Author's Note: Wow, first child abuse story in the fandom... What happens when a plot bunny hits you at two in the morning. This is my first Over the Garden Wall fanfiction, so any feedback is appreciated. :)

Thanks!

[Disclaimer: I don't own Over The Garden Wall]

[NOTE 1/1/19]: gOD THIS IS SO OLD ASDKJFHSDF please don't read this

"-And don't forget to make sure Greg goes to bed by 8:30," his stepfather said, standing on the doorway.

Even though Wirt had been told the same spiel five times already, he stayed and listened. "Right," Wirt said firmly. "I can look after Greg, no problem. Everything's under control."

His stepfather only glanced at him with poorly-hidden skepticism. "The last time you said that, both of you ended up in critical condition at the hospital."

Touche. Swallowing, Wirt averted his eyes to his shoes. If Wirt hadn't woken up in time, both he and Greg could have drowned in the lake... and it had all happened on his watch. He should've known that obsessing over Sarah's tape was a bad idea. Some older brother he was.

As if sensing the rising tension, his mother placed a hand on his stepfather's shoulder. "Now, dear, don't be so harsh on the children. After all, Wirt did save Greg." Wirt felt her own eyes appraise him with worry. "You will look after your brother, won't you?"

Wirt nodded. "Definitely."

Looking unimpressed by the declaration, but with no sound counterargument to offer to his own wife, his step-father poked his head back into the house. "Greg, we're leaving."

A pitter-patter of footsteps and a giggle resounded down the stairs before the young boy himself bounced over to his father.

"Okay," Greg chirped. "Have a nice weekend!"

The man's intimidating eyes softened a fraction. "If you need anything, talk to Wirt. And if Wirt's not treating you the way he should-" He threw Wirt a threatening look that shriveled the teen's insides. "Don't be afraid to let us know."

"Don't worry, Dad!" Greg said cheerfully, oblivious to his older step-brother stiffening behind him in discomfort. "Wirt's great at taking care of me. See?" Pulling up his right sleeve, the Greg pointed at the tip of his elbow. "He gave me this band-aid when I tripped over a stick!"

With a chuckle, the man ruffled his son's hair before their mother cut in to fuss over her two boys, straightening out Greg's crumpled clothes (Greg laughed at the ticklish sensation) and smoothing out Wirt's messy hair ("Mom, I'm fine!" he protested, ducking his head). But she looked unconvinced, watching Wirt with still-worried eyes. "Remember, there's leftovers in the fridge. Snacks and juice boxes are in the pantry if you get hungry. If anything important comes up, call us. You know our number."

"Wirt." His stepfather's bulky frame towered over him. "While we're away, you're responsible for what goes on in the house. If anything happens to Greg during that time-" He narrowed his eyes, and Wirt swore that he could FEEL the scorching accusation shoot him through the face. "You'll be held accountable." Without even a farewell, his stepfather whirled around and stalked down the dark driveway, his retreating form reeking deeply of lurking distrust.

"Yeah, goodbye to you too," Wirt muttered under his breath.

His mother gently brushed a stray strand of hair out of his face. "Forgive your father-"

"Step-father."

"Wirt."

"Sorry."

"You know how uptight he gets when it comes to Greg. I'll share another word with him in the car." Noting the doubtful look on Wirt's face, she watched her son with sad eyes. "...He really does care for you deep inside."

A lump stuck in his throat, but Wirt swallowed it down, instead throwing his mother a small smile. "Enjoy your wedding anniversary."

His mom hugged him tight. "I better not get another call from the hospital again." Her voice turned into a shaky whisper. "You had no idea how scared I was when the paramedics found you and your brother by the lake. I thought you drowned-"

"Mom, it's okay. Really."

"Look after yourselves while I'm gone, all right?"

Wirt nodded.

Then with a last smile and a loving caress on the cheek, his mother left, her high heels clacking against the driveway. For a split second, there was only the rumble of an engine and a flash of bright spotlights... then his parents were gone, peeling into the dark street.

Watching the car vanish around the block, Wirt shut the door.

