Honors' Night - Part Three of Four
Aug. 21st, 2011 10:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sonora_conejaPairing: Hannibal/Russ, Hannibal/OMC
Rating: R
Warnings: mentions of child abuse
Summary: Part three of a fill for this prompt on the kink meme.
We see lots and lots of stories about families. Face/Murdock/BA where their family past is traumatic.
Let's see Hannibal have his share...
/insanely long prompt
When Major Russell Morrison drops by his high school, John Lewis realizes his life might not have to be as worthless as he’s constantly being told it is...
The walk’s cold, too long, but he’s sweating inside his coat by the time he gets home. It’s earlier than usual, Jeff out with the brat and Samantha at some school function. So it’ll just be mom. He’s okay with that. More than okay. He can get through one fucking night without having to worry about...
“Honey!”
He freezes, hand just about to throw his coat up on its hook. What? The drunk bitch is conscious?
“Honey, why don’t you come join me for dinner?”
And John thinks he’s going to pass out.
But sure enough, there she is. Mom. At the table. That’s set with two tablecloths, two napkin, two forks, two big glasses of water, a steaming casserole dish on a trivet in the middle. Chicken tetrazzini. She makes good tetrazzini. There’s never leftovers.
John isn’t falling for it. Whatever it is. He heads off to his room instead.
“John!”
That’s closer, which means she’s behind him, or at least in the hall, and the teen stops at his door, gritting his teeth. “What?” he groans. “What the fuck do you want?”
She touches his shoulder. “Come sit down, baby. Please...”
It’s the please that gets him. Not the touch, not the thought that mom might be daring to break the house rules for him, the please. He curses under his breath and turns, seeing her smile for a second, and stalks by. “Fine,” he growls.
John still stops at the edge of the table, uncertain again, gripping the seat back of that other place. He hasn’t sat in one of these chairs in a long time. He can’t remember how many years it’s been at this point. Even when he’s doing homework or something, he never sits here. He fucking hates this room...
“Baby?”
It snaps him back, and he shakes his head, dragging the chair out and plunking down. She’s probably been drinking, or not drinking, or something. She looks okay tonight, but that’s a relative thing. She’s vertical, clean, and dressed, even if her hair’s a bit tangled and she’s still got those raccoon eyes. And then, of course, there’s dinner.
There’s been an effort made here, and John shakes his head, uncomfortable. “So... mom...”
“Yes, baby?” She leans over and takes his plate, dishing him up a fair portion before offering it back to him. “What is it?”
He takes it hesitantly. It really does smell good. How she still manages to be a good cook while on the booze, John’s never ben able to determine.
Despite himself, John has always, always felt guilty about the drinking. She started drinking when Jeff started beating him. Maybe, he thinks sometimes, maybe if he could get the asshole to stop, she wouldn’t need to drink any more...
But, then, he wonders sometimes if it’s too late. They had an assembly about alcoholism once, where the presenter said that some people become so dependent that the brain rewires itself and the person actually needs it to function. John’s got no idea if there’s a way back from that.
“Nothing,” he says, forking up a hot, steaming bite of noodles and meat. It is good. It’s really good. John chews it slowly, wondering when the other shoe’s going to drop here. If Jeff is sitting in the hallway, waiting for the opportune moment to swoop in and beat the shit out of...
“How is it?”
He shrugs. “Not bad.”
His mother sighs and pokes at her own. “How was school?”
John shrugs again and takes another bite before answering with a “not bad.”
“And work afterwards?”
“Not bad.”
“Is that the only answer I’m going to get out of you?” she asks sady, hands clenched, eyes tearing a little.
But fuck her, John thinks.
“Maybe.”
A silence takes over at that point, nothing but John’s fork clinking along the plate as he eats in his usual hurried manner, mom taking one bite for every six of his. He burns the roof of his mouth and he stops tasting it, and it’s not nearly enough to fill him up, but he gets it all down, and tosses his fork behind him, into the kitchen sink.
“Done,” he says flatly, and makes to stand. “I should probably go do the dishes and go to bed before Jeff gets home...”
But another big scoop of tetrazzini appears on his plate, his mother with serving spoon in hand, and she holds her own fork out for him. “Fuck Jeff,” she replies, more emotion in those two words than anything he’s heard in a long time. “I want to talk to my son.”
Something inside him clenches, but he tries to relax, staring at the pasta. He really is still hungry...
And then she drops a bombshell on him.
“I suppose,” she says, “it’s time we discussed your father.”
John goes cold. What the fuck...
His mom pushes her plate aside and folds her hands up on the table in front of her. “Please, honey, keep eating while I talk. It’s okay. I just...I found the boxes, down in the basement while I was cleaning up the other day, and I noticed the duct tape had been replaced again, but I haven’t gotten anything for your dad in years...”
He bites the inside of his lip, a million things buzzing in him, all of them out of reach. Does she know he’s dead? Did anybody ever tell her? And why in the fuck did she keep all that stuff? Why didn’t...
“Anyway, baby, I haven’t looked through that stuff in a long time. I’m so, so sorry you found it.”
“Why didn’t you just throw it away?” he mumbles, emotion he doesn’t understand starting to overwhelm him now, surging up. “What the fuck, mom?”
A tear rolls down her cheek. “Your father...”
“John Smith?”
“Yes,” she says. “I suppose you looked at your birth certificate, then.”
“Yeah, I did see that. Is that how Jeff figured out I wasn’t his?” John demands, his blood starting to rise. “You put my real dad’s name on the fucking certificate? Did you even once stop to consider what the fuck Jeff was going to think about that?”
“I...honey, you have to understand, I loved your father, John Smith, I did...”
“Sure,” he snaps. “Enough to...”
“John! Don’t! You have no idea...no idea what I went through after...”
The anger’s boiling up in him now. He’s lost his appetite. “After you what, mom? After you fucked him?”
She’s shaking, shaking bad, and the tears are rolling down her face, but she manages to nod, and reaches out for one of his hands, laying her own over it. John tenses. He hasn’t let her touch him in years...
It comes. Broken
“I did sleep with him. Once. After he asked me to marry him....but then I got scared. I was scared he’d die over there, and I’d be a widow. I didn’t know we’d made you, baby, or I might have...I didn’t find out until after he’d gone, and you know how it is for an unwed woman to have a baby...” and her hand squeezes down on his. “Jeff was so nice, but I thought you should have your daddy’s name, in case he died, and Jeff got mad, said I’d tricked him...but I wanted John to know he had a son, that he had a legacy if, if he died...then he just kept writing and Jeff got angrier and angrier with you, a little baby who’d never done him any wrong...”
It’s enough.
Enough for John to piece it all together.
And here’s a chance to hurt her, John realizes. Hurt her bad. Hurt her like he hurts people at school, in class. Hurt her like she’s hurt him all these years. A hole he can exploit. Let all that righteous indignation he feels towards her out, out out. Call her a whore, call her a coward, sleeping with a man who wanted to marry her and then leaving him at the altar before he shipped out to a hopeless war. For fucking Jeff Lewis just to cover up her own stupidity, telling him she was pregnant, forcing him into marrying her. For letting her husband beat him. Horrible things, all these horrible things...
John wants to scream at her. Wants to tell her that John Smith is dead and doesn’t she feel like a bitch now? Wants to put his fist through the dry wall. Wants to storm out of here and never return.
But the sodden bitch is crying now, well and truly crying, saying I’m sorry, I’m sorry, oh John, I’m sorry, and he feels his own eyes starting to sting.
Because she’s not talking to him.
John thinks about some of the girls in his class, with their bright lipstick and big hair and vacuous conversation, thinks about Samantha, who’s so quiet and so sweet. Could one of them handle a baby without a husband? Could one of them deal with the thought that the man they loved might go die in a jungle somewhere?
Wouldn’t they make a bad decision, like marrying the wrong guy?
And John realizes, for the first time, that the drinking might not be about him.
That he isn’t the only person who’s been brutally hurt by his real father’s absence.
That this is some kind of guilt she’s been carrying for the last nineteen years.
That this is one of those things, those things that Morrison was talking about, one of those things that can change, that has to change, before it eats them both alive...
So he turns his palm up and squeezes her hand back, smiles at her for the first time in years. “Dinner was good, mom,” he says, hearing his voice crack.
Her tired eyes, lift, and he can see the fear in them. “John, I’m sorry, about everything...”
“Mom,” he moans, shaking his head.
She squeezes harder and leans in. “...about your birthdays and your father and Jeff and everything, everything...”
“I...” and he sniffs as she keeps babbling. He wants to tell her he’s sorry, too. That it’s okay, that he forgives her. But he can’t say that. He can’t, not yet. Maybe someday, but not yet. There’s too much pain here still.
But he can do something else. He can get up and pull her up and wrap around her and whisper, “mom, whatever happened with dad, I love you and I want you to get help. I want you to stop drinking. Please, mom...”
She goes limp in his arms, sobbing wildly, words fleeing her completely, and it’s then that John realizes they haven’t hugged each other since he was ten.
+++++
John adjusts his tie in the men’s room of the state senate building. He’s nervous.
He has no idea how this is all going to today.
And he’s up in fifteen minutes.
The West Point application packet had gone in on time, the entire package together, grades and fitness scores and medical clearance and copy of his birth certificate and essays and everything. He was happy with the way those had turned out. One about his dad. The other about was about that incident with his mom. About how many problems they had together, but how, in the end, helping her was the right thing to do. Morrison had said that was a risk, but he put it in anyway. He’d cried as he’d written the rough draft.
Mom had agreed to go to rehab. Insisted on it. And Jeff had been supportive. They'd found her a good place, up in the mountains. She's been there for six weeks now. She's got four and a half months to go. Minimum.
Jeff had kicked John out of the house the second they got back from dropping her off.
He checks his image again, tugging at his tie.
