fic: In A Flash
Aug. 5th, 2015 02:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: In A Flash
Series: Team Fortress 2
Character/pairing: Scout's mother, young!Scout
Rating: PG-13
Summary: He couldn't hide a wound like this under a bandage and claim he scraped his knee.
Word count: 1690
Author's note: fic_promptly: any, any, it's alright, ma (i'm only bleeding) (Bob Dylan). Revised quite a bit, and part of the same universe as The Ghost Family, Last Call and Trace. Thanks to Hazmad for the beta.
1960.
He slunk in, his bat dragging along as the door closed behind him. He'd gone and tracked mud in, but that was the least of his problems. He couldn't hide a wound like this under a bandage and claim he scraped his knee.
The room was dim, with everything but the kitchen lights shut off. His ma was cast in shadows and the embers and smoke. An ashtray was filled almost to the brim, like she'd been through three packs that day. Oddly enough, some of them weren't the kind she smoked. He could tell from the thick scent of clove cigarettes. Like the kind he'd tried to bum behind the school, but had hacked up so hard that it felt like his lungs were turning inside out.
Her makeup had run down her face. Dark streaks left like the lingering paths of tears.
"I didn't know if you'd come back," she said. Her voice sounded far away, which was so much worse than her yelling.
He tried to look up, though his eye was swollen shut and twitching. His lip had split with that punch he hadn't managed to dodge. He couldn't smile or slip his way through this one.
He set his bat aside near the door, and limped towards her.
"Let me get you cleaned up," she said.
He sat down on the couch beside her, full of new rips and stains. Today he'd personally add a few more bloodstains into the weave, something which was brown once and now a darker, bloodier hue. He hadn't seen the basin of water on the table in the low light. She dipped a wash cloth into the water and started to brush away the dirt and caked on blood. He flinched away as the water dripped over his new wounds.
"Who did you say you'd beat singlehandedly this time? Don't tell me it was the Mullins boys, you know I don't want you tangling with that gang."
"They went and called me a damn project rat bastard," he said, lifting his chin in defiance. His neck ached as he looked up at her. He couldn't bring himself to repeat the kinds of things they called her.
"And what, another school you get expelled from? Listen, baby, you gotta take it after school. Stand up like a man, don't you ever give up, but not where the people in charge can see you, you hear?"
"But, ma—"
"Don't you even start. We're runnin' out of schools to send you to. You wanna go down to school at Roxbury alone from all your brothers?" Her voice had taken on a sharp, pleading tone. He hated when she got hurt, especially when it was his own damn fault.
Nobody went to Roxbury if they could help it. He was the only one of their family which dared to not cover up the Southie dot on his wrist when he went. Everyone knew you went in the clink and you were from Southie, you'd get shanked before you'd ever come home.
She took a deep breath and rustled through her purse for more cigarettes. "I'm goin' to have to bury them all, just like I buried my brother," she said under her breath. She took a desperate drag on the cigarette. This was far worse than getting yelled at. Knowing that he'd let her down and made her sad would have him crawling on his knees in seconds.
"—I'll be better, ma, I—"
She turned to him, the cigarette balanced between her fingers. She was beyond disappointed or sad and well into resigned. Resigned to never really have a good life, resigned to have to lose her children. No mother should have to look like that. Ever since he was little, he'd been swearing he'd find a way to strike it rich, wrap her up in furs, buy her a mansion and have her never shed a tear ever again.
But no lucky stars had fallen down, no winning lotto tickets had blown his way.
"Ma....I'll do it, I promise. I'll get better. I'll go back to school and pass just like you wanted me to–"
"You can't help what you are, sweetheart. You're a brawler, just like my youngest brother."
The one who didn't make it. The one who he only saw in faded pictures and his mother's stories, the ones always tinged with pain and what if's.
"Look, ma, it's just a little blood. I'll get past this. I'll show them all not to mess with a Dempsey. I'll find a way to keep alive, smack 'em all down. I friggin' swear it!"
He flinched, blood on his tongue as he tried to make that one big promise he couldn't seem to keep.
She bent down on his level, like she'd done when he was younger and still couldn't tie his shoes, and every skinned knee and time she'd pulled slivers out of his feet.
"Don't you ever give up, you hear? You've got a lot of determination in you. Even if they're after you, you come out alive and come back to me. If you get yourself killed, I'll never forgive you."
"Don't worry, ma. I'm ain't goin' to make you cry anymore."
She gave him a cynical look. "You ain't the first man to say that," she said. "And you won't be the last."
He hung his head, everything aching down to the bone. Punch him in the face, yell at him, call him a bastard, all of those would be nothing compared to seeing his ma loose all hope.
"I know I fucked up, but I'm goin' to hit it big one of these days. Then everyone will be sorry they ever messed with me or called me names. I am goin' to be a fuckin' star."
"Watch your language. And... just be careful, all right? That's all I want. For you to come home again," she said, her voice cracking. "I don't want you comin' home in a pine box, too."