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~oO0Oo~

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Next morning, Wirt stumbled down the stairs and stretched his arms with a yawn for good measure. Shaking off the sleep from his eyes, he headed for the kitchen, heating the ready-made porridge from the fridge in the microwave. Luckily, Wirt didn't have to wait long before light tapping punched the wooden stairs, and an excited Greg popped up, clutching his frog.

"Morning, Wirt!" Greg sang.

When was Greg never enthusiastic?

But his little brother's optimism was contagious, starting off the day on a high note, and Wirt smiled. "Morning, you. Breakfast?"

As if just realizing how famished he was, Greg rubbed his tummy. "Boy, I'm hungry."

Wirt shook his head in amusement before sliding a full bowl towards his brother. At once, Greg pounced on it like a ravenous wolf, seizing his spoon and scooping the bowl with an alarming fervor. In mere seconds, Greg was stuffing his mouth with porridge at a shocking pace, and surprised, Wirt reared back.

"Hey, don't eat too quickly or you'll-"

Greg started choking.

"GREG!"

Wirt stumbled over to his brother's side in panic, but after another gasp, Greg recovered from his bout of coughing as quickly as he'd entered it. Exhaling in relief, Wirt slumped against the counter. "Don't do that! You almost made me worry for no reason," he chided.

"You do worry about a lot of things," Greg pointed out in a chime. "Maybe that's why mom named you Wirt."

"...Huh?'

"You're a Worrywirt," Greg announced matter-of-factly with wide eyes, then poked his older brother playfully on the shoulder. "Boop."

Jason Funderburker gave a loud croak.

"I'm not a worrywart," Wirt defended. "I just want the house to be in perfect condition. You know, before mom returns home-"

"With dad," Greg chimed in.

"...With dad," Wirt added somewhat lamely. He's not my dad. I already have a dad, and he's on the other side of the garden wall.

"Wirt?"

Wirt blinked, snapping out of his rebellious brooding. "Hmm?"

"Why doesn't Jason Funderburker have any porridge for breakfast?"

"Because he's a frog. Frogs eat flies. And insects. Not porridge." Wirt looked at the frog. It gazed back somewhat sadly. "Sorry."

"It's okay, Jason! You can eat some of my porridge," Greg said, pulling the bowl close. "Sharing is caring!"

"No, sharing is not caring," Wirt said firmly, pulling the bowl away from the frog. "You and Jason Funderburker might get sick, and I do NOT wanna drive either of you to the hospital today."

Greg frowned, ruminating over his particular dilemma. "Then... can I feed him frog food?"

Wirt relaxed. "Yeah, sure."

With a whoop, Greg leaped out of his chair, snatching the frog off the counter and over to his tank. Not too far behind, Wirt followed at his brother's heels, reaching up to fumble for the frog food from atop the bookcase. Gripping the canister with the tip of his fingers, he tossed it over to his little brother, who eagerly poured in a generous amount into the tank.

The two boys crouched by the frog tank, watching Jason Funderburker swallow the flies before Wirt found the chance to speak up. "... So."

Fascinated as if he'd never seen such an exquisite creature before, Greg continued staring into the frog tank. "...Yeah?"

Wirt shuffled closer so that Greg could tell it was a serious conversation. "I have to finish a project due Monday."

"A project?" Greg's eyes turned round. Such was his brother - fascinated by the smallest of things. "Woah."

"No, not woah," Wirt corrected. "It's worth a third of my grade."

"That's a lot."

"Yeah, so I'll be holed up in my room the entire weekend. If you need anything, just knock." Wirt ruffled his hair. "Okay?"

"Okay," Greg chirped in agreement. "Then I'm gonna talk to my rocks. They're the best! We're gonna go troll watching today," he said excitedly before lowering his voice in deep contemplation. "Did you know, Wirt? Trolls are real. They live under your bed and steal your socks. And that's a rock fact," Greg added in an afterthought before running up the stairs.

That worked out better than Wirt expected.

With a resigned sigh, Wirt closed the frog tank. "Well, I guess I'd better go work on... stuff. Whoop-de-doo."