It’s new, the suit he’s wearing. It actually fits. Tailored to fit his long, awkward limbs. A man always needs a good suit, Morrison told him when he’d taken him to the shop in Salt Lake and paid for the damn thing, slipping John the cash before they went in, so it wouldn’t look weird. John had thanked him, and said he owed him a suit now. There had been a slight gleam in the Ranger’s eye.
“I’ll be sure to take it out of your hide, kid.”
John had had a dream that night. A dream that Morrison came by the shop one afternoon, like he seemed to be doing, three or four times a week now to take him on runs. Except John was in the middle of changing in the back office where he’s sleeping now, where he has his camping gear spread out. He was just pulling up his shorts, and a hand touched his ass, sliding around the front. A rough palm cupped his balls, squeezing softly, a bulk of muscle laid down over his bent back, taking him down to the ground, down onto his camp air mattress, a hot voice whispered in his ear.
Don’t make a sound, John, not a single word...
He shivers now, remembering it. He’d woken up with a sticky mess in his sleeping bag and a shitload of guilt. He was going with Chris. Chris. Who’d offered again, only last week, to let John take him.
Please, baby, I want you to be my first. Before you leave me...
He’d sounded so forlorn about it. John’s still unsure about what to do. He wants to, he does, but Morrison...
It’s no use, he tells himself now. The man’s gotta be as straight as they come.
It’s not the time to be thinking about this anyway, John knows. He’s got his interview in, shit...five minutes. The interview where he has to convince Senator Robinson’s panel that he deserves an appointment to the most elite military institution in the nation. Can’t go without that appointment. And of Utah’s two US Senators and his district Congressman, Senator Robinson was the only one who sent him a reply.
He’s only got one shot at this.
Fuck.
He looks at himself again in the bathroom mirror. He doesn’t quite yet like what he sees, but he doesn’t feel that burning hate for himself quite so distinctly as he has in the past. That’s good.
He can do this.
He can.
Morrison’s waiting for him outside the bathroom. He’s somewhat dressed up, too, if his service uniform counts as dressing up. That expanse of drab green wool, covered in insignias and medals and rank and everything...it looks good. It looks so good John’s having trouble looking at him. He’s had trouble since the Ranger picked him up from the Mountain’s Edge this morning. An entire drive, trying not to think about how goddamn good he looks it in. But right now, he’s smiling a wry smile, mustache turned up a bit, and he claps John on the back.
“Done primping, princess?”
“Fuck you, sir,” he replies easily, and Morrison starts laughing.
And amazingly, it helps with the nervousness.
It’s the weekend, so the capitol building’s mostly quiet. Just a few staffers, running through the Neoclassical halls, across the wide marble floor of the rotunda. Senator Robinson, back from Washington DC to attend to his service academy applicants, is using the offices here for his appointment interviews, and John thinks he understands why. Something about it, the scale, the soaring colonnades, the elegance of it, the grandeur, fills him with happiness. Like, this is his country, this is what it’s about...
But the place is also full of candidates. Mostly boys, although there are a few girls here, trying to look tougher than the menfolk. One or two of those smile boldly at him as he nears his assigned room.
And balks.
“Major...”
Those strong hands turn him around, and he’s fixed by a set of intense blue eyes. “You’re going to be fine, kid. They’re going to try to make you as uncomfortable as possible. It’s a game. Fucking ignore it,” he says, repeating the advice he gave on the ride over here. “Be honest, be positive, and remember, everything in your life’s been a learning experience. Everything you’ve been through has taught you something about yourself. Go in there and sell them on John Smith.”
“Major...”
“You deserve to be there, John,” the Ranger says softly, and lets him go, grinning again.
John wants to say something, ask something, but yeah, there’s a staffer in three inch pumps opening the door for him, and in he goes, right towards the center of the room, right in front of a curving table of polished walnut. Where five people are waiting, notepads and copies of his application package in front of them, waiting to decide his future.
He takes his seat at a small table they’ve got set up in the focus point of that arc in front of him, and tries to tell his raging nerves to shut the fuck up, and he’ll get them a cigarette later.
The questions start.
So, Mr. Smith, tell us, what’s your interest in the military?
Did you have any family that served in Vietnam or World War II?
Your father, interesting, yes, we had some questions about your essay for your school application on him...
Let’s elaborate on your relationship with your mother...
Oh, you’re not living at home any more? Why is that?
Rehab? Do your family have a history of alcohol abuse?
Honestly, John, I can’t see a reason why we should take a kid who’s got a family like that...
...family support is very important...
...and your DODMERB results said there’s suspected abuse...
...what kind of pussy lets his step-father hit him?
+++++
John pokes at his wedge salad with his fork, and sighs. The ranch dressing is good, really good, better than he thought ranch dressing could ever taste. So’s the dark, thick beer bread. But then, the premium-grade, 24-day-dry-aged steaks on the menu start at twenty bucks apiece for an eight ounce, so...
Morrison lays his fingers on the bottom of his wine glass and swirls the merlot slowly around the spotless crystal. They have a bottle at the table. John has his own glass, untouched. The waiter didn’t even ask to see John’s ID, which the major had said was the sign of a good restaurant.
John wouldn’t know. He’s never been in a place like this before. They’re a stone’s throw from the capitol building, the place done up rich and dark, and it smells of searing meat and the Ranger’s cigar, smoldering in the ashtray. Morrison’s treat.
It should be wonderful.
But it’s not.
Not after that.
“What are you thinking about, John?”
“They hated me.”
“What? What makes you think that?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Fuck, are you serious? After that comment?”
“Ahh,” Morrison nods, and picks his cigar up, swirling a mouthful of smoke before answering. “You’re worried about them asking you why you haven’t decked that asshole you used to live with?”
“The guy called me a pussy! A fucking Senator!”
The Ranger chuckles and leans back, letting that hand with the cigar lay along the top of the booth, stretching his chest open...and John has to look back down at his salad. “You remember the basketball throw on the fitness test, kid?”
“Yeah...”
“Remember what I said about it?”
“Umm...no?”
“It doesn’t mean a goddamn thing. It’s there to measure your ability to put up with bullshit.”
Morrison lets it hang there, keeping his elbow on the booth, bringing the cigar lazily back to his mouth while John lets his brain chew on that little piece of information. And he frowns when it clicks into place.
“They were fucking with me?”
The Ranger nods. “They were trying to piss you off, see how you’d react. If you’d stay respectful, if you’d get angry and shut down on them, if you’d start crying like, you know, a little pussy.” He blows a smoke ring. “So, what did you tell them?”
John shakes his head. He’s thought about that very thing himself. For years. Why didn’t he leave? Why did he stay there and take it? And it wasn’t until that goddamn Senator Robinson asked him that he’d figured it out. “I...I guess I told them I’d watched him hit my mom before when I tried to fight back. That I’d rather him break my ribs than mom’s, even if she and I were having problems. And I told him I didn’t appreciate the implication that I was a coward.”
That rich laughs rips out of Morrison at those slow words, so much so that he starts coughing and has to lay the cigar back in its ashtray, doubling forward, coughing into his sleeve, before grabbing for his water glass.
John, despite himself, is smiling. “What’s so funny?”
“You called a Senator out,” the older man chuckles, getting his breath back, and he’s grinning wide. “That takes some balls, kid.”
“In a, uhh, good way?”
That seems to sober Morrison up a bit. “I would say so, kid.”
It’s not exactly reassuring, and John’s about to ask about that, but then the waiter’s back, two gigantic Porterhouse steaks in hand, big sides of creamed spinach and baked potatoes, unobtrusively setting up their early dinner for them, and the Ranger thanks the girl in a way that gets her smiling the way John would like to smile at the man.
“A toast, John,” Major Morrison says as she leaves, and raises his glass. That grin's gentled down to something that sends a shot of heat right through the younger man, something he knows he desperately, desperately needs to ignore. “To a job well done.”
“But...”
“Booze now, John. Worry later,” and their glasses clink together.
It is, John thinks, a wonderful sound.
The wine’s heady and the steak’s amazing, and Morrison has a fuckload of stories to share, each one funnier than the last, and so John’s warm and happy and just a bit sleepy by the time they finally bundle out into the cool April evening.
Major Morrison has a place in town, where he’s staying, he says, while he’s working liaison duty. It’s in a nice apartment in a good part of downtown, fronting a street lined with tall trees that have yet to bud out new leaves. The Ranger says he misses his house back at Benning, where his guys come and drink beer and grill burgers on the weekends, and John wonders that might feel like. If he gets into West Point. If he becomes an officer. It sounds like a big family. And John wonders again what really made Morrison want to leave all that and help a bunch of snot-nosed teenagers get into West Point.
“It’s important to grow the next generation up right,” Morrison says as they climb the stairs to his apartment. “We gotta snap the good ones up from Yale and Harvard and UCLA and teach ‘em right. Takes a hundred lieutenants to build one general, so they better be goddamn good, or everyone below ‘em gonna pay for their stupidity.”
It’s a bit of a ramble, and John’s a little drunk, so it doesn’t make much sense. “Yeah, but is that really why you’re here?”
“Kid...”
“You knew my dad, and you just show up in Utah my senior year of college?”
The door clicks open, and Morrison prods him inside the dark apartment. “Yeah, John, I knew you were here. My old master sergeant’s son. I wanted a chance to check in on you, see if you were okay. I never thought...” and he trails off, closing the door behind them, hanging his folded uniform hat up on a hook.
Out of words, John thinks, and it’s weird. Morrison’s never been anything but breezy confidence, the whole time the teen’s known him. It’s...strange, and John starts to feel something, like maybe...
“Never thought what, sir?”
Morrison leans back up against the nearest wall, staring up at the ceiling and smiling a bit, like he’s remembering something really good past, or thinking about something wonderful yet to come. “It’s like fate, kid, that assignment being on my list, bringing me here, you being so goddamn...”