"I promise," he said.
There was this look on her face like she didn't quite believe him. He didn't quite believe the promises he made, either. But he kept making them, because one day, they were bound to be true.
*
He snuck out early that morning, before she woke. Bandages about his wrists, his knees, and even his face. He would've gotten days off from wounds like this, if he'd had a school to go to anymore. His eye hadn't healed yet, but he wasn't about to let any asshole get the better of him. He kept running, past the sounds of cars, other people and streetlights. There was a yell behind him, some kind of insult which was lost to the distance and speed. Someone behind him. He didn't bother to look back. They couldn't catch him if they tried. Nobody could.
He kept racing down the street until his head cleared, until he stopped wanting to take on fights with everyone head on, like some kind of fool. The pain made everything settle back into place.
He thought of every Wheaties box, every home run he'd seen on their old TV that barely worked, every time he thought he could make it. Pictures of superheroes plastered on his wall, not just a hobby, his idols.
His lungs were burning, his legs ached in a way he'd never felt, but the bullets weren't going to hit him. He'd always loved the thrill, the energy, the release of his morning runs. In a world where a pine box was only one wrong door away, this was his sanctuary.
He didn't have a father to be at the end of the finish line, or even memories and pictures. What he had was constant insults hurled at him and his ma, and this huge absence in his life. All the families on television were full in a way they'd never be. Those tv families never had to worry where their next meal would come from. They lived in a little snowglobe world where the fathers tucked their children in, and those lucky kids never knew what it was like to be called a bastard.
He didn't have heroes outside of the pages of comic books, but one he'd ripped out not just as someone to look up to, but someone to be. Maybe he hadn't been struck by lightning and doused down in radiation, but he was faster than anyone else in Southie. If he kept training, he'd move on up until he was the fastest in the state, the country, and even the world. Hell, he'd take on universe if there were any green little men willing to race him for it.
He kept The Flash up there, because he wasn't ever going to be flying or a man of steel, but if there was one thing he could do, he could run. He'd get there faster, he'd throw the first punch, and he'd go back home to his ma when it was all over, no matter how beat up he got in the process.
As long as he kept on racing along, there'd be another day. He'd pay back this black eye with some broken bones. He'd get fast enough that he'd dodge everyone like a real superhero.
When he reached the top, he'd put his own picture up on the wall as inspiration. Until then, he'd have to look up at Flash to remind himself to keep running towards that goal, however impossible it might seem.
Series: Team Fortress 2
Character/pairing: Scout's mother, young!Scout
Rating: PG-13
Summary: He couldn't hide a wound like this under a bandage and claim he scraped his knee.
Word count: 1690
Author's note: fic_promptly: any, any, it's alright, ma (i'm only bleeding) (Bob Dylan). Revised quite a bit, and part of the same universe as The Ghost Family, Last Call and Trace. Thanks to Hazmad for the beta.
1960.
He slunk in, his bat dragging along as the door closed behind him. He'd gone and tracked mud in, but that was the least of his problems. He couldn't hide a wound like this under a bandage and claim he scraped his knee.
The room was dim, with everything but the kitchen lights shut off. His ma was cast in shadows and the embers and smoke. An ashtray was filled almost to the brim, like she'd been through three packs that day. Oddly enough, some of them weren't the kind she smoked. He could tell from the thick scent of clove cigarettes. Like the kind he'd tried to bum behind the school, but had hacked up so hard that it felt like his lungs were turning inside out.
Her makeup had run down her face. Dark streaks left like the lingering paths of tears.
"I didn't know if you'd come back," she said. Her voice sounded far away, which was so much worse than her yelling.
He tried to look up, though his eye was swollen shut and twitching. His lip had split with that punch he hadn't managed to dodge. He couldn't smile or slip his way through this one.
He set his bat aside near the door, and limped towards her.
"Let me get you cleaned up," she said.
He sat down on the couch beside her, full of new rips and stains. Today he'd personally add a few more bloodstains into the weave, something which was brown once and now a darker, bloodier hue. He hadn't seen the basin of water on the table in the low light. She dipped a wash cloth into the water and started to brush away the dirt and caked on blood. He flinched away as the water dripped over his new wounds.
"Who did you say you'd beat singlehandedly this time? Don't tell me it was the Mullins boys, you know I don't want you tangling with that gang."
"They went and called me a damn project rat bastard," he said, lifting his chin in defiance. His neck ached as he looked up at her. He couldn't bring himself to repeat the kinds of things they called her.
"And what, another school you get expelled from? Listen, baby, you gotta take it after school. Stand up like a man, don't you ever give up, but not where the people in charge can see you, you hear?"
"But, ma—"
"Don't you even start. We're runnin' out of schools to send you to. You wanna go down to school at Roxbury alone from all your brothers?" Her voice had taken on a sharp, pleading tone. He hated when she got hurt, especially when it was his own damn fault.
