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perpetual_motionTitle: A Boy from Nowhere (5/?)
Author: Perpetual Motion
Fandom: Green Lantern Corps [DC Comics]
Pairing: Guy/Kyle
Rating: PG-13 (Language)
Summary: Guy, his mother, and history.
Warnings: There's talk of some post-abuse injuries, and there's some references to how the abuse played out. Nothing super-graphic, but I like to be safe.
Dis: Lies and bullshit, as always.
Author's Notes: I meant for "Boy from Nowhere" to be a single, 1500 word story, but it grew, so I let it, and it fits in with other prompts for my![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
dcu_freeforall table, so it's grown. The prompt for this bit is "battering ram." And a quick bit of love to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lasergirl, who reassured me it was a good piece.
Previous Parts: Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four
A Boy from Nowhere (5/?)
By Perpetual Motion
When he wakes up again, his mom is sitting in the chair by the bed. She's reading a book, something with bright-colored letters on the front. Guy squints, trying to read it, and it makes his head hurt. He hisses, and his mom looks up. She smiles and stands, walks over and smoothes his hair from his forehead.
"How do you feel?" she whispers, and she puts a pencil in his hand and a pad of paper on his bed table.
Head hurts.
"It's because of the injury," she says, still whispering. She presses the back of her hand to his cheek. Her fingers are cool, and Guy leans towards them. "Oh, honey," she murmurs, and then she's looking away, but Guy knows what it sounds like when she pretends not to cry.
I'm okay.
He pokes her arm to make her look, and when she does, she cries outright, sagging against the bed. She murmurs words Guy can't quite make out, and he tries to write something else, but his fingers are shaking, and the pencil falls from his fingers.
"I've got it," his mother says, and she kneels down, grabs the pencil, puts it back in his hand. "It's okay, honey. It's going to be okay."
She doesn't sound any more convinced than any other time she's said it, any other time she's pulled Guy up from the floor and bandaged his cuts, dabbed the blood from his lip with a wet washcloth, helped him keep his feet from tripping him up as she's pulled him towards his bedroom. Guy sees red suddenly, anger flaring through him like its replaced the blood in his veins.
Could have left.
He regrets it as soon as she sees it, her face blanching. "I wish I could have," she whispers, and she backs away from the bed. "I wish…"
I'm sorry.
She shakes her head. "No, honey. Don't ever be sorry. It's not you, and it's not anything you did. I wish…" She shakes her head and touches his arm, squeezes just below the elbow. Guy sees the bruises on her arm, just above her elbow, where his dad must have grabbed her and thrown her across the room.
What happened?
"You need to rest," she tells him. "We don't have to talk about that now."
Guy pokes at the question with his pencil. "Please," he manages through his wired jaw. It hurts, but not as much as the last time he tried to talk. "What happened?"
She deflates, draping across the bed rail in a sudden looseness that makes Guy think he's made her faint from exhaustion. "All right," she says before Guy can find the button for the nurse. "Okay."
"Don't have to," Guy gets out.
She looks at him, holds his face between her palms so softly that Guy can barely feel it. "Oh, Guy." She kisses the top of his head and pulls the chair next to the bed, holds his hand. "A man showed up when you were at football practice. He said he was from social services. He said he'd gotten a call, and when he'd looked up your name, he saw that other people had called, so he came to the house to talk with us."
Guy closes his eyes and tries to remember. He can see practice, can hear Coach telling him he's benched. Can practically feel Kyle staring down at him from the stands. He can't remember Coach calling social services. He can't remember getting home. The last thing in his memory is Kyle coming down the bleachers, sketchpad under one arm.
"You came home," his mother continues, and her voice wavers. "You walked in the door, and you stopped when you saw your father at the table with that man. You just…stopped." She looks away and wipes her eyes. "You answered the social worker's questions, and he left."
The silence slides forward, and Guy doesn't know how to break it. If it were his dad, he thinks, he'd smart off and take the hit. But getting punched or kicked or thrown into a wall isn't the same as this. Isn't the same as finding a way to ask his mother exactly how many times he was hit. They don't talk about it. They've never talked about it. They've taken their individual bruises and gone to their individual rooms and met in the kitchen for meals.
Anger spikes down low in Guy's belly. He curls his hand into a fist, pulls it out of his mother's grasp. He tries to speak, but there's pain radiating in his jaw, in his head, down his whole body. He can feel every bruise he got in the fight, he thinks. Can trace his father's path from long experience. The back first, to knock him down, the heel of his foot to a hip, the one-handed grab of his shirt, dragging him to his feet, throwing him against a wall. The crowding into his face, and the punch to the shoulder, the knee to the thigh.
"You should have left," he grits out in his full voice. The screaming pain through his jaw is worth it. He fumbles, finds the button for the pain killers, and clicks it until it beeps at him to tell him no more. "You should have just left." He turns away as his mother starts sobbing outright. She reaches for him again, and he flinches away.