“So what?” he asks, taking a step towards the older man. “What am I?”
“John, kid...”
There’s a plea in those words, unlike anything John’s ever heard before, and whatever that is, that clench in his gut, it’s growing in him now. He takes another step forward, close enough to touch now. He wants to. He’s never wanted to do anything as damn much in his life. But Morrison’s watching him with wary eyes, arms folded, closed off, breathing hard, and John’s not sure if he should, not sure if he can...
“You’re going to be a handful, aren’t you?” the Ranger grumbles, eyes flicking up to meet his, and John suddenly has the strangest sensation of being hunted.
He manages to grin, though, blood pounding in his ears. “I think so, sir.”
And then everything erupts.
They grab for each other at the same time, Morrison quick as a cat, fisting John's new tie up and using it to slam him back around into the wall. John’s hand is on that uniform jacket, right below the line of medals, and the Ranger looks down at it, then back up, and smiles.
Feral.
John pushes up at the same time as Morrison crashes down, their mouths crushing together in something that’s just a little too violent to be called a kiss. All teeth and bruising force and raw, raw need. It’s perfect. Perfect. Exactly what he’s imagined it would be, and John can feel his cock growing heavier, filling, rising, begging, begging for everything this man can give him.
Everything
His head hits the wall, cradled from injury by a rough hand, body sliding down as Morrison assaults him with lips and tongue, and John moans into it all, willing more, willing this man to never fucking stop...
But it does.
It does.
The kiss breaks.
Morrison’s looking him in the eyes again, inscrutable.
Just for a moment.
And he pulls away, back turned. “The sofa pulls out into a bed, John. There are some sheets and pillows and shit in the hall closet. Place gets HBO, I think I left the cable box remote around her somewhere...”
It’s John’s turn to plead. “Major Morrison, please...”
“Good,” the Ranger says softly. “That’s good.”
“Sir...”
Morrison turns and smiles at him, weary. “I had a bit to drink tonight, John. It’s okay. You okay?”
He licks his lips, tasting...something. But nods, despite himself.
“Good,” the older man says again, the frayed uncertainty there reaching deep down into John, and vanishes into some back bedroom. The teen hears a door click shut, then lock, and he sinks to the ground, both hands in his hair, mind blank.
Except for one echoing question.
What the fuck just happened?
+++++
“You probably shouldn’t miss Samantha’s presentation,” Chris observes, blowing smoke up towards the night sky behind the school gym. “We should go in.”
John inhales, deeply, feeling the burn. May. A week to graduation. They’ve got a climbing trip to Arizona planned for the week after that. A week of desert and camping and thousand-foot verticals and time to think, time to run, time to fuck, just like Chris wants to fuck. A long, slow, lazy summer ahead of them. And after, well... Tony’s promised to help him find a job out in Moab. He’s got some friends that could use somebody with John’s wall rating and experience in the region. And John wants the fuck out of this town, even if he's not going to college.
He’s trying to reconcile himself to the idea. Has been since the interview went so fucking wrong. Since the night Morrison kissed him and then left him alone in the living room - the night they've never talked about.
Not a word from West Point. Not a single one.
Really, John had no idea he’d be this upset about it.
Nobody but Chris knows, which is a bit of comfort. The senior's grateful the rumors never got around school, and suspects Chris helped out with that. But still. He still feels humiliated for believing it could happen.
And tonight's the salt in the wound. Fucking Honors’ Night, the night when everybody gets their awards and scholarships handed out to them. A photographer from the town paper takes their photos. Their parents hug them. Everybody claps.
He’s probably going to have to watch Bobby Reynolds get his West Point appointment handed to him. By Morrison.
It’s really, really going to suck.
“Yeah. You’re probably right about that,” he says, feeling distant. Had he really thought he was going to get in? Why the fuck did he let himself believe it?
Chris slots up against him, hugging him as much as he can. “I know I’m a bitter, sarcastic asshole, John, but for what it’s worth? I think...”
John knows what he’s going to say. That the semester’s been worth it. That he’s still proud. That nothing but good things have come out of it. But John doesn’t feel it tonight, so he doesn’t let Chris say it. No, he strokes the blonde junior’s face up and kisses him instead. Hard. It’s warm and willing and sweet, just like he always is, just opening up to him, and John loves it, loves him, he really does. But that memory of Morrison overwhelming him like he did, overtaking all his defenses...
“We really should go in,” Chris says, and takes John by the hand, pulling him away from the wall.
John flicks his cigarette away, and as they drag into the gymnasium, warming from too many bodies packed in to rows of plastic chairs, as they plunk down next to Samantha and Jeff and the little brat Brett and mom, who got an evening pass from the hospital for this, as the mic crackles and the speakers hum awake and the principal makes his opening remarks, it finally occurs to John that it’s pretty fucking weird that Chris came to this at all.
They start with school awards. Then move on to the athletic scholarships. Then the academic scholarships. Mostly to BYU. Samantha looks so happy as she goes up to get her certificate for her partial. She’s glowing when she come back, to drops down into her seat between John and Jeff, mom just on the other side, and her half-brother gives her a big hug. Her dad’s eyes on him the whole time.
The evening wears on, the stacks of certificates and awards and trophies and plaques dwindling.
Military stuff’s always left until the end. School tradition, or some shit like that, the principal says. A good note to leave it all on, acknowledging the kids who are going to go out and sacrifice for their country. There’s some scattered clapping.
The recruiters cycle through. Enlistments. Twelve boys, one girl. They’re all smiles as they shake hands, a few snapping off bad salutes to the tittering approval of the crowd. John checks his watch. He could leave, right? He really wants to leave...
Then Morrison stands. Major Russell Morrison, US Army Ranger, decked out in his dress uniform. The same one he was wearing that day at the capitol building. The uniform he was wearing in his apartment that night ,that night they almost...
He makes a little noise in the back of his throat, and Chris pulls up from his disinterested slouch, whispering in John’s ear. “He looks hot in that thing.”
“Shut up,” John grumbles.
ROTC scholarships are first. Three of them. One goes to Bobby Reynolds, who walks up there to the applause of his seven siblings and fat mother, looking like he’s got a bad taste in his mouth. John finds that kind of awesome. Two other of the JROTC boys get scholarships as well. Colorado School of Mines. University of Arizona. And Bobby’s going to BYU.
Morrison really should be done now. John wants to go.
“I’ve got one more thing to hand out tonight on behalf of the federal government,” the Ranger says, drawing inexplicable chuckles from the crowd. “One more thing that I feel very, very blessed to be able to bestow.”
“Fuck,” John says, loud enough to get Jeff looking at him, and Chris punches his arm. But honestly. Is he really expected to sit here through this? Watch somebody else get what he... well, lost isn’t the right word. And if they didn’t think he was the right person for the job, John supposes he can understand that. But...
“As all of you may or may not be aware, we had five candidates to the service academies from Provo High this year. Five young men who put their hands in the air and said yes, sign me up. I’m very proud of all of them for the effort and dedication they showed through the entire applications process. Of those five, I had one that made the cut.”
Morrison pauses. The gym’s quiet.
“If this young man chooses to sign on the dotted line and accept him appointment, he will become a Basic Trainee at the United States Military Academy 30 June of this year. He will undergo six and a half weeks of the most demanding, most grueling, most physically challenging basic training program in the world. If he completes that course to our satisfaction, he will have the honor of being accepted as a Fourth Class Cadet of the Class of 1989. For the next four years, he will be stressed physically, mentally and morally. He will have to maintain a high level of physical fitness, which we will test twice a year. He will be expected to perform military duties in his company, keep his room and uniform spotless, memorize military knowledge and be familiar with all aspects of Army life. He will have to maintain at least a 2.0 GPA while carrying 18 to 21 credits, every semester. And he will take an oath to never lie, cheat or steal, or tolerate anyone who does. He will be faced with problems he does not know how to solve, moral dilemmas he’s never faced before, and challenges will abound. It will be the hardest four years of his life. Most days, he will not want to be there. Many days, he will want to quit.”
Morrison pauses. The gym’s so quiet now you could hear a pin drop. John wants to die. Morrison is really, really building this up. Making it sound like the goddamn best place on Earth...and Chris squeezes his hand.
“You okay?”
He just shakes his head.
“But if he prevails, and I believe he shall, there are rewards for this kind of sacrifice. This young man will have the opportunity to visit our bases around the world, fly in our helicopters, jump out of our planes, learn tactics and strategy from some of our finest men, fire every weapon in the arsenal, or attend introductory Special Operations training in the summers. He will make friendships that will last a lifetime, and doors will open in recognition of his accomplishments. He will graduate with a Bachelor of Science in one of eighteen majors, an education valued at a quarter of a million dollars. If he survives his four years at West Point, this young man will commission as a second lieutenant in the United States Army, joining both the long gray line of graduates, many of whom our are nation’s greatest heroes, and a proud tradition of honor that stretches back to the George Washington, and the founding of our nation.”
Morrison pauses, turning behind him, and somebody hands him a gigantic gray folio, which he opens now.
He smiles. Just a little bit. And goes back to the mic.
“So, without further ado, on behalf of the President of these United States, the Secretary of the Army, and the Superintendent, it’s my honor to announce the appointment of John Michael Smith to the United States Military Academy, Class of 1989.”
Dead. Silence.
John can’t move.
Applause is breaking out, subtle, confused, or maybe that’s his brain not processing the noise. Chris is smiling and very, very clearly wants to kiss him. Samantha’s looking at him funny, like he can’t quite figure out why they got two-thirds of her brother’s name wrong.
Jeff’s eyes are boring into his back.
Then Morrison leans a little further into the mic, grinning wide. “C’mon, kid. Get your ass up here. You made it in.”
