#kicked dog jean moreau telling kevin to get the hell away from the dog kicker? packing his bag? putting his shoes on?

[stabbyfoxandrew]

kevjean and 14 would kill me i think

14. A kiss to the stomach

Riko smashed Kevin’s hand yesterday. Since it happened, Kevin has not said a word to anyone. He has done nothing but stare at his hand. The bones had come out of it. And he hadn’t had the stomach to push them back in. They’re hiding because bandages now and his hand is completely numb. Like it was never there. 

He’ll never play again. He’ll never play again. He can’t even write his name. He will never play again. Ever. 

For the first time since his mother died he is missing practice. It would do him no good to go. Because his hand is destroyed. He’ll. Never. Play. Again. 

He is useless. 

Useless things do not last long here in the nest. Kevin knows that. He’s seen what happens to useless things. He never expected to become one. His eyes flick to the clock on the nightstand and he’s got about thirty minutes before practice ends. Everyone else thinks he’s sick.

Kevin too sick to play? That’s never happened before. Surely they must know it’s a lie. But even if they figure it out, what could they do? What could they say?

The doorknob starts to turn and Kevin’s nauseous. No. No, he’s got time to get himself together before Riko comes back—

It’s not Riko. 

It’s Jean.

He sucks in a harsh breath when he sees Kevin. “I knew it. I knew you weren’t sick.”

Kevin merely blinks at him. He has no words.

“What has he done?”

“I’ll never play again,” Kevin says, his voice monotone and lifeless and dead. Like he will be soon.

Jean’s eyes leave Kevin’s hand to search his face. “The doctor said that?”

“I haven’t been to one.”

“What?”

“Riko wouldn’t let me go.” Kevin swallows thickly. “He gave me an ace bandage and a bottle of Ibuprofen. Told me to deal with it.”

“You have to go.”

“I can’t.”

“You must.” Jean kneels in front of Kevin. “It can heal if you—”

“He said no.”

“Then you have to leave here. Get away from him.” Jean says, as if that’s a possibility. Kevin scoffs. 

“And go where? Straight to the morgue?” Kevin asks. “It’s a little early for that.”

“To your father.” Jean says and it’s clear from his expression he isn’t joking.

“How the hell could I possibly get to South Carolina—”

“The southern banquet is tonight, it’s only a couple hours away in Virginia,” Jean supplies. “You get there. You tell Coach Wymack you need help. He will help you.”

“I can’t—”

“You don’t have to tell him everything. Just that you need help,” Jean says, standing up to grab Kevin’s school bag. He empties it onto the floor before cramming in some clothes from the dresser on Kevin’s side of the room. Kevin can only watch and try not to throw up. Jean can’t be serious. “You’ve got one of the team's credit cards, correct?”

“Um. Yes?” It’s in his wallet. And it’s only for emergencies. 

“Use it at an ATM to take out a few hundred, buy a bus ticket that will take you to VU, find your father.”

“I can’t—” Kevin repeats and Jean kneels in front of him again.

“If you want to live you will.” He says, then he grabs one of Kevin’s shoes and stuffs it onto his right foot. Then the other on the left. He sits back on his heels for a moment then puts his arms around Kevin, places a kiss against his clothed stomach. Then he rises, pulls Kevin to his feet, and sets his backpack on one shoulder. “Everyone is at practice now. No one will know you’re gone until it’s too late.”

“Jean—”

“Goddamn it, Kevin, go.”

“I want you to come with me.”

Jean freezes at that. Blinks several times. “And you know I want to go. But both of us, it’s impossible.”

“He’ll kill you.”

“He’ll never know.” Jean says. “The Master told me to get out of his sight. As far as they know I’m in the locker room.”

“But Jean—”

Jean pulls Kevin close, careful of his hand. He presses a kiss to his temple. “Now get the hell out of here. Call me when you can. Let me know you’re alright.”

“I will.”