theboysarenowmen-archive

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archiving this blog!

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Aren't you going to fight back?

I can help.

I am going to get beaten up, but if I am already black and purple they will not hit me so harsh.

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-- why?

Punch my face.

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I'm not alone -- my mom is somewhere. She'll be back.

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[ His feet kick restlessly on the stool, a light tap against the wooden paneling, and his thoughts drift briefly to if he'll ever be tall even to reach the ground. The thought leads him to another, and suddenly, he remembers what day it is -- or what day has past. ]

It's my birthday.

[ He pauses. ]

I mean -- it was my birthday. Five days ago.

[ Everything had him preoccupied, he hardly knew what day it was anymore. Christmas wasn't easy to miss and backtrack from. ]

Oh -- sorry. I'm Elliot. It's nice to meet you, Josephine.

[ She seems very nice, concerned. He wonders if she has kids, and figures maybe not. She wouldn't be working then, would she? Maybe she got put on the schedule because no one else would. He wonders who misses her. Who she misses.

He stops, detaches himself, pulls himself out.

Sometime he wishes he didn't feel the need to reach out to everybody. ]

[ If anyone knows a thing about lying, it’s Josephine. The attempt at humor isn’t the worst she’s seen but she knows it for what it is; it tugs the corners of her mouth down, wipes away whatever hint of a smile she had before. He’s a skinny kid, sure, but she thinks something more than a bowl of soup will do him so good.

She doesn’t push it, not just yet. ]

All right.

I’ll be right back. 

[ She ducks in the back, passes the slip of paper with his order to the cook lounging by the fryer. She’s tempted, again, to add something else to it, but she swallows the urge down, tells him to make sure the soup is hot while she gets the boy’s water. 

A few moments later, she’s sliding the bowl toward him and leaning against the counter on her elbows. ]

— my name’s Josephine, by the way.

[ She offers her name as an olive branch — you can trust me. ]

You tell me if you need anything else.

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No, that's --

[ He should take it, he thought he would, but the guilt always gets to him too strong. ]

It's okay, ma'am. I only need the soup. [ He looks down at his hands for a brief moment, then back to her. ] I'm not very big, after all. Don't think I could finish a cheeseburger. 

[ It's a bad attempt at humor. She's worried. He keeps the smile on his face,

I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine. ]

[ This close, it’s easier to look at him. It’s easier to see the secondhand, worn material of his coat, the loose buttons, the piling around the collar. It’s easier to see the constellation of freckles across the bridge of his nose, the thin breadth of his shoulders. It’s easier to see the callouses on his hands, still cracked and raw, when he passes the menu back to her. 

Her brow wrinkles. She wants to mimic his smile, but she doesn’t; concern, familiar even if it isn’t welcome, coils at the base of her throat. ]

You sure that’s all you want?

[ Josephine presses her palms flat against the menu on the counter. She glances down, then back up; it might be all he can afford for all she knows, but it isn’t all she can give him. ]

— I could get you a cheeseburger, or some fries, or anything, really.

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UGLY INCOHERANT SCREECHING

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[ The surprise is there, even if he doesn't catch it; it's understandable and he's used to it. Kids his age aren't normally out this late. Still he offers her a smile and crawls into one of the seats, looking over the menu she's placed by him. 

He looks over it quickly. The pains in his stomach are poking at him, and everything he's reading sounds good. ]

The soup of the day. And a water, please.

[ Soup is warm and filling, and not too expensive. Elliot pushes the menu back at her and laces his fingers together, waiting patiently. ]

[ Surprise shows in her face when she turns. The kid lingering in the doorway can’t be older than fifteen; she looks at him as though he isn’t meant to be there, like he’s out of place, before she catches herself and smooths her expression into gentle, polite curiosity. 

(He doesn’t belong there and he is out of place but she isn’t going to ask any questions right away. They’re there, though, bubbling in her throat.) ]

Yeah, of course.

[ She holds one out to him, an offering, and gestures to the line of empty seats. ]

— come on, have a seat.