That kid, that’s what gets him up, what forces him slowly to his feet, out to the aisle, up to the front podium where Morrison’s waiting with that big-ass folio and its big-ass certificate, the Presidential seal visible even from this distance, getting bigger with every step.
He gets up there somehow without stumbling over his own big feet, Morrison waiting for him with right hand outstretched, a big coin tucked into his palm.
“Shake with your right, accept with your left,” the Ranger murmurs in his ear as they shake, that coin passing from his hand to John’s, class ring bright on the older man’s finger. John nods mutely and lets Morrison move them around so the newspaper photographer can get a better shot. “It just came in this week. I wanted to surprise you. I’m goddamn proud of you, John. You’ve earned this.”
He looks at the certificate in its big folio. It’s huge, and he catches his name, but the rest of the print’s too hard to read right now. His brain won’t process. So he looks at that coin in his hand. The West Point insignia on one side, bearing the words Class of 1989, a big red star on the other, Office of Admissions.
It’s real.
It’s fucking real.
John realizes the entire gym is applauding wildly, half of the adults on their feet, the roar louder than any basketball game he’s been to in here, and he shakes his head.
Nobody's ever had faith in him before. Nobody.
“I won’t let you down, sir,” he says, feeling those words more keenly than any he's ever felt before. “I won’t.”
“I know,” Morrison replies, and his eyes are sparkling.
+++++
John barely keeps Chris from jumping him as they leave the gym together. They’re among the last to leave. His family’s way ahead as the two boys walk back out to the draining parking lot, mom with little Brett asleep in her arms, and it’s something she probably wouldn’t appreciate, what he wants to do to his friend. Samantha did a pretty good job of hugging him senseless after the announcement. He can still feel her arms around him, her joy, mom’s joy...
“Wherever your father is right now, baby, I know he'll be proud of you,” she’d said, crying. “I'm so proud of you.”
Everybody wanted to shake his hand and wish him luck and congratulate him and tell him things like it’s a fantastic thing you’re doing for your country and you're a fine young man and do us proud, John. People he knows. People he doesn’t. Bobby Reynolds looked like he was physically going to be sick. Most of his classmates stared in shock. Jeff...Jeff had looked at him with something like pure murder in his eyes, said something to mom that had gotten her shaking and stormed out. But fuck them all, John thinks happily now, shoving Chris off yet again, his family a little ways back yet.
He has a future.
For the first time in his life, he has a future.
It’s both strange and wonderful, wonderful and strange.
He feels light, John does.
And he wants a hug from Morrison. Wants to hear that gravely voice tell him, one more time, I’m proud of you, son...
“Fucking amazing!” Chris crows, punching him in the arm, bringing him back. “You fucking made it in!”
It’s a bit forced.
“Did you know?” John asks, raising an eyebrow.
His boyfriend chuckles as they reach the curb. “Well, Morrison wanted to make sure you’d actually show up...”
John groans, and there’s something sad in Chris’ eyes as he lights up a cigarette. “Am I going to see you again, John?”
“Yeah,” he says, a little taken aback. “Yeah, Chris, we’ve got that climbing trip still and everything...”
“You might hurt yourself or something,” his friend says. “Wouldn’t you lose your appointment if you broke a bone?”
“I’ve broken plenty of bones,” John murmurs, daring to touch the junior, even here, laying a soft hand on his quivering shoulder, feeling the emotion thrumming through him. “They let me in.”
“John, I...” and Chris looks away, that cigarette hanging precariously on his lower lip. “John, I know that this thing between us...it’s a high school thing and we’re both outcasts and whatever. I don’t expect...”
“What are you talking about?” he asks, confused, voice low.
“I mean, if you want Morrison...”
John jerks him up, grabbing his arm hard, dragging him away, off the main drag into the dead grass, around the corner of the building, where they can have a bit of privacy. “What are you talking about?” he hisses. “This wasn’t about that.”
“Yeah, I get that,” and Chris inhales deeply, his cigarette butt glowing in the night. “I’m not saying it was. But the way he talks about you, John...he wants you. And you want him. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“Chris...”
The junior rises up on his toes, his big heavy boots, and wraps his arms around John’s neck. “Fuck him if you want to, John. It’s not my call. But I’m still going to write you. That okay?”
John hugs him back, kissing him gently. He doesn’t know how he should feel. Are they breaking up? Does he want to? Does Chris? “Of course,” he murmurs against the other boy’s warm skin. “I’ll write you, too. You’re my best friend, Chris. I love you...”
Chris pulls away, laughing. “Yeah, John Smith, in love, that’ll be the day!” he chortles, walking off, waving back over his shoulder, and John feels a bit hollow, wondering if this is the last time he’s going to see the blonde...
But then, behind him, he hears elevated voices, and yeah, that’s Jeff and that’s mom and that, that last one sounds suspiciously like Pastor Reynolds and they’re...
Fuck.
He hadn't even thought about that.
And, blood going cold, John starts sprinting back towards it.
+++++
Russ is coming out of the gym, relaxed, proud, goddamn happy to have been able to do that for John, be able to deliver what he promised, what kid earned, what he fucking needs, get him where he belongs, when he hears the yelling.
Some jackass, with that Reynolds kid, that arrogant little bastard who he’d non-recc’ed to the Admissions people, is yelling. Right in front of god and everybody.
Standing there with his finger in John’s mother’s face, yelling something about how marriage is a sacred vow and she should be ashamed of herself and was it worth it, having a child with another man. Yelling at Jeff, he assumes, the man who was sitting next to the kid , for failing to keep her honest, for marrying a woman who’d sullied herself already...
And that’s when Jeff lashes out.
That’s when Jeff backhands John’s mom across the face, sending her sprawling to the sidewalk.
That’s when that other jackass shuts the fuck up.
People are watching now, those few still within ear shot stopped to gawk. But nobody’s doing anything. Not even Samantha, John’s sister, clinging to their little brother, whose eyes have gone huge. Nobody doing a goddamn thing but stare. Nobody but Jeff, who’s clearly winding up to start kicking that sobbing woman, her teased-out hair obscuring her face, limp on the concrete.
John’s yelling now, too, racing around the corner, but Russ is closer.
So he goes for it.
He closes the twenty paces or so between them in a flash, dropping the briefcase he brought everything in here tonight and fucking jumps the man. Rips him clean off the prone woman and throws him around, limp as a rag doll.
Morrison’s fist is closed around Jeff’s collar, jerking him in, dragging him close. Jeff’s eyes are frantic, scared, as they flip over to John, who’s just standing there, in some kind of shock, or maybe that’s awe, Russ isn’t sure. He knows the Ranger is showing, and as fascinating as it is, watching the kids respond to that...
Situation at hand.
“Don’t look at him, you motherfucker, look at me,” the major growls, low and violent, and snaps his arm, lips almost to the other man’s ear. “Don’t you dare fucking look at him. You don’t deserve to look at that boy.”
“That bastard, you mean,” Jeff sneers, starting to struggle.
Fuck that.
Russ twists his hand, twisting that collar, knowing the fabric’s biting into this fucker’s blood supply now. “I know what you’ve put that boy through. I know what you’ve put his mother through. John Smith was a good friend of mine. He trusted you to take care of them...”
Jeff spits. “Fuck him.”
And really, really, fuck that.
Morrison releases. Let him go. Takes a step back, and Jeff wipes a hand across his face. Grinning. Lke he’s won. And he’s about to say something...
When Russ decides to break his jaw.
He stands there over Jeff Lewis, shaking his hand out a little as Jeff lays on the ground, knocked out, and can’t resist turning him over with his foot. So he can look down and ask, “what kind of coward hits his wife?”
It’s then he notices. Everybody’s still staring. Utterly silent. Just watching. That man from before, the one who was yelling, is staring, like he can’t quite process what’s going on.
And then his big fish-mouth opens once, twice, and words come out.
“I’m going to have to call the police, Major Morrison.”
“Good. You can be a witness when the state decides to charge him with assault and battery and child abuse charges.”
“Child abuse? Major, what are you...Jeff Lewis is an upstanding member of this community, and...”
Fuck him, too.
“Apparently not,” Morrison replies, casting a glance back down at the trash at his feet, and walks away. “And I’m willing to testify to that in court.”
John’s kneeling, rubbing his mother’s back, and looks up as Russ come over, takes a knee next to him. The woman’s still crying, and it doesn't look like her son's getting anywhere with her. It boils Russ' blood, a man treating his woman like this, but his anger's sated. For the moment.
Anger's not needed right now.
This woman needs some peace.
So he takes her hand, holding lightly, and smooths down some of her frazzled hair.
“Ma’am, I am so sorry about the scene out here tonight," he murmurs to her, truly sorry he hadn't thought about this. "I shouldn’t have used a different last name to introduce John tonight, should have left it John Lewis...”
“No, Major, I’m glad you did. It's who I wanted him to be,” and she starts to push herself up, letting her son help her all the way. She looks up at the teen, smiling a little. “I’m so proud of him.”
John’s mute. Embarrassed, maybe, the slightest bit of a blush starting to creep over his cheeks, and Russ has a flash of memory, of this boy as he’d had him that night, almost had him, shoved against a wall, all raw need, body begging...but then Russ had started thinking. About how young he is. About how he was going to be a cadet, hopefully. About how wrong it could be to do that to him, take him like that...
Not the time, Russ tells himself. Not the goddamn time.
“You should be, ma’am. He’s a fine boy. You raised him right.”
Her eyes tear up a bit. “No, I think it was in spite of me.”
That gets her a hug from John, but the kid’s blue eyes are on him. All the way. Trying to tell him something.
He's pretty sure he already understands.
So Russ nods to the kid, and offers Joyce his arm to walk her back to his car, take her home. “I’m an old friend of John’s, ma’am,” he drawls. “I’m sure you’ve got some questions I can answer for you.”
