Advent '10 Fic: There Is Nothing Here Worth Saving
Title: There Is Nothing Here Worth Saving
Author: heddychaa
Characters: Owen, OFC
Rating: R
Genre: Angst
Wordcount: ~866
Warnings: Dysfunctional family dynamics, mild references to alcoholism and child abuse
Disclaimer: Doctor Who and Torchwood's characters, concepts, and events belong to their respective owners, including but not limited to Russell T Davies, Steven Moffat, and the BBC.
Summary: The nicest thing she ever did for him.
A/N: Advent fic 14! For igrockspock, who requested "Background on Owen's line from Adam: 'Turned sixteen, she packs my bags. That is the nicest thing you’ve done for me in years mother.'" Did double duty for whoverse_las Challenge Ten, based on the quote "The thing about family disasters is that you never have to wait long before the next one puts the previous one into perspective." -Robert Brault. HEY, IF YOU WERE WRITING THIS MUCH, YOU'D BE GETTIN' CREATIVE, TOO. ANYWAY, thank you to azn_jack_fiend, _lullabelle_, and count_to_seven for the support and beta for all of this month's stories!
There Is Nothing Here Worth Saving
Saturday:
She gives him a handful of crumpled bills to take to the chipper. All night, the flat smells of vinegar, every available surface littered with the peony shapes of balled-up greasy newspaper. She says his homework can wait until tomorrow, love, and gathers him too tightly under her arm. Full and fat on battered sausages, up way too late, he wonders if he can absorb this, this rare affection, or if he will just get soggy.
Sunday:
She sleeps until three. He thinks of doing that sheaf of maths questions he’s got stuffed into the back of his textbook, but then catches sight of the drain in kitchen, clogged with her cigarette ends. At seven, after filling several bin liners with rubbish from around their flat, he makes them both beans on toast for tea. She eats hers in her bedroom, thanking him with a kiss to the temple. That night, he lies awake in bed listening to her talking on the phone.
Monday:
She’s gone before he wakes up, having tiptoed out through his barricade of rubbish bags left for her in the front hall. All legs, he stumbles over them and out, locking the door behind him. He leaves the flat with good intentions and the rucksack full of spirals and textbooks to prove it, but then he remembers Friday’s homework and the earful he’ll get for failing to finish it and hops off the bus two stops early. He already knows to delete the truancy message off the answering machine in the living room before she gets home.
She doesn’t ask him how his day went, so he doesn’t have to lie.
Tuesday:
She doesn’t go to work that morning. He wakes to the sound of her crying in her room, big breathless sobs on the verge of sicking. He doesn’t knock on her door to check on her, just heads straight for the kitchen. The bottles she keeps under the sink in amongst the cleaning supplies (three in total at last count, all whiskey, mostly half-empty) are gone. Glaring at the tangled up pair of marigolds and the lonely spray bottle of glass cleaner tucked under the pipes, he slams the cupboard door closed again so hard that a stack of dishes on the counter topples over into the sink.
He spends the evening at the laundrette with his textbook on his lap, watching the soapy water through the glass. Shooed out at closing, ten-to-midnight, he finally goes home.
Wednesday:
She isn’t crying. Not this time. She just sits in the chair beside him, legs crossed and staring straight ahead like she doesn’t even see what’s in front of her. Checked out, his teachers would say (have said, about him.) The principal actually calls her Missus Harper when she first sits down, and she doesn’t even get upset like she usually would, just corrects him in that bland, bored tone without ever meeting his eyes.
He’s surprised she even bothered to get dressed to come here. He’s surprised she bothered to come at all. He’s surprised she’s sober enough to come. And the principal asks Did you know Owen is failing three classes and Did you know that despite being a bright young man Owen struggles to complete assignments on time and Did you know that Owen slept through English this morning and then was defiant, using a rude gesture against his teacher when he was reprimanded and Did you know we take these matters very seriously here?
And she just says Sorry, Sorry, Sorry, No, I do, Sorry.
Thursday:
She says that just because he has a few days off school doesn’t mean he should think it’s a holiday. She tells him she doesn’t care where he goes, but he’s dreaming if he thinks she’ll just let him stay home and watch telly all day. Under his breath, he says if she wants to spend the day pissed and watching East Enders, she should just say so. She shrieks Excuse me at his back, over and over again until he turns around, and he looks at her, then. For the first time in sixteen years he really sees her. Her puffy eyes, her blotchy skin, her matted hair, her clenched jaw, her thin lips, fine lines, sagging neck, faded jumper, trembling legs. He almost says You’re excused, a dry comeback to get the upper hand, but then he decides fuck it and just says what he’s thinking instead. He calls her a drunk, and he calls her a hypocrite, and he tells her if he’s fucked up, if he’s an ASBO, then it’s her fucking fault too because she fucking raised him this way, didn’t she.
She slaps him across the mouth.
She slaps him across the mouth and then she cries.
She cries Sorry, Sorry, Sorry.
Friday:
He comes home in the morning after a long night breaking windows to find the doorstep piled with bulging black bin liners, triple-knotted and stacked in a pyramid.
