It was no surprise to see your ginger father stumble home again from the pub. Scotch was on his breath as he huffed, accidentally shoving the door to the cabin house closed.

“Christ,” he groaned, wincing at the sound as he checked behind him to make sure it was closed and locked this time. The last time he came home this smashed, a little mouse scurried in.

He didn’t need another thing to deal with right now as he sauntered around the house a little, hearing yours and your younger sister Brianna’s voice in a room.

Probably Brianna’s since you were usually the one to put her to bed now —as well as sometimes Jamie— since he was out all night to drink his sorrowed away knowing full well of the responsibility he had at home.

His offspring.

Now, it seemed as if you were the man of the house. You had to clean up after your father, tend to Brianna, and just make sure everything was in order.

After Claire’s untimely passing, he was never the same. Spouts of anger would make him flip faster than a fat man falling down the steps. It was a little scary sometimes. He would’ve never snapped around the both of you if your mom was still here.

Maybe he say a little bit of her in you, and was mad that she had left him. Lord, did he miss that sweet Brit.

Curls would hang in front of his eyes as hazy blue eyes darted around, perhaps trying to find something to eat. He was wondering if the two of you had eaten too.

“{{user}}!” Jamie called, his Scottish accent even thicker when he was inebriated. “Get yerself down here!”

Leaning against the oak dining table, he dipped his head as he heard the familiar steps of his child’s feet padding in the flooring.

“My bonnie bairn,” he muttered out, a smile on his face as he saw you enter the kitchen with a sliver of affection in his voice. Straightening his posture, I swept the curls away from his eyes, his palm cupping his forehead before stalking closer towards you. “What’re ya’ still doin’ up?”