And she smiles back, just a little bit, as an ambulance comes screaming up the road to the gym.
Rating: R
Warnings: mentions of child abuse
Summary: Part three of a fill for this prompt on the kink meme.
We see lots and lots of stories about families. Face/Murdock/BA where their family past is traumatic.
Let's see Hannibal have his share...
/insanely long prompt
When Major Russell Morrison drops by his high school, John Lewis realizes his life might not have to be as worthless as he’s constantly being told it is...
The walk’s cold, too long, but he’s sweating inside his coat by the time he gets home. It’s earlier than usual, Jeff out with the brat and Samantha at some school function. So it’ll just be mom. He’s okay with that. More than okay. He can get through one fucking night without having to worry about...
“Honey!”
He freezes, hand just about to throw his coat up on its hook. What? The drunk bitch is conscious?
“Honey, why don’t you come join me for dinner?”
And John thinks he’s going to pass out.
But sure enough, there she is. Mom. At the table. That’s set with two tablecloths, two napkin, two forks, two big glasses of water, a steaming casserole dish on a trivet in the middle. Chicken tetrazzini. She makes good tetrazzini. There’s never leftovers.
John isn’t falling for it. Whatever it is. He heads off to his room instead.
“John!”
That’s closer, which means she’s behind him, or at least in the hall, and the teen stops at his door, gritting his teeth. “What?” he groans. “What the fuck do you want?”
She touches his shoulder. “Come sit down, baby. Please...”
It’s the please that gets him. Not the touch, not the thought that mom might be daring to break the house rules for him, the please. He curses under his breath and turns, seeing her smile for a second, and stalks by. “Fine,” he growls.
John still stops at the edge of the table, uncertain again, gripping the seat back of that other place. He hasn’t sat in one of these chairs in a long time. He can’t remember how many years it’s been at this point. Even when he’s doing homework or something, he never sits here. He fucking hates this room...
“Baby?”
It snaps him back, and he shakes his head, dragging the chair out and plunking down. She’s probably been drinking, or not drinking, or something. She looks okay tonight, but that’s a relative thing. She’s vertical, clean, and dressed, even if her hair’s a bit tangled and she’s still got those raccoon eyes. And then, of course, there’s dinner.
There’s been an effort made here, and John shakes his head, uncomfortable. “So... mom...”
“Yes, baby?” She leans over and takes his plate, dishing him up a fair portion before offering it back to him. “What is it?”
He takes it hesitantly. It really does smell good. How she still manages to be a good cook while on the booze, John’s never ben able to determine.
Despite himself, John has always, always felt guilty about the drinking. She started drinking when Jeff started beating him. Maybe, he thinks sometimes, maybe if he could get the asshole to stop, she wouldn’t need to drink any more...
But, then, he wonders sometimes if it’s too late. They had an assembly about alcoholism once, where the presenter said that some people become so dependent that the brain rewires itself and the person actually needs it to function. John’s got no idea if there’s a way back from that.
“Nothing,” he says, forking up a hot, steaming bite of noodles and meat. It is good. It’s really good. John chews it slowly, wondering when the other shoe’s going to drop here. If Jeff is sitting in the hallway, waiting for the opportune moment to swoop in and beat the shit out of...
“How is it?”
He shrugs. “Not bad.”
His mother sighs and pokes at her own. “How was school?”
John shrugs again and takes another bite before answering with a “not bad.”
“And work afterwards?”
“Not bad.”
“Is that the only answer I’m going to get out of you?” she asks sady, hands clenched, eyes tearing a little.
But fuck her, John thinks.
“Maybe.”
A silence takes over at that point, nothing but John’s fork clinking along the plate as he eats in his usual hurried manner, mom taking one bite for every six of his. He burns the roof of his mouth and he stops tasting it, and it’s not nearly enough to fill him up, but he gets it all down, and tosses his fork behind him, into the kitchen sink.
“Done,” he says flatly, and makes to stand. “I should probably go do the dishes and go to bed before Jeff gets home...”
But another big scoop of tetrazzini appears on his plate, his mother with serving spoon in hand, and she holds her own fork out for him. “Fuck Jeff,” she replies, more emotion in those two words than anything he’s heard in a long time. “I want to talk to my son.”
Something inside him clenches, but he tries to relax, staring at the pasta. He really is still hungry...
And then she drops a bombshell on him.
“I suppose,” she says, “it’s time we discussed your father.”
John goes cold. What the fuck...
His mom pushes her plate aside and folds her hands up on the table in front of her. “Please, honey, keep eating while I talk. It’s okay. I just...I found the boxes, down in the basement while I was cleaning up the other day, and I noticed the duct tape had been replaced again, but I haven’t gotten anything for your dad in years...”
He bites the inside of his lip, a million things buzzing in him, all of them out of reach. Does she know he’s dead? Did anybody ever tell her? And why in the fuck did she keep all that stuff? Why didn’t...
“Anyway, baby, I haven’t looked through that stuff in a long time. I’m so, so sorry you found it.”
“Why didn’t you just throw it away?” he mumbles, emotion he doesn’t understand starting to overwhelm him now, surging up. “What the fuck, mom?”
A tear rolls down her cheek. “Your father...”
“John Smith?”
“Yes,” she says. “I suppose you looked at your birth certificate, then.”
“Yeah, I did see that. Is that how Jeff figured out I wasn’t his?” John demands, his blood starting to rise. “You put my real dad’s name on the fucking certificate? Did you even once stop to consider what the fuck Jeff was going to think about that?”
“I...honey, you have to understand, I loved your father, John Smith, I did...”
“Sure,” he snaps. “Enough to...”
“John! Don’t! You have no idea...no idea what I went through after...”
The anger’s boiling up in him now. He’s lost his appetite. “After you what, mom? After you fucked him?”
She’s shaking, shaking bad, and the tears are rolling down her face, but she manages to nod, and reaches out for one of his hands, laying her own over it. John tenses. He hasn’t let her touch him in years...
It comes. Broken
“I did sleep with him. Once. After he asked me to marry him....but then I got scared. I was scared he’d die over there, and I’d be a widow. I didn’t know we’d made you, baby, or I might have...I didn’t find out until after he’d gone, and you know how it is for an unwed woman to have a baby...” and her hand squeezes down on his. “Jeff was so nice, but I thought you should have your daddy’s name, in case he died, and Jeff got mad, said I’d tricked him...but I wanted John to know he had a son, that he had a legacy if, if he died...then he just kept writing and Jeff got angrier and angrier with you, a little baby who’d never done him any wrong...”
It’s enough.
Enough for John to piece it all together.
And here’s a chance to hurt her, John realizes. Hurt her bad. Hurt her like he hurts people at school, in class. Hurt her like she’s hurt him all these years. A hole he can exploit. Let all that righteous indignation he feels towards her out, out out. Call her a whore, call her a coward, sleeping with a man who wanted to marry her and then leaving him at the altar before he shipped out to a hopeless war. For fucking Jeff Lewis just to cover up her own stupidity, telling him she was pregnant, forcing him into marrying her. For letting her husband beat him. Horrible things, all these horrible things...
John wants to scream at her. Wants to tell her that John Smith is dead and doesn’t she feel like a bitch now? Wants to put his fist through the dry wall. Wants to storm out of here and never return.
But the sodden bitch is crying now, well and truly crying, saying I’m sorry, I’m sorry, oh John, I’m sorry, and he feels his own eyes starting to sting.
Because she’s not talking to him.
John thinks about some of the girls in his class, with their bright lipstick and big hair and vacuous conversation, thinks about Samantha, who’s so quiet and so sweet. Could one of them handle a baby without a husband? Could one of them deal with the thought that the man they loved might go die in a jungle somewhere?
Wouldn’t they make a bad decision, like marrying the wrong guy?
And John realizes, for the first time, that the drinking might not be about him.
That he isn’t the only person who’s been brutally hurt by his real father’s absence.
That this is some kind of guilt she’s been carrying for the last nineteen years.
That this is one of those things, those things that Morrison was talking about, one of those things that can change, that has to change, before it eats them both alive...
So he turns his palm up and squeezes her hand back, smiles at her for the first time in years. “Dinner was good, mom,” he says, hearing his voice crack.
Her tired eyes, lift, and he can see the fear in them. “John, I’m sorry, about everything...”
“Mom,” he moans, shaking his head.
She squeezes harder and leans in. “...about your birthdays and your father and Jeff and everything, everything...”
“I...” and he sniffs as she keeps babbling. He wants to tell her he’s sorry, too. That it’s okay, that he forgives her. But he can’t say that. He can’t, not yet. Maybe someday, but not yet. There’s too much pain here still.
But he can do something else. He can get up and pull her up and wrap around her and whisper, “mom, whatever happened with dad, I love you and I want you to get help. I want you to stop drinking. Please, mom...”
She goes limp in his arms, sobbing wildly, words fleeing her completely, and it’s then that John realizes they haven’t hugged each other since he was ten.
+++++
John adjusts his tie in the men’s room of the state senate building. He’s nervous.
He has no idea how this is all going to today.
And he’s up in fifteen minutes.
The West Point application packet had gone in on time, the entire package together, grades and fitness scores and medical clearance and copy of his birth certificate and essays and everything. He was happy with the way those had turned out. One about his dad. The other about was about that incident with his mom. About how many problems they had together, but how, in the end, helping her was the right thing to do. Morrison had said that was a risk, but he put it in anyway. He’d cried as he’d written the rough draft.
Mom had agreed to go to rehab. Insisted on it. And Jeff had been supportive. They'd found her a good place, up in the mountains. She's been there for six weeks now. She's got four and a half months to go. Minimum.
Jeff had kicked John out of the house the second they got back from dropping her off.
He checks his image again, tugging at his tie.
