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rainbowfic2013-06-08 03:39 am
thelinesoflearning) wrote in rainbowfic2013-06-08 03:39 am
True Blue #18, Skyblue Pink w/ Striped Polka Dots #5
Name: Morgan
Story: No Child is Spared
Colors: True Blue #18, "Never had a friend like me"; Skyblue Pink with Striped Polka Dots #5, “Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It's not.”
Supplies and Styles: Acrylic: "It's been a no good, very bad day."
Word Count: 1443
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mentions of drug use -- not dwelled on but informs a section of the story.
Notes: Good god has writing been like pulling teeth lately, so I am glad I got this out. I've been wanting to write about these two and their father-son thing for a while now, so.
Also I don't seem to have an author tag?
Nothing about this situation is familiar.
No, that's a lie; pain is nothing new. A twisted ankle may not be quite the same thing as bumps, bruises, and scrapes, but hey, Cliff's had worse than this. He is perfectly capable of handling this. He might have had to call off work tomorrow, but the pain he could do.
It's the boss-man (okay supervisor, but he's close enough) deciding to take a pity on the poor carless kid with no first aid kit and take him home that's weird. And hell, maybe he's an idiot for coming along. Maybe the guy's planning on stringing him up by his damaged ankle and cutting him open. He's not sure anyone saw him hop in, terrible pun absolutely intended, at the bus stop. But Mr. M hasn't done much to make him seem particularly threatening, just helped Cliff hobble to the couch, wrapped his ankle, and disappeared. And not walking home was hard to pass up. Not to mention that real meal that was mentioned.
A blur of black hair catches his eye seconds before a girl practically flings herself onto the other side of the couch. (Seriously? How did he not know Mr. M had a kid? Is there a wife running around somewhere too? Doubtful, no ring, but who knows?) She's got a book hugged to her chest as she eyes him. Maybe he's in her space.
"Hi. Do you know math?"
"Bailey, be careful." Mr. M just appears in the kitchen doorway, and Cliff nearly jumps, wondering if he's going to get in trouble for talking to the kid. Even though she talked to him. And Mr. M brought him in the house. He's not sure how he'd get in trouble for it, but who knows? Then the words actually register. "He's hurt, if you jostle his leg it'll be worse."
"Math isn't going to move his leg."
"Jumping around on the couch too much might. Any allergies?"
It takes a second for him to follow the sudden gear switching. "Just mushrooms."
"How's pork chops sound?"
Like a better meal than he's had since moving out. Cliff's stomach growls at the thought of it. "Really good. Uh. Thanks, Mr. M."
"Phil," Mr. M corrects, disappearing back into the kitchen and leaving Cliff alone with a growingly impatient girl, who opens her book and shoves it under his nose.
"Well?" she asks, and he suppresses the urge to laugh as he takes the book from her.
*
When he gets out of jail, there's only one person he wants to see and it's the only person he's afraid to talk to. Even though they spoke, briefly, and Phil said he understood, Cliff can barely stomach the thought of looking at him. He can't imagine telling Bailey why he disappeared, can't think of how he's going to make it up to her. Can't figure out how to prove that it was a one-time thing, a slip off of the wagon that he'll never repeat. Especially when he's not sure that's true, and every day out is a day he wants nothing more than a high.
So he doesn't go see them. He gets set up in a crappy apartment instead of crashing on their couch like he had been before. He gets the worst job he's had yet. He doesn't call or email or try to explain. He doesn't do anything, and three weeks after he gets out he gets out of work to find Phil sitting on the steps of his building.
"How'd you get my address?" is the only thing Cliff can think to say, standing there with condensation dropping off his lone grocery bag onto his feet, key making impressions in his hand from how hard his hand has tightened around it.
"Mutual friend." And he has no idea who Phil's talking about, but he doesn't really care when he goes on. "You didn't get in touch. Bailey misses you, you know."
"She does?" He swallows hard around the lump in his throat at the thought of her, teeth clenching.
"Yeah. She won't play Candyland with anyone else." Phil smiles a little, getting to his feet. "I missed you too, you know."
"Oh. I thought...."
"I wouldn't understand?" He shakes his head. "I don't. I've never been through this, so I can't. But I'm not angry at you. I'm not leaving you alone with my daughter until I'm sure you're staying clean," Phil adds, and yeah, that's smart parenting, but it hurts. The hand on his shoulder helps a little though. "But you can always come see us. You're a friend. We don't abandon friends because they make mistakes."
"I didn't mean to," Cliff says, voice small as he drops his gaze to the ground. He feels like a kid trying to explain why he broke something -- except so, so much worse, because Phil's been better to him than his parents or foster parents ever were, and this is so much worse than breaking a damn vase. "I'm sorry. "
"I know. If I didn't think you were, I wouldn't be here."
Cliff takes a shuddery breath, jaw tightening more, trying not to let out tears of sheer relief, and of course that's when Phil hugs him, because sometimes he thinks the man lives to destroy his resolve to act like an adult. He hugs him anyway though, groceries and all, because he missed this. He missed them.