Muttering choice phrases from Shakespeare under his breath - because who didn't like cursing in "old dead people language"? - Wirt plucked out a gluegun and popsicle sticks from the cabinet.

Today was gonna suck.

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~oO0Oo~

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"Fifty-two... Fifty-three..."

Wirt squeezed out the hot glue with precision. As if handling fragile glass, he pressed down on a popsicle stick with his fingers. When the stick wobbled, teetering on edge, Wirt held his breath-

It stayed put.

Exhaling in relief, Wirt wiped his brow with his aching arms, then picked up the fifty-fourth popsicle stick.

Drama class was required in highschool. Many students bemoaned drama class, complaining how the class was a stupid waste of time, but Wirt secretly grew to enjoy it. Seriously, where else could someone nerd out over Jonathan Swift's A Modern Proposal and look cool doing so? Exactly. Nowhere. While Wirt didn't care much for the "flair of acting," he loved flipping through the short stories stuck in the thick menace that was the literature textbook. Wirt found value in writing that many of his peers didn't seem to understand: every word built a sentence, every sentence crafted a page, and every page was an art of work - a sweet fruit born from effort and time.

God, he was such a dork. Maybe his step-father was right. At least, about the whole "manly men try out for the Marching Band in the name of SCHOOL PRIDE" stereotype. He seriously needed to get a life. Join the football team. Do something athletic. Then he'd be the new cool kid in town. Jason Funderburker better watch out.

Haha, right.

Back to the drama project. The assignment was the same every year: Create a 3D model of art. The project was supposed to be an inspiring, educational experience for all highschool students, but in reality? Wirt wasn't going to lie. It sucked.

For heaven's sake, why couldn't they do something that was actually normal for once, like writing poetry? Wirt was no Leonardo Da Vinci, much less a craftsman or woodcarver of any type. Even pottery was out of the question. Wirt couldn't mold dirt to resemble anything for his own life.

...Which left Wirt to construct this awful replica of the Eiffel Tower out of popsicle sticks.

Shaking his head, Wirt returned to work, slaving away at the project with the air of someone who wanted to finish a highly unpleasant task. But the as more time passed, Wirt's over-cautious nature kicked in, and Wirt became more determined to make a presentable model.

Completely absorbed by his task, Wirt didn't hear the gentle rap on his door. He glowered at his hand-drawn blueprint, then back at his model. Sure enough, the model was leaning slightly towards the left. Brilliant.

A second knock interrupted his thoughts. Greg's muffled voice filtered into the room.

"Wirt?"

"Yeah?" Wirt said absentmindedly, eyes unwavering from the blueprint.

His little brother opened the door by a tiny crack. "Jason Funderburker's in danger from the trolls."

"Huh."

"The trolls demanded a juice sacrifice, so I went to the kitchen and found some really good apple juice. It tastes really good. Like sugar. But it tastes all funny. A good kind of funny."

"That's nice, Greg," Wirt responded vaguely, lost in thought.

Curious eyes peered at him in the corner of his vision, and Greg waved the full jar around. "Want some?" he asked eagerly.

"I'm good, thanks."

"No problem," Wirt heard Greg chirp before his little brother shut the door again.

Unfazed by the interruption, Wirt cautiously reached for another popsicle stick, re-aligning the new structure to the right. Piece after piece he added with painstaking consideration until the pattern became a monotone.

Stick, glue, paste. Stick, glue, paste...

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~oO0Oo~

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His arms and back ached painfully. Glue coated his hands and hair in a sticky mess. His throat, neglected by lack of water, felt uncomfortably dry.

Yet by the end of it all, a magnificent minuscule replica of the Eiffel Tower sat on his desk.

Wirt's cautious gluing paid off; each side of the tower was smooth with no irregular bulges. The model was perfectly symmetric. Scratch that, it was a fucking masterpiece. Tracing over the smooth edges with a gentle finger, Wirt marveled at each painstaking detail.

He was done. Complete.

Finished.

