It's Definitely Not All Mary Poppins

To Look Past What You See (1)

The house was dark when the group arrived back, the construction crew's tools left cold on the scaffolding. A second dumpster appeared on the graveled driveway, one filled to the point of being mountainous. New additions to the deterioration became prominent. Pots of paint remover decorated the second floor veranda, patches of outside light peeked through the walls, and drafts became prominent. The second floor bedroom windows were now covered with blue tarp, making the rooms sickly-looking and depressed.

The office door stayed firmly shut. It seemed as if Yang knew he was not wanted anymore.

For a moment, Matthew pitied him. He shook it off. The punishment was self-imposed. His employer could come and apologize, grovel at Matthew's feet all he wanted. All he had to do was try.

The sun set, and the nanny did not see him.

A space heater provided better heat to the makeshift kitchen than the radiant heating built into the floor, though he did not know how far along the system was repaired or not. The room was naturally dark, two scattered lamps chasing away shadows with gold.

"Eat," Liza prodded, her legal paperwork scattered over the circular kitchen tabletop. She nudged what remained of the instant stir fry towards him. "You said you would."

"I'm busy," Matt sighed, taking copious notes on electric conversion. Finally, his months of research were finally paying off. All he needed was a welder, electrician, another mechanic –

"I'm not asking you, Matt," she said, pushing the bowl closer to his notes before she placed it firmly over everything he was working on.

"Liza, it can wait."

She met his eyes and glared.

Sighing, Matthew took one spoonful, slipped it between his lips, and raised a brow. "There," he said, spitting flecks of rice across the table. "Ate."

"You really are such a gay ass, aren't you?" she asked, smirking, which wavered a moment later. Matthew's grimace seemed to force the tension between them to strain. She nudged the bowl closer to him. "Please eat."

"Did you just ask?"

"Matt," she said. The look in her eyes suggested there was no room to argue.

Despite the heaviness in his stomach, Matthew picked up another spoonful. He noted the time on his laptop – 11:14 PM – before nodding his head at her. "What are you working on?"

"Legalese," she answered on cue. "Prep work for a case."

He raised a brow. "You're not working on suing Yang, are you?"

Liza met his stare, her lips pursed. She glanced back down. "Just..prep work. Nothing serious." She pointed her pen at him. "But you say the word, and I'm on it."

"At least let me get out of this job, first."

Liza harrumphed. "I hope he doesn't delay anything with your car."

Matthew cocked a brow. "Oh? It's not a 'Nazi deathtrap' anymore?"

"No, it is," she sighed, "but if you're not willing to listen to reason, then it's...just another car, right?"

He hummed a response. Matt took in a another spoonful of stir-fry. Something about her response touched him.

"Mr. Robinson?"

He almost didn't hear it, the sound so quiet that he could've mistaken it for his imagination.

Yet Mr. Yang stood in the entry of the makeshift kitchen, holding a box in his arms. He seemed to never return to his composed appearance – his clothes grew stained with sweat and grease and coffee, crumbled by everyday movement. His hair a disheveled mess. His house slippers were missing, and his feet were bare. His skin was pale, paler than normal, and the rings under his softened brown eyes hung dark.

Both stood, postures tense.

"G-good evening, Ms. Doctorov," he said, voice hoarse and wavering. He took the steps down towards the kitchen table. "I...the Foundation's made some inquiries into the history of the house. I have – " The older man put the box down in an empty chair. He backed away a moment later. "I just – I wanted to bring this to you. Every time I wanted to, you have been gone."

Matthew glanced away. He internally debated whether to switch to FIGHT or FLIGHT. He wanted this to be over.

Mr. Yang folded his hands together behind his back for a moment, and Matthew could not help but compare him to a scolded child. The man tried maintaining eye contact with his nanny, but he consistently could not maintain it for long. "Mr. Robinson, I do not bring malice. I am sorry for what I did."

"Immaculate," Liza said. "I can almost taste the bullshit."

The older man's expression fell further, and Yang's jaw clenched. "Ms. Doctorov – "

"Just go," she said, sitting back down. "Aren't you too busy neglecting children to talk to us?"

He said nothing. Mr. Yang lingered, his lips parted in anticipation, but simply nodded and left.