Nobody went to Roxbury if they could help it. He was the only one of their family which dared to not cover up the Southie dot on his wrist when he went. Everyone knew you went in the clink and you were from Southie, you'd get shanked before you'd ever come home.
She took a deep breath and rustled through her purse for more cigarettes. "I'm goin' to have to bury them all, just like I buried my brother," she said under her breath. She took a desperate drag on the cigarette. This was far worse than getting yelled at. Knowing that he'd let her down and made her sad would have him crawling on his knees in seconds.
"—I'll be better, ma, I—"
She turned to him, the cigarette balanced between her fingers. She was beyond disappointed or sad and well into resigned. Resigned to never really have a good life, resigned to have to lose her children. No mother should have to look like that. Ever since he was little, he'd been swearing he'd find a way to strike it rich, wrap her up in furs, buy her a mansion and have her never shed a tear ever again.
But no lucky stars had fallen down, no winning lotto tickets had blown his way.
"Ma....I'll do it, I promise. I'll get better. I'll go back to school and pass just like you wanted me to–"
"You can't help what you are, sweetheart. You're a brawler, just like my youngest brother."
The one who didn't make it. The one who he only saw in faded pictures and his mother's stories, the ones always tinged with pain and what if's.
"Look, ma, it's just a little blood. I'll get past this. I'll show them all not to mess with a Dempsey. I'll find a way to keep alive, smack 'em all down. I friggin' swear it!"
He flinched, blood on his tongue as he tried to make that one big promise he couldn't seem to keep.
She bent down on his level, like she'd done when he was younger and still couldn't tie his shoes, and every skinned knee and time she'd pulled slivers out of his feet.
"Don't you ever give up, you hear? You've got a lot of determination in you. Even if they're after you, you come out alive and come back to me. If you get yourself killed, I'll never forgive you."
"Don't worry, ma. I'm ain't goin' to make you cry anymore."
She gave him a cynical look. "You ain't the first man to say that," she said. "And you won't be the last."
He hung his head, everything aching down to the bone. Punch him in the face, yell at him, call him a bastard, all of those would be nothing compared to seeing his ma loose all hope.
"I know I fucked up, but I'm goin' to hit it big one of these days. Then everyone will be sorry they ever messed with me or called me names. I am goin' to be a fuckin' star."
"Watch your language. And... just be careful, all right? That's all I want. For you to come home again," she said, her voice cracking. "I don't want you comin' home in a pine box, too."
"I promise," he said.
There was this look on her face like she didn't quite believe him. He didn't quite believe the promises he made, either. But he kept making them, because one day, they were bound to be true.
*
He snuck out early that morning, before she woke. Bandages about his wrists, his knees, and even his face. He would've gotten days off from wounds like this, if he'd had a school to go to anymore. His eye hadn't healed yet, but he wasn't about to let any asshole get the better of him. He kept running, past the sounds of cars, other people and streetlights. There was a yell behind him, some kind of insult which was lost to the distance and speed. Someone behind him. He didn't bother to look back. They couldn't catch him if they tried. Nobody could.
He kept racing down the street until his head cleared, until he stopped wanting to take on fights with everyone head on, like some kind of fool. The pain made everything settle back into place.
He thought of every Wheaties box, every home run he'd seen on their old TV that barely worked, every time he thought he could make it. Pictures of superheroes plastered on his wall, not just a hobby, his idols.
His lungs were burning, his legs ached in a way he'd never felt, but the bullets weren't going to hit him. He'd always loved the thrill, the energy, the release of his morning runs. In a world where a pine box was only one wrong door away, this was his sanctuary.
He didn't have a father to be at the end of the finish line, or even memories and pictures. What he had was constant insults hurled at him and his ma, and this huge absence in his life. All the families on television were full in a way they'd never be. Those tv families never had to worry where their next meal would come from. They lived in a little snowglobe world where the fathers tucked their children in, and those lucky kids never knew what it was like to be called a bastard.
He didn't have heroes outside of the pages of comic books, but one he'd ripped out not just as someone to look up to, but someone to be. Maybe he hadn't been struck by lightning and doused down in radiation, but he was faster than anyone else in Southie. If he kept training, he'd move on up until he was the fastest in the state, the country, and even the world. Hell, he'd take on universe if there were any green little men willing to race him for it.
He kept The Flash up there, because he wasn't ever going to be flying or a man of steel, but if there was one thing he could do, he could run. He'd get there faster, he'd throw the first punch, and he'd go back home to his ma when it was all over, no matter how beat up he got in the process.
As long as he kept on racing along, there'd be another day. He'd pay back this black eye with some broken bones. He'd get fast enough that he'd dodge everyone like a real superhero.
When he reached the top, he'd put his own picture up on the wall as inspiration. Until then, he'd have to look up at Flash to remind himself to keep running towards that goal, however impossible it might seem.
