Hooligan 4 of 4 (fic)
Title: Hooligan 4 of 4
Rating: PG
Warnings: GN-verse
Summary: What Walter learnt at the Home.
Beta: radishface
Posted on kinkmeme 3, in response to captcha prompt, 'Hooligan 14-1'. Redrafted, with additional material. Many thanks to radishface for her excellent beta work!
Continued from Part 3
---
The nurse looked over her glasses, sharp grey eyes trying to drill through his passivity. In one hand, a bag of ice wrapped in what looked like a tea towel. In the other, gauze to wrap around his splint. "Well, Walter, you really must be more careful next time you train," she said. It was difficult to deflect her suspicion but at least she asked no more questions.
---
Walter dove into his studies and his training; he abandoned comics, obtained through dubious sources as they were. He felt vindicated when word filtered down that some of the Minutemen might be Communists. Obvious now the foolishness of reading scripture as entertaining literature. The clarity of the prescriptions and exhortations of the Old Testament and the epistles found resonance in him. Even the ambivalent passages were intriguing; mysteries left across the ages to be deciphered.
Of pleasure--the poetry and the novels, those were the pleasures still retained; an entry into other worlds, far removed from his own (once, daydreamed while writing, and the ink from the fountain pen sprawled on the paper). Then there was flinging his body through space, catching the bars and swinging around them. He lost himself in the rhythm of kicking, punching, jabbing, the thuds of the punching bag, all the while dancing on his feet, bouncing off the training mat.
As for friendship… most of the friends made through Sam, they tumbled away. Nothing to regret. Simply ignored each other when in the same place. In any case, the boys seemed to have moved on to girls now.
What was more important: he had learned important lessons. Had taken part in breaking the law. Had been foolish not to question kindness. Should have asked whether anyone would really want to be his friend.
Possessed by the novelty and excitement, ousting reason. Remembered words and phrases swept through his mind, like disturbed bats; A mistake for the barman to be a drunkard--what else did he miss? Those toys for the favored children ... What did Sam do during the day, when he skipped school?
Walter’s voice deepened, became that of a grown man, his body losing the final vestiges of scrawny boyhood. During this time, the music shifted from Hank Williams and Big Momma Thornton to Bill Haley and the Comets and Elvis. Amongst the teenagers, Sam and his friends included, the boys slicked their hair back and the enterprising among them obtained leather jackets. The girls wore poodle skirts, pedal pushers, and their hair went up in pony tails, a far cry from the decent and properly feminine clothes of the past. All this happened around Walter while he had a deep suspicion of what these changes signified and kept himself apart from them.
He went to a film once: “Two Guns and a Badge”--Walter had a secret liking for westerns. He sat at the back, eating popcorn. But he’d wasn’t used to watching movies on his own. The movies were changing too. Aliens from outer space movies coming to procreate with or decimate the local fertile teenagers. Spoiled children of bloated middle class racing around in motorbikes and expensive leather jackets, torn apart by nothing less than some sort of vague dissatisfaction with their lives and prospects. Hollywood spewing out garbage from its overblown body.
Over time, he worked out that Sam was building his ties outside the school and the home, forging bridges with his father’s business. He would stay away from all of it. These things had always gone on, and would always go on, regardless of what he did. Scum floated from below to rise to the top, a never-ending cycle. Mere humans couldn’t do a thing about it. Walter thought of fire and brimstone, and the twin cities they rained upon from the heavens.
There were times, though, especially when he boxed, a nausea would rise from his stomach into his throat. Something whispered in the dark; kept him awake and wondering at night.
---
Winter 1954
The day before Sam left, he was on the roof smoking a cigarette as Walter climbed up the fire escape.
“Well. Decided you know me, after all? Come to say goodbye to an old friend, have ya?” Sam offered a cigarette to Walter, but shook his head. Sam shrugged and carried on puffing.
“‘Old friend?’” The disbelief in his tone was thick enough to slice.
“Look...” he said to Walter, but he didn’t continue. Instead, he shook his head. “Good times, eh, Kovacs?” Sounding older than his sixteen years, but then again, Sam was always older than his years.