It’s new, the suit he’s wearing. It actually fits. Tailored to fit his long, awkward limbs. A man always needs a good suit, Morrison told him when he’d taken him to the shop in Salt Lake and paid for the damn thing, slipping John the cash before they went in, so it wouldn’t look weird. John had thanked him, and said he owed him a suit now. There had been a slight gleam in the Ranger’s eye.
“I’ll be sure to take it out of your hide, kid.”
John had had a dream that night. A dream that Morrison came by the shop one afternoon, like he seemed to be doing, three or four times a week now to take him on runs. Except John was in the middle of changing in the back office where he’s sleeping now, where he has his camping gear spread out. He was just pulling up his shorts, and a hand touched his ass, sliding around the front. A rough palm cupped his balls, squeezing softly, a bulk of muscle laid down over his bent back, taking him down to the ground, down onto his camp air mattress, a hot voice whispered in his ear.
Don’t make a sound, John, not a single word...
He shivers now, remembering it. He’d woken up with a sticky mess in his sleeping bag and a shitload of guilt. He was going with Chris. Chris. Who’d offered again, only last week, to let John take him.
Please, baby, I want you to be my first. Before you leave me...
He’d sounded so forlorn about it. John’s still unsure about what to do. He wants to, he does, but Morrison...
It’s no use, he tells himself now. The man’s gotta be as straight as they come.
It’s not the time to be thinking about this anyway, John knows. He’s got his interview in, shit...five minutes. The interview where he has to convince Senator Robinson’s panel that he deserves an appointment to the most elite military institution in the nation. Can’t go without that appointment. And of Utah’s two US Senators and his district Congressman, Senator Robinson was the only one who sent him a reply.
He’s only got one shot at this.
Fuck.
He looks at himself again in the bathroom mirror. He doesn’t quite yet like what he sees, but he doesn’t feel that burning hate for himself quite so distinctly as he has in the past. That’s good.
He can do this.
He can.
Morrison’s waiting for him outside the bathroom. He’s somewhat dressed up, too, if his service uniform counts as dressing up. That expanse of drab green wool, covered in insignias and medals and rank and everything...it looks good. It looks so good John’s having trouble looking at him. He’s had trouble since the Ranger picked him up from the Mountain’s Edge this morning. An entire drive, trying not to think about how goddamn good he looks it in. But right now, he’s smiling a wry smile, mustache turned up a bit, and he claps John on the back.
“Done primping, princess?”
“Fuck you, sir,” he replies easily, and Morrison starts laughing.
And amazingly, it helps with the nervousness.
It’s the weekend, so the capitol building’s mostly quiet. Just a few staffers, running through the Neoclassical halls, across the wide marble floor of the rotunda. Senator Robinson, back from Washington DC to attend to his service academy applicants, is using the offices here for his appointment interviews, and John thinks he understands why. Something about it, the scale, the soaring colonnades, the elegance of it, the grandeur, fills him with happiness. Like, this is his country, this is what it’s about...
But the place is also full of candidates. Mostly boys, although there are a few girls here, trying to look tougher than the menfolk. One or two of those smile boldly at him as he nears his assigned room.
And balks.
“Major...”
Those strong hands turn him around, and he’s fixed by a set of intense blue eyes. “You’re going to be fine, kid. They’re going to try to make you as uncomfortable as possible. It’s a game. Fucking ignore it,” he says, repeating the advice he gave on the ride over here. “Be honest, be positive, and remember, everything in your life’s been a learning experience. Everything you’ve been through has taught you something about yourself. Go in there and sell them on John Smith.”
“Major...”
“You deserve to be there, John,” the Ranger says softly, and lets him go, grinning again.
John wants to say something, ask something, but yeah, there’s a staffer in three inch pumps opening the door for him, and in he goes, right towards the center of the room, right in front of a curving table of polished walnut. Where five people are waiting, notepads and copies of his application package in front of them, waiting to decide his future.
He takes his seat at a small table they’ve got set up in the focus point of that arc in front of him, and tries to tell his raging nerves to shut the fuck up, and he’ll get them a cigarette later.
The questions start.
So, Mr. Smith, tell us, what’s your interest in the military?
Did you have any family that served in Vietnam or World War II?
Your father, interesting, yes, we had some questions about your essay for your school application on him...
Let’s elaborate on your relationship with your mother...
Oh, you’re not living at home any more? Why is that?
Rehab? Do your family have a history of alcohol abuse?
Honestly, John, I can’t see a reason why we should take a kid who’s got a family like that...
...family support is very important...
...and your DODMERB results said there’s suspected abuse...
...what kind of pussy lets his step-father hit him?
+++++
John pokes at his wedge salad with his fork, and sighs. The ranch dressing is good, really good, better than he thought ranch dressing could ever taste. So’s the dark, thick beer bread. But then, the premium-grade, 24-day-dry-aged steaks on the menu start at twenty bucks apiece for an eight ounce, so...
Morrison lays his fingers on the bottom of his wine glass and swirls the merlot slowly around the spotless crystal. They have a bottle at the table. John has his own glass, untouched. The waiter didn’t even ask to see John’s ID, which the major had said was the sign of a good restaurant.
John wouldn’t know. He’s never been in a place like this before. They’re a stone’s throw from the capitol building, the place done up rich and dark, and it smells of searing meat and the Ranger’s cigar, smoldering in the ashtray. Morrison’s treat.
It should be wonderful.
But it’s not.
Not after that.
“What are you thinking about, John?”
“They hated me.”
“What? What makes you think that?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Fuck, are you serious? After that comment?”
“Ahh,” Morrison nods, and picks his cigar up, swirling a mouthful of smoke before answering. “You’re worried about them asking you why you haven’t decked that asshole you used to live with?”
“The guy called me a pussy! A fucking Senator!”
The Ranger chuckles and leans back, letting that hand with the cigar lay along the top of the booth, stretching his chest open...and John has to look back down at his salad. “You remember the basketball throw on the fitness test, kid?”
“Yeah...”
“Remember what I said about it?”
“Umm...no?”
“It doesn’t mean a goddamn thing. It’s there to measure your ability to put up with bullshit.”
Morrison lets it hang there, keeping his elbow on the booth, bringing the cigar lazily back to his mouth while John lets his brain chew on that little piece of information. And he frowns when it clicks into place.
“They were fucking with me?”
The Ranger nods. “They were trying to piss you off, see how you’d react. If you’d stay respectful, if you’d get angry and shut down on them, if you’d start crying like, you know, a little pussy.” He blows a smoke ring. “So, what did you tell them?”
John shakes his head. He’s thought about that very thing himself. For years. Why didn’t he leave? Why did he stay there and take it? And it wasn’t until that goddamn Senator Robinson asked him that he’d figured it out. “I...I guess I told them I’d watched him hit my mom before when I tried to fight back. That I’d rather him break my ribs than mom’s, even if she and I were having problems. And I told him I didn’t appreciate the implication that I was a coward.”
That rich laughs rips out of Morrison at those slow words, so much so that he starts coughing and has to lay the cigar back in its ashtray, doubling forward, coughing into his sleeve, before grabbing for his water glass.
John, despite himself, is smiling. “What’s so funny?”
“You called a Senator out,” the older man chuckles, getting his breath back, and he’s grinning wide. “That takes some balls, kid.”
“In a, uhh, good way?”
That seems to sober Morrison up a bit. “I would say so, kid.”
It’s not exactly reassuring, and John’s about to ask about that, but then the waiter’s back, two gigantic Porterhouse steaks in hand, big sides of creamed spinach and baked potatoes, unobtrusively setting up their early dinner for them, and the Ranger thanks the girl in a way that gets her smiling the way John would like to smile at the man.
“A toast, John,” Major Morrison says as she leaves, and raises his glass. That grin's gentled down to something that sends a shot of heat right through the younger man, something he knows he desperately, desperately needs to ignore. “To a job well done.”
“But...”
“Booze now, John. Worry later,” and their glasses clink together.
It is, John thinks, a wonderful sound.
The wine’s heady and the steak’s amazing, and Morrison has a fuckload of stories to share, each one funnier than the last, and so John’s warm and happy and just a bit sleepy by the time they finally bundle out into the cool April evening.
Major Morrison has a place in town, where he’s staying, he says, while he’s working liaison duty. It’s in a nice apartment in a good part of downtown, fronting a street lined with tall trees that have yet to bud out new leaves. The Ranger says he misses his house back at Benning, where his guys come and drink beer and grill burgers on the weekends, and John wonders that might feel like. If he gets into West Point. If he becomes an officer. It sounds like a big family. And John wonders again what really made Morrison want to leave all that and help a bunch of snot-nosed teenagers get into West Point.
“It’s important to grow the next generation up right,” Morrison says as they climb the stairs to his apartment. “We gotta snap the good ones up from Yale and Harvard and UCLA and teach ‘em right. Takes a hundred lieutenants to build one general, so they better be goddamn good, or everyone below ‘em gonna pay for their stupidity.”
It’s a bit of a ramble, and John’s a little drunk, so it doesn’t make much sense. “Yeah, but is that really why you’re here?”
“Kid...”
“You knew my dad, and you just show up in Utah my senior year of college?”
The door clicks open, and Morrison prods him inside the dark apartment. “Yeah, John, I knew you were here. My old master sergeant’s son. I wanted a chance to check in on you, see if you were okay. I never thought...” and he trails off, closing the door behind them, hanging his folded uniform hat up on a hook.
Out of words, John thinks, and it’s weird. Morrison’s never been anything but breezy confidence, the whole time the teen’s known him. It’s...strange, and John starts to feel something, like maybe...
“Never thought what, sir?”
Morrison leans back up against the nearest wall, staring up at the ceiling and smiling a bit, like he’s remembering something really good past, or thinking about something wonderful yet to come. “It’s like fate, kid, that assignment being on my list, bringing me here, you being so goddamn...”