"Come with me to pick Bailey up. You can come over for dinner," Phil offers, and Cliff nods, not entirely trusting his stupid voice not to crack. "Hey. It's going to be okay, all right? You'll get through this."
It's what Cliff's been telling himself, again and again, but with Phil saying it, it's a little easier to believe.
*
The first day on the job is great. The second is better.
The third is hell. The third is the girl in the front room not paying any attention to her job, no matter how busy they get. It's Phil getting angry at him for prioritizing the wrong thing during the rush. It's some angry chick getting pissed off at him for no apparent reason, even though she's the one in his space, and then finding out she's their goddamn delivery driver. It's some idiot who's apparently the boss' best friend trying to film in the office during their second rush. It's too much pressure and too little time to clean everything how he likes it and too little certainty and not knowing if he's in the wrong damn job.
But the day ends, and instead of letting him go home to blast music and try to get ready for tomorrow, Phil nearly drags him back into the kitchen. The boss – Dave – is standing at the oven, and he apologises as he works over a bowl, explaining that he's still getting used to this many customers. Talking about how he'll talk to Anya (and Cliff isn't sure if that's new register girl or angry chick, but both of them need to be talked to and possibly fired in his opinion) and Teddy (that, he's pretty sure, is the guy with the camera) and see if they can avoid some of the problems tomorrow. Phil pulls two stools in and practically manhandles him down onto one of them, handing him a juice box and giving him a look that says 'stay or I'm going to be very annoyed and you will have a Disappointed voicemail tomorrow'.
He really hates Phil's Disappointed speeches. He stays.
And discovers that his new boss is one of the nicest men in New York.
For almost two hours they shoot the breeze, talking about their apartments, about how Dave started cooking and what Cliff does in his spare time, hearing pieces and anecdotes from Phil's ridiculously long list of former careers. The cookies come out of the oven, and instead of being wrapped up for delivery they're set out for them to pick at, and turn out to be even better than they've looked all day.
It's not loud music or movies with lots of explosions or board games with Bailey; it's not any of his usual ways of decompressing. It's not something he thinks he can do every day, even if Dave is really, surprisingly nice. It's nice, though. It's something he could maybe get used to, and the reassurances help. It is only day three. Maybe it's not the wrong job after all.
The next day, when he gets in, there's an apple pie sitting on his counter, still steaming, and Phil's propped the door open between his bakery and Cliff's little decorating room.
And yeah, Cliff is pretty sure he can get used to working here – angry delivery drivers, spacey cashiers, camera guys and all.
Story: No Child is Spared
Colors: True Blue #18, "Never had a friend like me"; Skyblue Pink with Striped Polka Dots #5, “Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It's not.”
Supplies and Styles: Acrylic: "It's been a no good, very bad day."
Word Count: 1443
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mentions of drug use -- not dwelled on but informs a section of the story.
Notes: Good god has writing been like pulling teeth lately, so I am glad I got this out. I've been wanting to write about these two and their father-son thing for a while now, so.
Also I don't seem to have an author tag?
Nothing about this situation is familiar.
No, that's a lie; pain is nothing new. A twisted ankle may not be quite the same thing as bumps, bruises, and scrapes, but hey, Cliff's had worse than this. He is perfectly capable of handling this. He might have had to call off work tomorrow, but the pain he could do.
It's the boss-man (okay supervisor, but he's close enough) deciding to take a pity on the poor carless kid with no first aid kit and take him home that's weird. And hell, maybe he's an idiot for coming along. Maybe the guy's planning on stringing him up by his damaged ankle and cutting him open. He's not sure anyone saw him hop in, terrible pun absolutely intended, at the bus stop. But Mr. M hasn't done much to make him seem particularly threatening, just helped Cliff hobble to the couch, wrapped his ankle, and disappeared. And not walking home was hard to pass up. Not to mention that real meal that was mentioned.
A blur of black hair catches his eye seconds before a girl practically flings herself onto the other side of the couch. (Seriously? How did he not know Mr. M had a kid? Is there a wife running around somewhere too? Doubtful, no ring, but who knows?) She's got a book hugged to her chest as she eyes him. Maybe he's in her space.
"Hi. Do you know math?"
"Bailey, be careful." Mr. M just appears in the kitchen doorway, and Cliff nearly jumps, wondering if he's going to get in trouble for talking to the kid. Even though she talked to him. And Mr. M brought him in the house. He's not sure how he'd get in trouble for it, but who knows? Then the words actually register. "He's hurt, if you jostle his leg it'll be worse."
"Math isn't going to move his leg."
"Jumping around on the couch too much might. Any allergies?"
It takes a second for him to follow the sudden gear switching. "Just mushrooms."
"How's pork chops sound?"
Like a better meal than he's had since moving out. Cliff's stomach growls at the thought of it. "Really good. Uh. Thanks, Mr. M."