And isn’t it funny, isn’t it just so damn pathetic, that his first thought is that she’s finally taken out the rubbish?
Author: heddychaa
Characters: Owen, OFC
Rating: R
Genre: Angst
Wordcount: ~866
Warnings: Dysfunctional family dynamics, mild references to alcoholism and child abuse
Disclaimer: Doctor Who and Torchwood's characters, concepts, and events belong to their respective owners, including but not limited to Russell T Davies, Steven Moffat, and the BBC.
Summary: The nicest thing she ever did for him.
A/N: Advent fic 14! For igrockspock, who requested "Background on Owen's line from Adam: 'Turned sixteen, she packs my bags. That is the nicest thing you’ve done for me in years mother.'" Did double duty for whoverse_las Challenge Ten, based on the quote "The thing about family disasters is that you never have to wait long before the next one puts the previous one into perspective." -Robert Brault. HEY, IF YOU WERE WRITING THIS MUCH, YOU'D BE GETTIN' CREATIVE, TOO. ANYWAY, thank you to azn_jack_fiend, _lullabelle_, and count_to_seven for the support and beta for all of this month's stories!
There Is Nothing Here Worth Saving
Saturday:
She gives him a handful of crumpled bills to take to the chipper. All night, the flat smells of vinegar, every available surface littered with the peony shapes of balled-up greasy newspaper. She says his homework can wait until tomorrow, love, and gathers him too tightly under her arm. Full and fat on battered sausages, up way too late, he wonders if he can absorb this, this rare affection, or if he will just get soggy.
Sunday:
She sleeps until three. He thinks of doing that sheaf of maths questions he’s got stuffed into the back of his textbook, but then catches sight of the drain in kitchen, clogged with her cigarette ends. At seven, after filling several bin liners with rubbish from around their flat, he makes them both beans on toast for tea. She eats hers in her bedroom, thanking him with a kiss to the temple. That night, he lies awake in bed listening to her talking on the phone.
Monday:
She’s gone before he wakes up, having tiptoed out through his barricade of rubbish bags left for her in the front hall. All legs, he stumbles over them and out, locking the door behind him. He leaves the flat with good intentions and the rucksack full of spirals and textbooks to prove it, but then he remembers Friday’s homework and the earful he’ll get for failing to finish it and hops off the bus two stops early. He already knows to delete the truancy message off the answering machine in the living room before she gets home.
She doesn’t ask him how his day went, so he doesn’t have to lie.
Tuesday:
She doesn’t go to work that morning. He wakes to the sound of her crying in her room, big breathless sobs on the verge of sicking. He doesn’t knock on her door to check on her, just heads straight for the kitchen. The bottles she keeps under the sink in amongst the cleaning supplies (three in total at last count, all whiskey, mostly half-empty) are gone. Glaring at the tangled up pair of marigolds and the lonely spray bottle of glass cleaner tucked under the pipes, he slams the cupboard door closed again so hard that a stack of dishes on the counter topples over into the sink.
He spends the evening at the laundrette with his textbook on his lap, watching the soapy water through the glass. Shooed out at closing, ten-to-midnight, he finally goes home.
Wednesday:
She isn’t crying. Not this time. She just sits in the chair beside him, legs crossed and staring straight ahead like she doesn’t even see what’s in front of her. Checked out, his teachers would say (have said, about him.) The principal actually calls her Missus Harper when she first sits down, and she doesn’t even get upset like she usually would, just corrects him in that bland, bored tone without ever meeting his eyes.
He’s surprised she even bothered to get dressed to come here. He’s surprised she bothered to come at all. He’s surprised she’s sober enough to come. And the principal asks Did you know Owen is failing three classes and Did you know that despite being a bright young man Owen struggles to complete assignments on time and Did you know that Owen slept through English this morning and then was defiant, using a rude gesture against his teacher when he was reprimanded and Did you know we take these matters very seriously here?
And she just says Sorry, Sorry, Sorry, No, I do, Sorry.
Thursday:
She says that just because he has a few days off school doesn’t mean he should think it’s a holiday. She tells him she doesn’t care where he goes, but he’s dreaming if he thinks she’ll just let him stay home and watch telly all day. Under his breath, he says if she wants to spend the day pissed and watching East Enders, she should just say so. She shrieks Excuse me at his back, over and over again until he turns around, and he looks at her, then. For the first time in sixteen years he really sees her. Her puffy eyes, her blotchy skin, her matted hair, her clenched jaw, her thin lips, fine lines, sagging neck, faded jumper, trembling legs. He almost says You’re excused, a dry comeback to get the upper hand, but then he decides fuck it and just says what he’s thinking instead. He calls her a drunk, and he calls her a hypocrite, and he tells her if he’s fucked up, if he’s an ASBO, then it’s her fucking fault too because she fucking raised him this way, didn’t she.
She slaps him across the mouth.
She slaps him across the mouth and then she cries.
She cries Sorry, Sorry, Sorry.
Friday:
He comes home in the morning after a long night breaking windows to find the doorstep piled with bulging black bin liners, triple-knotted and stacked in a pyramid.
And isn’t it funny, isn’t it just so damn pathetic, that his first thought is that she’s finally taken out the rubbish?