“So what?” he asks, taking a step towards the older man. “What am I?”
“John, kid...”
There’s a plea in those words, unlike anything John’s ever heard before, and whatever that is, that clench in his gut, it’s growing in him now. He takes another step forward, close enough to touch now. He wants to. He’s never wanted to do anything as damn much in his life. But Morrison’s watching him with wary eyes, arms folded, closed off, breathing hard, and John’s not sure if he should, not sure if he can...
“You’re going to be a handful, aren’t you?” the Ranger grumbles, eyes flicking up to meet his, and John suddenly has the strangest sensation of being hunted.
He manages to grin, though, blood pounding in his ears. “I think so, sir.”
And then everything erupts.
They grab for each other at the same time, Morrison quick as a cat, fisting John's new tie up and using it to slam him back around into the wall. John’s hand is on that uniform jacket, right below the line of medals, and the Ranger looks down at it, then back up, and smiles.
Feral.
John pushes up at the same time as Morrison crashes down, their mouths crushing together in something that’s just a little too violent to be called a kiss. All teeth and bruising force and raw, raw need. It’s perfect. Perfect. Exactly what he’s imagined it would be, and John can feel his cock growing heavier, filling, rising, begging, begging for everything this man can give him.
Everything
His head hits the wall, cradled from injury by a rough hand, body sliding down as Morrison assaults him with lips and tongue, and John moans into it all, willing more, willing this man to never fucking stop...
But it does.
It does.
The kiss breaks.
Morrison’s looking him in the eyes again, inscrutable.
Just for a moment.
And he pulls away, back turned. “The sofa pulls out into a bed, John. There are some sheets and pillows and shit in the hall closet. Place gets HBO, I think I left the cable box remote around her somewhere...”
It’s John’s turn to plead. “Major Morrison, please...”
“Good,” the Ranger says softly. “That’s good.”
“Sir...”
Morrison turns and smiles at him, weary. “I had a bit to drink tonight, John. It’s okay. You okay?”
He licks his lips, tasting...something. But nods, despite himself.
“Good,” the older man says again, the frayed uncertainty there reaching deep down into John, and vanishes into some back bedroom. The teen hears a door click shut, then lock, and he sinks to the ground, both hands in his hair, mind blank.
Except for one echoing question.
What the fuck just happened?
+++++
“You probably shouldn’t miss Samantha’s presentation,” Chris observes, blowing smoke up towards the night sky behind the school gym. “We should go in.”
John inhales, deeply, feeling the burn. May. A week to graduation. They’ve got a climbing trip to Arizona planned for the week after that. A week of desert and camping and thousand-foot verticals and time to think, time to run, time to fuck, just like Chris wants to fuck. A long, slow, lazy summer ahead of them. And after, well... Tony’s promised to help him find a job out in Moab. He’s got some friends that could use somebody with John’s wall rating and experience in the region. And John wants the fuck out of this town, even if he's not going to college.
He’s trying to reconcile himself to the idea. Has been since the interview went so fucking wrong. Since the night Morrison kissed him and then left him alone in the living room - the night they've never talked about.
Not a word from West Point. Not a single one.
Really, John had no idea he’d be this upset about it.
Nobody but Chris knows, which is a bit of comfort. The senior's grateful the rumors never got around school, and suspects Chris helped out with that. But still. He still feels humiliated for believing it could happen.
And tonight's the salt in the wound. Fucking Honors’ Night, the night when everybody gets their awards and scholarships handed out to them. A photographer from the town paper takes their photos. Their parents hug them. Everybody claps.
He’s probably going to have to watch Bobby Reynolds get his West Point appointment handed to him. By Morrison.
It’s really, really going to suck.
“Yeah. You’re probably right about that,” he says, feeling distant. Had he really thought he was going to get in? Why the fuck did he let himself believe it?
Chris slots up against him, hugging him as much as he can. “I know I’m a bitter, sarcastic asshole, John, but for what it’s worth? I think...”
John knows what he’s going to say. That the semester’s been worth it. That he’s still proud. That nothing but good things have come out of it. But John doesn’t feel it tonight, so he doesn’t let Chris say it. No, he strokes the blonde junior’s face up and kisses him instead. Hard. It’s warm and willing and sweet, just like he always is, just opening up to him, and John loves it, loves him, he really does. But that memory of Morrison overwhelming him like he did, overtaking all his defenses...
“We really should go in,” Chris says, and takes John by the hand, pulling him away from the wall.
John flicks his cigarette away, and as they drag into the gymnasium, warming from too many bodies packed in to rows of plastic chairs, as they plunk down next to Samantha and Jeff and the little brat Brett and mom, who got an evening pass from the hospital for this, as the mic crackles and the speakers hum awake and the principal makes his opening remarks, it finally occurs to John that it’s pretty fucking weird that Chris came to this at all.
They start with school awards. Then move on to the athletic scholarships. Then the academic scholarships. Mostly to BYU. Samantha looks so happy as she goes up to get her certificate for her partial. She’s glowing when she come back, to drops down into her seat between John and Jeff, mom just on the other side, and her half-brother gives her a big hug. Her dad’s eyes on him the whole time.
The evening wears on, the stacks of certificates and awards and trophies and plaques dwindling.
Military stuff’s always left until the end. School tradition, or some shit like that, the principal says. A good note to leave it all on, acknowledging the kids who are going to go out and sacrifice for their country. There’s some scattered clapping.
The recruiters cycle through. Enlistments. Twelve boys, one girl. They’re all smiles as they shake hands, a few snapping off bad salutes to the tittering approval of the crowd. John checks his watch. He could leave, right? He really wants to leave...
Then Morrison stands. Major Russell Morrison, US Army Ranger, decked out in his dress uniform. The same one he was wearing that day at the capitol building. The uniform he was wearing in his apartment that night ,that night they almost...
He makes a little noise in the back of his throat, and Chris pulls up from his disinterested slouch, whispering in John’s ear. “He looks hot in that thing.”
“Shut up,” John grumbles.
ROTC scholarships are first. Three of them. One goes to Bobby Reynolds, who walks up there to the applause of his seven siblings and fat mother, looking like he’s got a bad taste in his mouth. John finds that kind of awesome. Two other of the JROTC boys get scholarships as well. Colorado School of Mines. University of Arizona. And Bobby’s going to BYU.
Morrison really should be done now. John wants to go.
“I’ve got one more thing to hand out tonight on behalf of the federal government,” the Ranger says, drawing inexplicable chuckles from the crowd. “One more thing that I feel very, very blessed to be able to bestow.”
“Fuck,” John says, loud enough to get Jeff looking at him, and Chris punches his arm. But honestly. Is he really expected to sit here through this? Watch somebody else get what he... well, lost isn’t the right word. And if they didn’t think he was the right person for the job, John supposes he can understand that. But...
“As all of you may or may not be aware, we had five candidates to the service academies from Provo High this year. Five young men who put their hands in the air and said yes, sign me up. I’m very proud of all of them for the effort and dedication they showed through the entire applications process. Of those five, I had one that made the cut.”
Morrison pauses. The gym’s quiet.
“If this young man chooses to sign on the dotted line and accept him appointment, he will become a Basic Trainee at the United States Military Academy 30 June of this year. He will undergo six and a half weeks of the most demanding, most grueling, most physically challenging basic training program in the world. If he completes that course to our satisfaction, he will have the honor of being accepted as a Fourth Class Cadet of the Class of 1989. For the next four years, he will be stressed physically, mentally and morally. He will have to maintain a high level of physical fitness, which we will test twice a year. He will be expected to perform military duties in his company, keep his room and uniform spotless, memorize military knowledge and be familiar with all aspects of Army life. He will have to maintain at least a 2.0 GPA while carrying 18 to 21 credits, every semester. And he will take an oath to never lie, cheat or steal, or tolerate anyone who does. He will be faced with problems he does not know how to solve, moral dilemmas he’s never faced before, and challenges will abound. It will be the hardest four years of his life. Most days, he will not want to be there. Many days, he will want to quit.”
Morrison pauses. The gym’s so quiet now you could hear a pin drop. John wants to die. Morrison is really, really building this up. Making it sound like the goddamn best place on Earth...and Chris squeezes his hand.
“You okay?”
He just shakes his head.
“But if he prevails, and I believe he shall, there are rewards for this kind of sacrifice. This young man will have the opportunity to visit our bases around the world, fly in our helicopters, jump out of our planes, learn tactics and strategy from some of our finest men, fire every weapon in the arsenal, or attend introductory Special Operations training in the summers. He will make friendships that will last a lifetime, and doors will open in recognition of his accomplishments. He will graduate with a Bachelor of Science in one of eighteen majors, an education valued at a quarter of a million dollars. If he survives his four years at West Point, this young man will commission as a second lieutenant in the United States Army, joining both the long gray line of graduates, many of whom our are nation’s greatest heroes, and a proud tradition of honor that stretches back to the George Washington, and the founding of our nation.”
Morrison pauses, turning behind him, and somebody hands him a gigantic gray folio, which he opens now.
He smiles. Just a little bit. And goes back to the mic.
“So, without further ado, on behalf of the President of these United States, the Secretary of the Army, and the Superintendent, it’s my honor to announce the appointment of John Michael Smith to the United States Military Academy, Class of 1989.”
Dead. Silence.
John can’t move.
Applause is breaking out, subtle, confused, or maybe that’s his brain not processing the noise. Chris is smiling and very, very clearly wants to kiss him. Samantha’s looking at him funny, like he can’t quite figure out why they got two-thirds of her brother’s name wrong.
Jeff’s eyes are boring into his back.
Then Morrison leans a little further into the mic, grinning wide. “C’mon, kid. Get your ass up here. You made it in.”
That kid, that’s what gets him up, what forces him slowly to his feet, out to the aisle, up to the front podium where Morrison’s waiting with that big-ass folio and its big-ass certificate, the Presidential seal visible even from this distance, getting bigger with every step.
