@houdini
(not gonna outright say the actual fandom it's based on since no one really knows it anyway. i mean, the excerpt is literally based on the first episode of this show, so it's really obvious if you do know it)
It was dark in his room, of course. It always was, save for the occasional opening of the curtains. Not that opening the curtains would've helped at that particular moment, seeing as it was just past nine in the evening. Thankfully his lamp would be enough to see by, because this would've been a lot harder in total darkness.
I gestured half-heartedly to the bed, an unnecessary waste of movement since we'd both been through this routine enough times. Countless of times, actually, and that's not even an exaggeration. I lost count over a year ago.
Wordlessly I rifled through his drawer, searching for the first aid kit I kept stashed there. There was a coughing downstairs, but neither of us acknowledged it. We both knew he was getting steadily worse.
I left briefly to dampen a washcloth, returning to find him in the exact same spot with the exact same expression as always. He rarely expressed his emotions willingly, but that didn't stop him from being so damn easy to read.
The bed dipped as I sat beside him, gently guiding his chin towards me so I could clean off the blood. He stared at me, but I stubbornly refused to meet his gaze.
"You're not speaking," he pointed out after a moment. I hummed in agreeance, but stayed otherwise silent.
"…So are you, ah, mad?" he questioned hesitantly, playing with his fingers as he waited.
His accent was something I've always envied. Maybe that was stupid, since everyone always seemed to poke fun at Brockton accents, but I liked them. Or perhaps it was just his. Either way, I grew up in Florida, so when I did speak, it always reminded me of how much I didn't fit in there.
"I'm not mad," I finally mumbled, reaching for the Band-Aids. "I'm worried."
"Why?" he asked simply, tilting his head when I indicated to do so.
"I'm worried you're going to get yourself killed, you idiot." Throwing ice through your father's, nurse's, ex-boyfriend's window, twice, and letting him beat the crap out of you wasn't normal behavior, right? On top of that, declaring yourself to be the girlfriend of a girl you met that day, going to her house and paying this girl a fat stack of money for some lame ass coconut girl scout cookies, and proceeding to get beaten by her father and idiot brothers because of it…Of course I was worried for the idiot.
"Why?" he asked again regardless, the confusion evident in his frown. I didn't answer, pressing a Band-Aid to the cut on his temple. In all likelihood, he'd peel it off within the hour, or before he left the house again. Whichever came first.
When I was finished cleaning him up, I laid back on the bed, shoving the kit to the side so I could get comfortable. After a few seconds I turned to face him again, quietly saying, "I envy you. I really do. And before you ask why…"
He closed his mouth and blinked innocently. I felt the corners of my mouth pull up, but I managed to keep a straight face until my amusement passed.
"You truly do have a 'heart of gold', or whatever the hell they call it. You protect people… And yet, all they ever see are the bad things. I'm worried for you because you never consider your own safety when you're out righting all the wrongs in Brockton. It's like…It's like you're not afraid of dying." I trailed off as he said, "I'm not."
"That's BS," I argued, lowering my voice even more. "Everyone's afraid of death. Even those who wish for it are terrified of the unknown. Maybe you just haven't realized it yet."
He didn't argue, but I knew he didn't agree, either. He was staring at his hands again. With those long ass fingers he should be playing piano or something, not punching the ever living shit out of people everyday. He looked to be having some sort of internal conflict with himself, and I had a pretty good guess as to what it was.
I realized I might've messed up, saying something like that with his father fighting cancer right downstairs, but I couldn't exactly take it back, and I sucked at apologies.
I glanced at the clock. 9:23pm. "I have to go," I said abruptly, practically jumping off the bed. My hand briefly passed through his hair, ridiculously soft for someone who probably didn't care for it properly. Then again, he did love his soaps and their smells. The gesture was supposed to be comforting, an act that could hopefully convey my apology better than my words could.
Unfortunately, the dude had crazy reflexes and had my wrist in his grasp before I could take another step towards the stairs. Maybe he noticed my wince, or maybe he felt bad for grabbing me in the first place, because his grip relaxed almost instantly.
"What–?" I cut myself off when he suddenly pushed the sleeve of my hoodie to my elbow, revealing the varying shades of bruises all over my forearm.
"Tell me who's hurting you," he demanded as I pulled away from him, yanking the sleeve back over the ugly marks. "No one," I replied, voice shaking slightly.
"Will–" "No," I interrupted. There was a hint of hurt in his eyes, but it was lost in the face of his anger. "I'll see you tomorrow," I muttered, spinning and hurriedly descending the stairs, throwing the front door open. He started to say something, but his voice disappeared behind the shut door.
"Goddammit," I breathed, rubbing my eyes. I knew he'd had his suspicions, but I'd assumed his default 'beacon of truth slash golden boy' demeanor would keep him from acting on them. Obviously I was wrong. Now…Now I had to hurry home before I missed curfew.
(idk i'd appreciate any feedback you have. it's, again, really obvious what this is from if you've seen the show)
