Work Text:
The sound of soft rustling of papers and the scrape of a fountain pen against parchment filled Mel Medarda’s office. The familiar sounds were a nice backdrop to her menial, methodical work. Her desk of polished mahogany was stacked with dossiers, sign offs, and correspondence– all demanding her attention. Across from her was Jayce Talis, lounging in a chair, an air of boyish charm clashing with the atmosphere. He had wandered in unannounced, seeking companionship, as he was wont to do. His large frame was fitted awkwardly on furniture clearly not designed for him.
Jayce was tinkering with her broken stapler, brow furrowed in mock confusion. Mel knew better than to interrupt; Jayce’s hands were restless when idle, and if repairing a stapler she could easily replace would satisfy him, Mel could endure his presence.
She dipped her pen again, her focus unwavering even as Jayce hummed an off-key tune. A soft click, a frustrated sigh, then another click. The stapler was proving to be a worthy opponent to Mr. Talis.
“Your stapler is complicated,” he muttered, half to himself. “Why is it so complicated?”
Mel replied dryly, “Perhaps because it is not meant to be played with like a toy.”
Jayce huffed, clearly not able to come up with a witty retort. For a while, silence reigned, broken only by a squeak of the stapler’s hinge. Mel allowed herself a small smile. Peace, however fleeting and illusionary, was a precious commodity.
Then, there was a subtle shift in the air. Mel could not pinpoint the exact moment Jayce’s demeanor had shifted, but the signs were unmistakable. The tapping of his foot grew erratic, his humming louder and disjointed. When she glanced up from her work, she saw him spinning around in his chair. His face was lit with a grin.
“Jayce,” she warned.
He stopped spinning, but did not settle down. Instead, his gaze darted around, landing on a gilded letter opener. His hands followed, grasping at whatever caught his attention.
“Don’t touch that,” Mel warned.
“But it’s shiny,” he whined. Jayce held a paperweight aloft like it was a prize.
Mel set down her pen and folded her hands neatly on the desk, looking at him with a pointed look. “I’m working, Jayce. Either fix the stapler or sit quietly.”
For a moment, it seemed like Jayce would comply, but then he began pacing, his steps erratic. His attention fluttered from one object to the next like a child exploring a toy store. Mel’s patience was beginning to thin. “Jayce,” she began, but the words died in her throat as he clutched a throw pillow to his chest, flopping onto the chaise lounge in the corner of her office.
“I’m bored,” he declared.
Mel frowned. This was not Jayce, not the one she was accustomed to, at least. This was someone else entirely, someone younger. A part of her had known this side of him existed; he had mentioned in passing this “disorder” of his, a byproduct of stress and overwork. She hadn’t anticipated that it would manifest now, but a Medarda was nothing but prepared. Rising from her chair, Mel moved to a cabinet tucked against the wall. Inside was a small emergency kit she had assembled after Jayce’s confession. She retrieved a bottle of apple juice and a soft, fleece blanket, then returned to Jayce, who was now fiddling with the tassels of her curtains.
“Here,” she said, handing him the juice and draping the blanket over his shoulders.
Jayce blinked up at her. “Juice?”
“Yes. Drink it.”
He took the bottle with both hands, cradling it like it was a treasure. “Thanks, Mel,” he said, his voice softer now. He sipped at the juice while he tugged at the blanket, wrapping it around himself like a cocoon.
Mel returned to her desk, hoping that the gesture would suffice. She resumed her work, confident that nourishment and warmth would settle him. Jayce, of course, had other ideas.
“Mel?” he called out, voice insistent.
She hummed in acknowledgement, not looking up.
“Mel!”
“...What is it, Jayce?”
“Look what I can do!”
She glanced over to see him balancing the juice box on his head, his face flushed with clear pride. The box wobbled dangerously, and before she could say or do anything, it tipped, spilling juice onto the chaise and the floor.
“Jayce!” she exclaimed, rising from her chair.
“Oops.”