He gets up there somehow without stumbling over his own big feet, Morrison waiting for him with right hand outstretched, a big coin tucked into his palm.
“Shake with your right, accept with your left,” the Ranger murmurs in his ear as they shake, that coin passing from his hand to John’s, class ring bright on the older man’s finger. John nods mutely and lets Morrison move them around so the newspaper photographer can get a better shot. “It just came in this week. I wanted to surprise you. I’m goddamn proud of you, John. You’ve earned this.”
He looks at the certificate in its big folio. It’s huge, and he catches his name, but the rest of the print’s too hard to read right now. His brain won’t process. So he looks at that coin in his hand. The West Point insignia on one side, bearing the words Class of 1989, a big red star on the other, Office of Admissions.
It’s real.
It’s fucking real.
John realizes the entire gym is applauding wildly, half of the adults on their feet, the roar louder than any basketball game he’s been to in here, and he shakes his head.
Nobody's ever had faith in him before. Nobody.
“I won’t let you down, sir,” he says, feeling those words more keenly than any he's ever felt before. “I won’t.”
“I know,” Morrison replies, and his eyes are sparkling.
+++++
John barely keeps Chris from jumping him as they leave the gym together. They’re among the last to leave. His family’s way ahead as the two boys walk back out to the draining parking lot, mom with little Brett asleep in her arms, and it’s something she probably wouldn’t appreciate, what he wants to do to his friend. Samantha did a pretty good job of hugging him senseless after the announcement. He can still feel her arms around him, her joy, mom’s joy...
“Wherever your father is right now, baby, I know he'll be proud of you,” she’d said, crying. “I'm so proud of you.”
Everybody wanted to shake his hand and wish him luck and congratulate him and tell him things like it’s a fantastic thing you’re doing for your country and you're a fine young man and do us proud, John. People he knows. People he doesn’t. Bobby Reynolds looked like he was physically going to be sick. Most of his classmates stared in shock. Jeff...Jeff had looked at him with something like pure murder in his eyes, said something to mom that had gotten her shaking and stormed out. But fuck them all, John thinks happily now, shoving Chris off yet again, his family a little ways back yet.
He has a future.
For the first time in his life, he has a future.
It’s both strange and wonderful, wonderful and strange.
He feels light, John does.
And he wants a hug from Morrison. Wants to hear that gravely voice tell him, one more time, I’m proud of you, son...
“Fucking amazing!” Chris crows, punching him in the arm, bringing him back. “You fucking made it in!”
It’s a bit forced.
“Did you know?” John asks, raising an eyebrow.
His boyfriend chuckles as they reach the curb. “Well, Morrison wanted to make sure you’d actually show up...”
John groans, and there’s something sad in Chris’ eyes as he lights up a cigarette. “Am I going to see you again, John?”
“Yeah,” he says, a little taken aback. “Yeah, Chris, we’ve got that climbing trip still and everything...”
“You might hurt yourself or something,” his friend says. “Wouldn’t you lose your appointment if you broke a bone?”
“I’ve broken plenty of bones,” John murmurs, daring to touch the junior, even here, laying a soft hand on his quivering shoulder, feeling the emotion thrumming through him. “They let me in.”
“John, I...” and Chris looks away, that cigarette hanging precariously on his lower lip. “John, I know that this thing between us...it’s a high school thing and we’re both outcasts and whatever. I don’t expect...”
“What are you talking about?” he asks, confused, voice low.
“I mean, if you want Morrison...”
John jerks him up, grabbing his arm hard, dragging him away, off the main drag into the dead grass, around the corner of the building, where they can have a bit of privacy. “What are you talking about?” he hisses. “This wasn’t about that.”
“Yeah, I get that,” and Chris inhales deeply, his cigarette butt glowing in the night. “I’m not saying it was. But the way he talks about you, John...he wants you. And you want him. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“Chris...”
The junior rises up on his toes, his big heavy boots, and wraps his arms around John’s neck. “Fuck him if you want to, John. It’s not my call. But I’m still going to write you. That okay?”
John hugs him back, kissing him gently. He doesn’t know how he should feel. Are they breaking up? Does he want to? Does Chris? “Of course,” he murmurs against the other boy’s warm skin. “I’ll write you, too. You’re my best friend, Chris. I love you...”
Chris pulls away, laughing. “Yeah, John Smith, in love, that’ll be the day!” he chortles, walking off, waving back over his shoulder, and John feels a bit hollow, wondering if this is the last time he’s going to see the blonde...
But then, behind him, he hears elevated voices, and yeah, that’s Jeff and that’s mom and that, that last one sounds suspiciously like Pastor Reynolds and they’re...
Fuck.
He hadn't even thought about that.
And, blood going cold, John starts sprinting back towards it.
+++++
Russ is coming out of the gym, relaxed, proud, goddamn happy to have been able to do that for John, be able to deliver what he promised, what kid earned, what he fucking needs, get him where he belongs, when he hears the yelling.
Some jackass, with that Reynolds kid, that arrogant little bastard who he’d non-recc’ed to the Admissions people, is yelling. Right in front of god and everybody.
Standing there with his finger in John’s mother’s face, yelling something about how marriage is a sacred vow and she should be ashamed of herself and was it worth it, having a child with another man. Yelling at Jeff, he assumes, the man who was sitting next to the kid , for failing to keep her honest, for marrying a woman who’d sullied herself already...
And that’s when Jeff lashes out.
That’s when Jeff backhands John’s mom across the face, sending her sprawling to the sidewalk.
That’s when that other jackass shuts the fuck up.
People are watching now, those few still within ear shot stopped to gawk. But nobody’s doing anything. Not even Samantha, John’s sister, clinging to their little brother, whose eyes have gone huge. Nobody doing a goddamn thing but stare. Nobody but Jeff, who’s clearly winding up to start kicking that sobbing woman, her teased-out hair obscuring her face, limp on the concrete.
John’s yelling now, too, racing around the corner, but Russ is closer.
So he goes for it.
He closes the twenty paces or so between them in a flash, dropping the briefcase he brought everything in here tonight and fucking jumps the man. Rips him clean off the prone woman and throws him around, limp as a rag doll.
Morrison’s fist is closed around Jeff’s collar, jerking him in, dragging him close. Jeff’s eyes are frantic, scared, as they flip over to John, who’s just standing there, in some kind of shock, or maybe that’s awe, Russ isn’t sure. He knows the Ranger is showing, and as fascinating as it is, watching the kids respond to that...
Situation at hand.
“Don’t look at him, you motherfucker, look at me,” the major growls, low and violent, and snaps his arm, lips almost to the other man’s ear. “Don’t you dare fucking look at him. You don’t deserve to look at that boy.”
“That bastard, you mean,” Jeff sneers, starting to struggle.
Fuck that.
Russ twists his hand, twisting that collar, knowing the fabric’s biting into this fucker’s blood supply now. “I know what you’ve put that boy through. I know what you’ve put his mother through. John Smith was a good friend of mine. He trusted you to take care of them...”
Jeff spits. “Fuck him.”
And really, really, fuck that.
Morrison releases. Let him go. Takes a step back, and Jeff wipes a hand across his face. Grinning. Lke he’s won. And he’s about to say something...
When Russ decides to break his jaw.
He stands there over Jeff Lewis, shaking his hand out a little as Jeff lays on the ground, knocked out, and can’t resist turning him over with his foot. So he can look down and ask, “what kind of coward hits his wife?”
It’s then he notices. Everybody’s still staring. Utterly silent. Just watching. That man from before, the one who was yelling, is staring, like he can’t quite process what’s going on.
And then his big fish-mouth opens once, twice, and words come out.
“I’m going to have to call the police, Major Morrison.”
“Good. You can be a witness when the state decides to charge him with assault and battery and child abuse charges.”
“Child abuse? Major, what are you...Jeff Lewis is an upstanding member of this community, and...”
Fuck him, too.
“Apparently not,” Morrison replies, casting a glance back down at the trash at his feet, and walks away. “And I’m willing to testify to that in court.”
John’s kneeling, rubbing his mother’s back, and looks up as Russ come over, takes a knee next to him. The woman’s still crying, and it doesn't look like her son's getting anywhere with her. It boils Russ' blood, a man treating his woman like this, but his anger's sated. For the moment.
Anger's not needed right now.
This woman needs some peace.
So he takes her hand, holding lightly, and smooths down some of her frazzled hair.
“Ma’am, I am so sorry about the scene out here tonight," he murmurs to her, truly sorry he hadn't thought about this. "I shouldn’t have used a different last name to introduce John tonight, should have left it John Lewis...”
“No, Major, I’m glad you did. It's who I wanted him to be,” and she starts to push herself up, letting her son help her all the way. She looks up at the teen, smiling a little. “I’m so proud of him.”
John’s mute. Embarrassed, maybe, the slightest bit of a blush starting to creep over his cheeks, and Russ has a flash of memory, of this boy as he’d had him that night, almost had him, shoved against a wall, all raw need, body begging...but then Russ had started thinking. About how young he is. About how he was going to be a cadet, hopefully. About how wrong it could be to do that to him, take him like that...
Not the time, Russ tells himself. Not the goddamn time.
“You should be, ma’am. He’s a fine boy. You raised him right.”
Her eyes tear up a bit. “No, I think it was in spite of me.”
That gets her a hug from John, but the kid’s blue eyes are on him. All the way. Trying to tell him something.
He's pretty sure he already understands.
So Russ nods to the kid, and offers Joyce his arm to walk her back to his car, take her home. “I’m an old friend of John’s, ma’am,” he drawls. “I’m sure you’ve got some questions I can answer for you.”
And she smiles back, just a little bit, as an ambulance comes screaming up the road to the gym.
