The Fun Nerd || rottmnt Donnie x Reader

Chapter 23

You could hear it in the other room, oldies playing. The nostalgic waltz of memories you've never had swirling around your skull as the rain poured outside your window.

How long will he be out there? Sitting on the sofa listening, listening to everything, even the muffled creak of floorboards.

Cautiously, you drag yourself from your bed and glance out the doorway. There he sat, hunched over... tired. He's always tired nowadays...

You see your dog, Monty; an old golden Retriever-Pyrenees mix curled up on the floor a distance away, his floppy ears twitch and you drop to the floor, crawling over to pet his soft fur.

His tail wagged, slow and happy to see one of his closest friends coming to join him on the carpet. If he were younger perhaps he'd bounce up to attention and happily tackle the human before him, showering that sweet smiling face in slobbery kisses. However, he was retired from those playful days, preferring to remain put and bask in the joy of a small hand running along his puffy coat, which was beginning to shed as the cold weather was coming to a close.

As you settle on the floor besides Monty, your other furry friend slinks out of your room behind you, a soft purr escaping him as the small feline rubs his head against your knee. Little Frank, the household attention-seeker. With a playful sigh, you pat his head, Frank's ears flatten to accommodate you as he spins in a circle, demanding more attention.

Several minutes of petting and dusting shedding hair from your palms later, Frank decided he was satisfied and curled up into Monty's belly. It brings a smile to your face as Monty gives a big yawn and seems to relax further onto the carpet, his legs stretching out as he prepares to take a nap with his small friend.

That's when you look up again, observing as the hunched figure on the couch sighs and rubs his shoulder, was he having back problems? You thought he said he wasn't working himself to the bone anymore?

Your brows furrow, watching as your father stands up and groans, grabbing a familiar little package from the small table in front of him. Cigarettes. How you hated those things. He's always so focused on them now.

His calloused hands flip the lid open and there's a sudden pause, followed by a quiet curse. You slowly slide back into your room and peek around the corner. If he found out you'd been flushing his cigarettes down the toilet, surely, he'd ground you.

With a displeased huff, you watch as your father slips his coat on and digs through the pockets for his keys, your heart aches as he fiddles with his wedding ring for a moment before starting for the door. Maybe if mum were here, he'd drop the bad habit, maybe.

He gingerly opens the front door and steps outside, his broad shoulders raising in agitation as the downpour of rain cascades upon him. Surely, he'd be soaked by the time he gets back. You felt bad for inconveniencing your father, but part of you felt justified if it meant maybe one day you could get him to stop. Perhaps you could make him some tea as a secret apology for getting soaked in mother-nature's downpour.

With a soft sigh and shake of his head, he shuts and locks the door behind him, leaving the peaceful comfort of the house to chase his growing crutch. You hear the thump of his shoes against the deck as he makes his way to his truck not far from the door.

The sound of a truck door opening and closing, followed by the starting of an engine makes you exhale in disappointment. You had hoped with the rain and late hour he'd forfeit his urges and simply go to bed. Alas, the familiar sound of a vehicle backing up on gravel furthers your disappointment.