Chapter Text
You step out of the house and wonder for a second where the hell Dirk got to in the minute or so you let him out of your sight. Then you see him sitting in the dew-damp grass, watching you solemnly.
Even before you realize that he's sitting in the center of a perfectly round ring of white mushrooms, it's pretty damn apparent something's up.
It's kind of weird, too, because you've heard stories about people getting stuck with changelings and not even noticing it for days, weeks, months—but this lil' guy? He looks kind of like Dirk; right size for a two year old, same almost white skin from being inside all winter, towheaded mop of hair that won't lay flat under any circumstances, round babyface that's probably going to end up disappearing in a couple more years and turn him into an adorably awkward coltish kid, same grave expression that says he's storing everything he sees so he can comment on it when he earns the ability to form coherent sentences (on further reflection, Dirk is a really fucking weird toddler), but you're immediately aware that it's not him. It's just not.
"Bro..." The kid holds up his arms, sniffling a little. He looks pretty damn scared—his red eyes are filling with tears that're already on the edge of spilling onto his cheeks. And yeah, you've heard that changelings just look like kids, that all they're going to give you is crocodile tears and feigned affection, but shit.
You step into the circle of mushrooms, crushing a couple under your feet, and lean down tp scoop up the little boy, settling him on your hip and taking a careful look at him. Yeah, the tears seem pretty real. So does the affection, as he loops his arms around your neck and blinks at you.
"Hey there," you say to him, freeing up one hand to carefully wipe the couple of tears that've managed to escape away. "So what's your name?"
He cocks his head, eyes narrowing a little bit in an expression that's a hell of a lot more calculating than anything Dirk would've given you. "...Dirk."
"Nope. Try again, lil' dude; I know what my bro looks like." You're careful to keep your tone calm, a light grin on your face. To a kid, this could be seen as a game. And fae love games; you've got the scars to prove that. If it's a game, all you need to do is play along right, and you can get Dirk back.
You have to get Dirk back.
The changeling on your hip frowns and blinks a few times, obviously trying to figure out how to handle a human who refuses to accept him as its offspring. "Dirk?" he says again. This time he sounds more unsure, though, and his lower lip trembles as you shake your head.
"Nah. C'mon, I know you're not him." And, because there's tears welling up in those ruby eyes (fuck, they're the same color as yours, instead of the honey-amber of your little brother's—was that a calculated move from the fae? Get you to accept him and forget Dirk?) you add, "Hey, I'm not mad. Worried about him, is all. Don't you think your adults would be worried if you up and disappeared?"
The kid stares at you for a second, shakes his head emphatically, and starts crying. You'd say that he bursts into tears, but it's not dramatic enough for that, not really. No hysterical wails, no whooping sobs like the rare tantrums you've handled of Dirk's. This kid just looks at you and his eyes fill to overflowing and he just cries. Other than a couple quiet whimpers and out-of-synch gasps, he doesn't make a sound.
It's hella distressing on your end despite that.
And of course you react pretty much how you would if it really was Dirk in your arms crying. You curse under your breathe and you cuddle him up to your chest, making soothing sounds and smoothing his hair down as he buries his face in your shoulder and clings to your neck so tight he damn near strangles you.
Fuck. He acts like a real kid. Like your kid. You don't know what the fuck you're going to do here.
The changelings mumbles something you can't make out with how muffled his voice is.
"What?" Gentle. Keep your voice gentle. That's actually not as hard as you'd expect it to be in this situation. "Can't hear you with my chest, man. Ears are up here."
"Don' hur' me." He's still kind of muffled because he refuses to let go, but you understand him this time. "Please?"
"Why would I—" You stop.
How do you detect a changeling again?
You hurt them, of course. Draw blood to test it, press cold iron to their skin to see it burn, throw them in a fire and see if their screams shatter glass. These are things every adult who's got a child under their care knows, just like you know not to give your truename to any of the fair folk unless they're offering theirs in return. It's simple shit, shit everybody knows. And you can't imagine doing any of it to the kid who's crying against your chest.
After all, you know what he is already.
"I'm not going to hurt you," you tell him, rubbing his back through his light shirt. "I swear that on the sun and the sky and the moon and my name." You can feel the oath take hold. From the way the kid goes stiff, so can he. "But I gotta get Dirk—the real one—back. He's my bro, man. Can't just leave him."
The changeling whimpers again, his little hands tightening on your shirt. When he looks up to meet your eye again, the expression on his face is a mix of babyish fear and weary resignation. "...down."
"What?"
"Down!" He squirms, and you get what he wants. You set him back on the ground, automatically going to take his hand because that's what you'd do with Dirk. But he grabs onto two of your fingers, holding on tight and trying to pull you along despite the fact he doesn't have nearly enough weight to force you to do anything.
You go along with it anyway. Not like you have a better option.