"Honey," she murmurs. "Guy. Sweetheart."
Go to hell, he thinks but can't say. Go away like you always did.
"Where would I have gone?" she asks. "If we'd gone to Mace, he'd have just followed, and I had no money of my own. Your father's had me sign over my paycheck to him for twenty-five years. It was…It made sense at the time. I couldn't…" She hiccups and goes silent for a long, heavy moment. "I thought he was going to kill you," she whispers. "I called Mace because I thought your father was going to beat you to death."
Guy squeezes his eyes shut. He will not cry. When his mother reaches for his hand, he uncurls his fist. When she touches his hair, he does not flinch. What about you? he wants to ask. Why didn't you leave before? But the way she holds his hand tells him why. The way she smoothes the blanket on him and offers to get him some juice. Because she couldn't be certain he would be safe, he knows. She stayed because sometimes she could draw him away, time her interference like Guy timed his comments, distract his father from hitting him one more time by making him angry in another way. Making him turn away.
She never went away, he thinks. She hid away so he wouldn't see and blame himself. So he wouldn't chalk up her bruises to one more bad thing that was his fault. Guy turns his head and watches her stroke his hand. "Mom," he says, and the drugs are settling in so it doesn't hurt to say it. "I'm glad you called Mace."
"Thank you," she whispers, and new tears slide down her face.
"Mom."
She presses a hand to his shoulder. "You need to rest. We shouldn't have—"
"I'm gay."
Her hand stays pressed to her shoulder. Her eyes soften. "I thought maybe," she tells him. "Your father might have been kinder if you'd brought home a girl once in a while, so I thought…maybe."
"Does he—"
"He suspected you were. That's all he ever needed, the suspicion." She takes her hand off his shoulder, straightens the neckline of his hospital gown. "And even if he hadn't, he'd have found another reason to do what he did."
It's reassuring in a way that makes Guy's stomach twist. A consummate bastard, his dad. An all-around hateful, bitter man. "I met…" Guy trails off as the drugs hit in a wave. He closes his eyes to blink and discovers he can't open them again.
"Tell me later," his mother's voice instructs. "After you nap."
"Yeah…" Guy replies. "Okay."
Author: Perpetual Motion
Fandom: Green Lantern Corps [DC Comics]
Pairing: Guy/Kyle
Rating: PG-13 (Language)
Summary: Guy, his mother, and history.
Warnings: There's talk of some post-abuse injuries, and there's some references to how the abuse played out. Nothing super-graphic, but I like to be safe.
Dis: Lies and bullshit, as always.
Author's Notes: I meant for "Boy from Nowhere" to be a single, 1500 word story, but it grew, so I let it, and it fits in with other prompts for my
dcu_freeforall table, so it's grown. The prompt for this bit is "battering ram." And a quick bit of love to lasergirl, who reassured me it was a good piece.Previous Parts: Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four
A Boy from Nowhere (5/?)
By Perpetual Motion
When he wakes up again, his mom is sitting in the chair by the bed. She's reading a book, something with bright-colored letters on the front. Guy squints, trying to read it, and it makes his head hurt. He hisses, and his mom looks up. She smiles and stands, walks over and smoothes his hair from his forehead.
"How do you feel?" she whispers, and she puts a pencil in his hand and a pad of paper on his bed table.
Head hurts.
"It's because of the injury," she says, still whispering. She presses the back of her hand to his cheek. Her fingers are cool, and Guy leans towards them. "Oh, honey," she murmurs, and then she's looking away, but Guy knows what it sounds like when she pretends not to cry.
I'm okay.
He pokes her arm to make her look, and when she does, she cries outright, sagging against the bed. She murmurs words Guy can't quite make out, and he tries to write something else, but his fingers are shaking, and the pencil falls from his fingers.
"I've got it," his mother says, and she kneels down, grabs the pencil, puts it back in his hand. "It's okay, honey. It's going to be okay."
She doesn't sound any more convinced than any other time she's said it, any other time she's pulled Guy up from the floor and bandaged his cuts, dabbed the blood from his lip with a wet washcloth, helped him keep his feet from tripping him up as she's pulled him towards his bedroom. Guy sees red suddenly, anger flaring through him like its replaced the blood in his veins.
Could have left.
He regrets it as soon as she sees it, her face blanching. "I wish I could have," she whispers, and she backs away from the bed. "I wish…"
I'm sorry.
She shakes her head. "No, honey. Don't ever be sorry. It's not you, and it's not anything you did. I wish…" She shakes her head and touches his arm, squeezes just below the elbow. Guy sees the bruises on her arm, just above her elbow, where his dad must have grabbed her and thrown her across the room.
What happened?
"You need to rest," she tells him. "We don't have to talk about that now."
