seventeen ✰ rodrick heffley x reader

✰ chapter five

It's nearly three in the morning when your mom and sister get back. You startle awake at the sound of the front door slamming shut. A light flicks on in the hallway, the brightness breaking through the cracks in your door. You rub your eyes tiredly, propping yourself up on your elbow.

Your sister pushes your door open. She looks like shit, to put it bluntly.

Her eyes are red-rimmed, her face puffy. She brings with her the unmistakable stench of whiskey and cigarettes. She doesn't smoke.

You don't say anything, just fall back onto your bed and eye her from the doorway.

"Hey," she whispers, walking into your room.

"Shut the door." You mumble, face buried in your pillow.

You don't say anything as she crawls into your bed. Frankly, your twin-size mattress is a bit too small to share, but you let her curl around you like the two of you are kids again.

You can't help but miss it. The two of you used to be so close, and whenever you'd have a nightmare, or get scared of the dark, or the thunder outside was too loud, or you just needed a hug, your sister was always there to hold you and tell you everything would be all right.

It's been a while since she's said that to you, in the middle of the night, firm and reassuring like she really means it. Like the words might come true.

You've come to realize words are worth more when they're said at night.

"Where were you guys?" You ask after a while, your voice hardly more than a whisper. You're not sure if you even said it out loud.

Your sister sighs, resting her chin on your shoulder. She's more than a little drunk, and you can tell from the alcohol on her breath. You pretend you don't notice.

"You know I only moved back home for Mom, right?"

You don't say anything. You'd had your suspicions, of course. Jess was in her last semester at NYU, studying law, when Dad had died. She almost didn't walk—she wanted to move home right away. You had to convince her to stay and graduate. Your sister is passionate and loyal to a fault; she'd do anything for the people she loves. Sometimes you can't help but hate her for it. She's made herself a martyr for your mother. She's running herself into the ground.

You grab her hand under the covers as she continues. "She wanted me to come with her to the insurance agency. You know, to figure out all the life insurance stuff. I think she thought my degree would come in handy.

"Everything kinda went to shit, though. You know Dad's motorcycle? I swear he loved that thing more than us sometimes. Anyway, the company says we can't claim his life insurance since his death was caused by a motorcycle accident. They say it wasn't covered in the policy. That it counts as reckless behavior. Dangerous. Whatever the hell that means."

She's so needlessly harsh and cruel when she's drunk. The way she speaks is so calculating, so cold, so detached. It's your father, her father, she's speaking about so carelessly.

It breaks your heart.

"That still doesn't explain why you came home at three in the morning smelling like the floor of a bar."

Sure, maybe that was bitchy, but you can't take it back. Your sister drops your hand.

"People cope in different ways, (Y/N)." She says quietly. "Mom wanted to take her mind off things. I let her."

You turn to face her, suddenly furious. You don't think as the words leave your mouth.

"You're drunk, Jess. It's a fucking Tuesday and you're wasted. Is Mom, too? Did you drive her home? I'm surprised you didn't end up like Dad."