Mel pinched the bridge of her nose. “Stay there,” she ordered, fetching a spare cloth to clean the mess.
When she returned, she found Jayce fidgeting, his fingers twisting around the blanket nervously. “Are you mad?” he asked, his voice small.
“No, but you need to sit still,” Mel replied, her tone sharper than she had intended. She wiped up the spill, then handed him back the now-empty bottle.
Jayce took it hesitantly, his bottom lip wobbling. “I’m sorry, Mama.”
The word hung in the air, unexpected. Mel had froze, her mind racing. She looked down at Jayce, whose eyes brimmed with unshed tears, his vulnerability laid bare without a second of hesitatance. Mama. The word stirred something deep within her. Her mother’s face stirred in her memory, stern and unyielding. Mel remembered her harsh lessons, the times she had sought out comfort and was met with indifference.
“You must harden yourself,” her mother had told her once. Mel had been twelve, still soft from adolescence. She had failed to deliver a decisive blow in combat training, hesitating when her opponent had faltered. Her mother’s disappointment was palpable.
“You must be strong or you will be devoured.” At the time, Mel had nodded, swallowing her tears. But those tears had never truly dissipated. They only lingered, hidden beneath the surface. She yearned to meet her mother’s demands, but, deeper down, she had also wished for a gentler hand, a sign that her emotions were not a weakness.
Now, staring at Jayce, she felt the weight of her mother’s legacy bearing down on her. She had been a provider, someone who ensured that needs were met, but was that enough? Could she care for someone if she had remained as emotionally distant as her mother had been? Her mother’s image loomed larger now, a shadow she both loved and feared. If strength alone defined love, why did she still feel the ache of disregard?
Jayce sniffled, pulling the woman from her thoughts. “Did I say something wrong?”
Mel knelt beside him, her usual composure softening. “No, Jayce. You did not.”
“But you’re mad.”
“I am not mad,” she assured him. “I’m just... surprised.”
He studied her, the innocence in his eyes cutting through her defenses. “Do you not like being Mama?”
The question struck her. Did she? She had never considered it; motherhood, or anything resembling it. It had always seemed like a distant, impossible notion. She had always defined herself by strength and independence, by forging her own identity and path away from Noxian expectations.But now, with Jayce looking at her with such trust and vulnerability, she couldn’t ignore it any longer.
“I…” she hesitated, searching for the right words to say. “I’m not used to it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care for you.”
His face brightened slightly, and he reached out, clutching her hand. “Can we play?” he asked with a smile.
Mel blinked, clearly caught off guard with his response. Play? She glanced at the clock in her office, at her desk with an ever-filled mountain of work to do. But the sight of Jayce, of his tentative, yet hopeful, smile, swayed her. Perhaps the work could wait.
“Alright,” she said, rising to her feet. “What shall we play?”
Jayce’s grin widened and he scrambled up to stand, clutching his blanket like a cape. “We can build a fort!” he declared, his earlier sadness already forgotten.
Mel shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips without permission. “A fort, is it? Very well.”
For the next hour, her office transformed into a makeshift fortress of pillows, blankets, and furniture. Jayce was all enthusiasm and smiles, directing her with the authority of a general and the clumsiness of a toddler. His laughter filled the room, a stark contrast to the usual solemnity of her world. And, for once, she allowed herself to step away from her responsibilities and the weight of it all. There was a simple joy in simply being present. Mel found herself smiling, a genuine smile that reached her eyes.
When the fort was complete, they crawled inside, huddling together. Jayce’s head resting on her shoulder, Mel felt a warmth she hadn’t known she’d needed.
“Thank you, Mama,” Jayce whispered, half asleep.
Mel’s chest tightened, but she didn’t correct him. Instead, she pressed a kiss to his forehead. Perhaps motherhood wasn’t something to be feared. Perhaps it was just another way of caring, of loving and giving.
And in that moment, she was more than willing to try.
Mel reached out and ruffled his hair. “You’re very much welcome.”