Guy pokes at the question with his pencil. "Please," he manages through his wired jaw. It hurts, but not as much as the last time he tried to talk. "What happened?"
She deflates, draping across the bed rail in a sudden looseness that makes Guy think he's made her faint from exhaustion. "All right," she says before Guy can find the button for the nurse. "Okay."
"Don't have to," Guy gets out.
She looks at him, holds his face between her palms so softly that Guy can barely feel it. "Oh, Guy." She kisses the top of his head and pulls the chair next to the bed, holds his hand. "A man showed up when you were at football practice. He said he was from social services. He said he'd gotten a call, and when he'd looked up your name, he saw that other people had called, so he came to the house to talk with us."
Guy closes his eyes and tries to remember. He can see practice, can hear Coach telling him he's benched. Can practically feel Kyle staring down at him from the stands. He can't remember Coach calling social services. He can't remember getting home. The last thing in his memory is Kyle coming down the bleachers, sketchpad under one arm.
"You came home," his mother continues, and her voice wavers. "You walked in the door, and you stopped when you saw your father at the table with that man. You just…stopped." She looks away and wipes her eyes. "You answered the social worker's questions, and he left."
The silence slides forward, and Guy doesn't know how to break it. If it were his dad, he thinks, he'd smart off and take the hit. But getting punched or kicked or thrown into a wall isn't the same as this. Isn't the same as finding a way to ask his mother exactly how many times he was hit. They don't talk about it. They've never talked about it. They've taken their individual bruises and gone to their individual rooms and met in the kitchen for meals.
Anger spikes down low in Guy's belly. He curls his hand into a fist, pulls it out of his mother's grasp. He tries to speak, but there's pain radiating in his jaw, in his head, down his whole body. He can feel every bruise he got in the fight, he thinks. Can trace his father's path from long experience. The back first, to knock him down, the heel of his foot to a hip, the one-handed grab of his shirt, dragging him to his feet, throwing him against a wall. The crowding into his face, and the punch to the shoulder, the knee to the thigh.
"You should have left," he grits out in his full voice. The screaming pain through his jaw is worth it. He fumbles, finds the button for the pain killers, and clicks it until it beeps at him to tell him no more. "You should have just left." He turns away as his mother starts sobbing outright. She reaches for him again, and he flinches away.
"Honey," she murmurs. "Guy. Sweetheart."
Go to hell, he thinks but can't say. Go away like you always did.
"Where would I have gone?" she asks. "If we'd gone to Mace, he'd have just followed, and I had no money of my own. Your father's had me sign over my paycheck to him for twenty-five years. It was…It made sense at the time. I couldn't…" She hiccups and goes silent for a long, heavy moment. "I thought he was going to kill you," she whispers. "I called Mace because I thought your father was going to beat you to death."
Guy squeezes his eyes shut. He will not cry. When his mother reaches for his hand, he uncurls his fist. When she touches his hair, he does not flinch. What about you? he wants to ask. Why didn't you leave before? But the way she holds his hand tells him why. The way she smoothes the blanket on him and offers to get him some juice. Because she couldn't be certain he would be safe, he knows. She stayed because sometimes she could draw him away, time her interference like Guy timed his comments, distract his father from hitting him one more time by making him angry in another way. Making him turn away.
She never went away, he thinks. She hid away so he wouldn't see and blame himself. So he wouldn't chalk up her bruises to one more bad thing that was his fault. Guy turns his head and watches her stroke his hand. "Mom," he says, and the drugs are settling in so it doesn't hurt to say it. "I'm glad you called Mace."
"Thank you," she whispers, and new tears slide down her face.
"Mom."
She presses a hand to his shoulder. "You need to rest. We shouldn't have—"
"I'm gay."
Her hand stays pressed to her shoulder. Her eyes soften. "I thought maybe," she tells him. "Your father might have been kinder if you'd brought home a girl once in a while, so I thought…maybe."
"Does he—"
"He suspected you were. That's all he ever needed, the suspicion." She takes her hand off his shoulder, straightens the neckline of his hospital gown. "And even if he hadn't, he'd have found another reason to do what he did."
It's reassuring in a way that makes Guy's stomach twist. A consummate bastard, his dad. An all-around hateful, bitter man. "I met…" Guy trails off as the drugs hit in a wave. He closes his eyes to blink and discovers he can't open them again.
"Tell me later," his mother's voice instructs. "After you nap."
"Yeah…" Guy replies. "Okay."
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on 2010-05-13 10:26 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Posted byno subject
on 2010-05-13 11:45 pm (UTC)Very natural reactions.
I'm going to go away and do something fluffy now. *shuffles off, wipes face*
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Posted byno subject
on 2010-05-13 11:45 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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on 2010-05-14 01:45 am (UTC)(no subject)
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on 2010-05-14 04:05 am (UTC)(no subject)
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on 2010-05-14 06:35 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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on 2010-05-20 08:52 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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