A silly grin spread across his face. "Yes! Nevermore," he crowed, spinning around in his wheelie-chair in a childish bout of excitement.

No doubt Greg would be thrilled to see this.

Drunk on his triumph, Wirt halted his chair. Right. Greg. Cupping his hands, he called out his brother's name in ill-disguised excitement.

There was a conspicuous lack of the familiar pitter-patter.

When Wirt continued to hear nothing, he rolled his eyes and remained unfazed. His little brother was probably lost in his little world of imagination. It wouldn't the first time, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Hobbling out of his room with cramped joints (Ow, cramp, cramp!), Wirt reached the door on the other side of the hallway.

"Greg, you wanna go grab something to eat?"

No response.

Puzzled, Wirt cracked open the door. "Greg?"

Greg's bedroom was empty.

At this point, Wirt flipped the panic switch. The Search-for-Greg-Mode was an instant go-go.

"Greg? Greg, this isn't funny," Wirt cried, desperately straining to hear a reply, a giggle, or even a tiny footstep - something, anything other than the cold silence that greeted his ears. Completely freaking out, Wirt was almost about to yell for his brother again when a crash echoed from the kitchen. Immediately, Wirt scrambled to his feet and darted to the source of the noise.

In the midst of fallen pots and pans, the clutter of silverware was hard to miss. To Wirt's everlasting relief, he spotted his brother swimming in a frying pan. Dazed, Greg clumsily pushed aside the frying pan and giggled himself silly. He was hugging an intricate glass jar to his chest like some priceless treasure.

Relieved, Wirt bustled. "Greg."

But the relief was short lived.

"Wirt," Greg slurred with a goofy grin, tilting his head in a slightly lopsided angle. "You look funny. Did you always have a funny nose?"

Stumbling on small feet, Greg extended his arms as if trying to pinch Wirt's nose, but underestimated the distance and tripped a second time. With a yelp of shock, Wirt grabbed him this time, scooping him up before Greg could hurt himself.

"Woaah... the floor is s-spinning..."

"Greg, what in the world?" Wirt muttered, absolutely perplexed. In response, his little brother only cracked a silly smile before making another grab for his nose.

"Got your conk," Greg said cheekily before erupting into uncontrollable giggles as if he'd said the funniest joke in the world. When Greg sobered up again, he ogled at Wirt's face. "Your nose," he said, wide-eyed in awe. "It looks like a triangle."

"Yes, my nose looks like a triangle," Wirt agreed vaguely, but inside, his mind raced at a furious tempo. Greg's behavior didn't make any sense. The laughing, maybe, but Greg was giggling himself silly at well, everything.

His stomach squirmed. That didn't sit well with Wirt. Then there was the incoherent slurring, the stumbling around, the suspicious smell of his breath...

Greg couldn't be drunk.

Wirt tried recalling anything alcoholic Greg could have gotten his hands on, but drew a blank. He quickly checked the fridge and - yep, the leftovers were still there. Greg hadn't eaten anything in the past hour. Well, except for the time he popped by to drink the apple juice-

The apple juice.

"Greg, where did you find the apple juice?"

Greg didn't deign a response, instead laying down on his back and opting to look stupidly happy. The empty jar Greg had been hugging caught Wirt's eye, and bending down, Wirt gingerly picked it up, twisting the cap off to take an experimental sniff at its contents. The bitter-sweet smell hit his nose like a freight car, and Wirt recoiled with wide eyes. Cold dread trickled down his spine, and breathing hard, Wirt slammed the jar onto the counter. In one fell swoop, Wirt wrenched open the pantry to scan its contents, desperate to be proven wrong.

His worst suspicions were confirmed.

The pack of juice boxes lay unopened on the middle shelf: a shelf Wirt would've had no problem reaching for, but would've been an impossible feat for someone as short as Greg. Filled with icy trepidation, Wirt peered into the bottom shelf, where his stepfather stored his homemade apple cider.

One bottle was missing.

Cold realization snatched his heart.

"Oh no," he whispered. His eyes darted back to his brother, who had dissolved into another fit of giggling. "This is bad. Really bad."