. I was a little shaky; okay, if we're being honest, I was completely, utterly terrified.
I looked up at the little old lady on the veranda.
She looked up from her knitting at me. A brilliant smile lit up her face, and she yelled something I didn't catch into the house.
“Hi,” I told her. “I'm-”
I didn't get to the next part, as I was abruptly bombarded by half a dozen screaming children running out of the house, slamming the screen door behind them. They circled me, all of them apparently trying to squeeze me to death.
“Uh,” I said intelligently, tangled in a bunch of little arms, my eyes wide.
“You're Harry, right?” one of the older guys – a few years older than me - asked, grabbing at my suitcase.
“Ye-yeah?”
“Come on,” he said. “We've been waiting for you all day.”
“Um, okay?”
He took hold of my arm, his other holding my suitcase, and dragged me up the little walkway. I looked up at the house again. The veranda at the front of the house was filling with people. A lot of them were laughing at the expression on my face. I must've looked positively shocked.
It was all... a little much.
A man came up and nodded at me before taking the suitcase from the guy who had taken it. A woman came with him. She took my face in her hands and – I'm not joking – kissed me on both cheeks.
Hells bells. I thought people only did that in movies.
“Welcome to our home, Harry,” she said. “Sorry about” - she gestured vaguely to all of the people - “It's usually not quite this crazy. They were just so excited to meet you. You're our first foster kid, you know.” She grinned at me.
I couldn't help but grin back.
Maybe this place wouldn't be so bad after all.