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[ He's cold and the diner seems like a nice place to go to -- he's got money, maybe enough, he's not entirely sure, but it has to be enough for something small. It's Christmas, anyways, and people are more apt to let things slide by.

Not that he's looking for handouts; he's worked for this money, and he remembers Mrs. Thill telling him that people deserve to treat themselves nice every now and then. He was saving up money. He had on a jacket from the thrift store -- it had a few loose buttons, but it kept him warm for the most part. He bought a notebook. This Christmas, he wouldn't make himself sad. Warm food in his stomach and he could go back out to the place he made for himself and sleep well until he had to work the next day.

( He reminded himself he was lucky that he got a job shoveling snow with so many people; the callouses on his hands hurt, but he needed it all. ) ]

Hello. [ His voice is cheerful as he brushes the snow of himself. ] Um, could I see a menu please?

[ Safer to check the prices. ]

[ The diner stays open because for every person who spends the holiday at home with their families, there’s someone who doesn’t. They’ve seen divorcees and police officers and businessmen caught between flights, overworked salespeople and students with empty, red-rimmed eyes. She takes the shift because even if Caleb has offered for her to come to his apartment and spend the night watching old movies on his even older television, it doesn’t sit right with her; there’s restlessness sitting between her shoulder blades, feathering down to the tips of her fingers.

(It’s the same sort of — homesickness, she realizes. The same she feels every year, whether it is for Westchester or her home before, or something she hasn’t reached yet, something unobtainable that still floods the hollow of her chest with wanderlust.)

They’re dead by eleven. She sits at the bar and nudges her foot against the metallic stool, shifting her weight. From the kitchen, she can hear the melancholic tremble of a Christmas carol, the muted voice of the night’s cook and dishwasher. They don’t emerge from the back and she doesn’t leave the front; deliberate detachment. ]

[ The bell above the door rings and she barely glances over her shoulder, already moving to pluck a menu from the basket at the end of the bar. ]

— can I get you something?

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Anything that pays me in food or money.

I’m afraid I don’t.

What sort of job were you looking for, though?

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Not unless you gotta job for me.

— Did you need help with something?

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About the same. Just more comfortable.

[ He smiles back, happy if she is, though he can tell there are things bothering her. He doesn't need to be an empath for that; he's spent enough time with Paige to at least have that understanding of her.

( Doesn't stop him from checking in on her and the rest in the middle of the night. ) ]

- you know you can still come talk to me in whenever. I'm always up when you need me.

[ He doesn't say the word 'nightmares' but it's there. ]

[ Her smile is a little lopsided, and her answer is split. It’s a yes because she’s safe and she’s warm and she can go back to the same bed every night, and it’s a no because she still misses her family and she still has nightmares about being blown away and never reassembling herself. ]

Yeah, for the most part.

You?

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Have you been sleeping okay?

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Maybe a little.

I’m hungry. You hungry?

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I hate school.

[ The answer comes quickly. ]

I'm not good at it. Any of it. I just want to work.

[It’s a simple plan, but the kid’s fourteen, almost fifteen. Clint isn’t surprised, and he knows that feeling just the same. He was a kid when he ran away, after all. He wasn’t alone and it wasn’t New York, but he understood it all the same.]

What about school?

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I want to get a job.

When I get a job, I'll get money. And I'll keep saving money until I don't have to sleep outside and then --

[ He shrugs, looking down. ]

I didn't think about past that, really.

[He takes a seat in the booth that gives him the best view — lets him watch the door and the kitchen. It’s not but a minute later the waitress comes over. He plays it safe, orders a pepperoni pizza, breadsticks, and two Cokes. He waits until she’s gone to talk again.]

So, Elliot. What’re your plans?

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I'll eat whatever you order.

[ He already feels bad. He's not going to be picky. ]

Anything is good to me.

Yeah.

[Except it is. It’s November and they’re in New York.

He rounds the corner, and there’s his favorite pizza place. He holds the door open for the kid, ushering him in.]

What kinda pizza y’like? They’ve got good breadsticks, too.