"Phil," Mr. M corrects, disappearing back into the kitchen and leaving Cliff alone with a growingly impatient girl, who opens her book and shoves it under his nose.
"Well?" she asks, and he suppresses the urge to laugh as he takes the book from her.
*
When he gets out of jail, there's only one person he wants to see and it's the only person he's afraid to talk to. Even though they spoke, briefly, and Phil said he understood, Cliff can barely stomach the thought of looking at him. He can't imagine telling Bailey why he disappeared, can't think of how he's going to make it up to her. Can't figure out how to prove that it was a one-time thing, a slip off of the wagon that he'll never repeat. Especially when he's not sure that's true, and every day out is a day he wants nothing more than a high.
So he doesn't go see them. He gets set up in a crappy apartment instead of crashing on their couch like he had been before. He gets the worst job he's had yet. He doesn't call or email or try to explain. He doesn't do anything, and three weeks after he gets out he gets out of work to find Phil sitting on the steps of his building.
"How'd you get my address?" is the only thing Cliff can think to say, standing there with condensation dropping off his lone grocery bag onto his feet, key making impressions in his hand from how hard his hand has tightened around it.
"Mutual friend." And he has no idea who Phil's talking about, but he doesn't really care when he goes on. "You didn't get in touch. Bailey misses you, you know."
"She does?" He swallows hard around the lump in his throat at the thought of her, teeth clenching.
"Yeah. She won't play Candyland with anyone else." Phil smiles a little, getting to his feet. "I missed you too, you know."
"Oh. I thought...."
"I wouldn't understand?" He shakes his head. "I don't. I've never been through this, so I can't. But I'm not angry at you. I'm not leaving you alone with my daughter until I'm sure you're staying clean," Phil adds, and yeah, that's smart parenting, but it hurts. The hand on his shoulder helps a little though. "But you can always come see us. You're a friend. We don't abandon friends because they make mistakes."
"I didn't mean to," Cliff says, voice small as he drops his gaze to the ground. He feels like a kid trying to explain why he broke something -- except so, so much worse, because Phil's been better to him than his parents or foster parents ever were, and this is so much worse than breaking a damn vase. "I'm sorry. "
"I know. If I didn't think you were, I wouldn't be here."
Cliff takes a shuddery breath, jaw tightening more, trying not to let out tears of sheer relief, and of course that's when Phil hugs him, because sometimes he thinks the man lives to destroy his resolve to act like an adult. He hugs him anyway though, groceries and all, because he missed this. He missed them.
"Come with me to pick Bailey up. You can come over for dinner," Phil offers, and Cliff nods, not entirely trusting his stupid voice not to crack. "Hey. It's going to be okay, all right? You'll get through this."
It's what Cliff's been telling himself, again and again, but with Phil saying it, it's a little easier to believe.
*
The first day on the job is great. The second is better.
The third is hell. The third is the girl in the front room not paying any attention to her job, no matter how busy they get. It's Phil getting angry at him for prioritizing the wrong thing during the rush. It's some angry chick getting pissed off at him for no apparent reason, even though she's the one in his space, and then finding out she's their goddamn delivery driver. It's some idiot who's apparently the boss' best friend trying to film in the office during their second rush. It's too much pressure and too little time to clean everything how he likes it and too little certainty and not knowing if he's in the wrong damn job.
But the day ends, and instead of letting him go home to blast music and try to get ready for tomorrow, Phil nearly drags him back into the kitchen. The boss – Dave – is standing at the oven, and he apologises as he works over a bowl, explaining that he's still getting used to this many customers. Talking about how he'll talk to Anya (and Cliff isn't sure if that's new register girl or angry chick, but both of them need to be talked to and possibly fired in his opinion) and Teddy (that, he's pretty sure, is the guy with the camera) and see if they can avoid some of the problems tomorrow. Phil pulls two stools in and practically manhandles him down onto one of them, handing him a juice box and giving him a look that says 'stay or I'm going to be very annoyed and you will have a Disappointed voicemail tomorrow'.
He really hates Phil's Disappointed speeches. He stays.
And discovers that his new boss is one of the nicest men in New York.
For almost two hours they shoot the breeze, talking about their apartments, about how Dave started cooking and what Cliff does in his spare time, hearing pieces and anecdotes from Phil's ridiculously long list of former careers. The cookies come out of the oven, and instead of being wrapped up for delivery they're set out for them to pick at, and turn out to be even better than they've looked all day.
It's not loud music or movies with lots of explosions or board games with Bailey; it's not any of his usual ways of decompressing. It's not something he thinks he can do every day, even if Dave is really, surprisingly nice. It's nice, though. It's something he could maybe get used to, and the reassurances help. It is only day three. Maybe it's not the wrong job after all.
The next day, when he gets in, there's an apple pie sitting on his counter, still steaming, and Phil's propped the door open between his bakery and Cliff's little decorating room.
And yeah, Cliff is pretty sure he can get used to working here – angry delivery drivers, spacey cashiers, camera guys and all.
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