“Been thinking about something I never told you,” Sam said, “about my father. You know, big gangster man, henchmen at his back and call.” Walter nodded cautiously.
“Dad had this thing about being a man, y’know. Used to hit me whenever I cried as a kid, usual stuff. See you know what I mean. I can’t tell you how many times he’d tell me that this or that was pussy. He used to be proud when he got complaints of me fighting at school. Gave me my first beer at eight...”
Although he wondered where this was going, this side of Sam's father intrigued Walter.
Sam continued, “Yeah, my Dad. Anyway, one day, he’s drunk and I’ve done something stupid, I can’t even remember what now. He goes ape-shit, I’m not kidding you, Walter, he lit into me with whatever he could get his hands upon. I’d already hidden away his bat, so he reaches out and…” His voice was breaking. “Picks up this ruler. My steel ruler.”
They were both looking away from each other, Sam lost in his memory, Walter recalling the anticipation before the hitting began, how it was sometimes even worse than the actual punishment.
“Doesn’t care where he hits me. It’s all over my arms and legs, and some cuts ‘cuz he uses the edge too. Long story short, my teacher sees the damage, there’s investigations, and here I am, good ole Charlton.” Sam’s face scrunched up and one hand clutched his knees, the other holding the glowing cigarette while he shook. “I’ll be back with my dad when I leave.”
“Do you have to?” He realized as he said it that he wasn’t just asking about Sam leaving or where he would live.
He understood but shook his head sadly. “Ah, damn it, Kovacs.” He twisted around to look at Walter. “Never thought I’d miss anything about this shithole.” Sam pulled him into a hug.
There was that feeling again, the one Walter didn’t understand, the one that rendered him immobile. He took a deep breath, drawing strength on the last year and then pushed Sam away, saying, “Get your hands off me. Only here to hear the truth. Why?” And he was himself surprised by the multitude of questions he packed into that one word.
Sam smiled. “You know, they tried to give a little bit of shit for not dealing with you properly. Had to knock a few heads together.” Then he looked serious. “Okay. Sure, at the beginning, I was thinking of payback, and sometimes after that. But...” He shrugged, and something in his eyes was deeply frightening, made him skip a breath.
While holding Walter's gaze, he pulled the front of Walter’s shirt, leaned down towards him, face closer than it had ever been. “If you tell anyone anything, I’ll kill you. Understand?” Walter didn’t think this was worth a reply, so he made to remove Sam's hands before he was abruptly released. “Tomorrow, I’m outta here. Don’t s’pose you’ll be wantin’ to hear from me when you get out?”
He didn’t answer. He was imagining Sam one day taking over from his father, and the thing that had gripped his throat tightened.
“Thought you might want one of your own, was going to give it to you, back when...” Sam hesitated. Then he was holding something out in his hand, a pouch of some sort, made of leather. “Take it.” Walter knew he should not, but knowing did not stop him from receiving the offered gift, Sam’s hands against his own and a cool layer of leather in-between. With a soft chuckle, Sam looked away. “Who knows, maybe you’ll change your mind one day.”
He wished he could throw it back at him, but he had no heart to do it. Walter turned on his heel, confused. It must be anger he was feeling and it had been weak to cave and see him one last time.
---
When he returned to his dormitory, Walter unsnapped the pouch and peeled it open, breathing in the new-leather smell. It was a locksmith set: tweezers, pick blades, files and other tools held in place by strips of leather, laid in a bed of velvet, gleaming in a row.
It was so … complete, so new. But that was not the reason he kept it, despite avowing not to do the things he did in those early years at the home. Years later, when he left Charlton, he didn’t think about or acknowledge the real reason for packing it into his suitcase--and never would.
(It was a decade before he used it. The reasons then weren’t the same ones. He probably would have thought they were better ones.)
---
Autumn 1975
The leather was worn, and some other tools had been added over the years: some homemade, others discovered in thrift and secondhand tool shops. The scent of newness was long gone; instead, as with everything he wore, the smell of smoke prevailed.
He began with a tension wrench and hook pick to line the pins along the shear. The mortised steel deadbolt was an expensive, high security model--there were not many other ones in its league--and it had a sidebar that would deter the average thief. It was also one with a security vulnerability, and for this, he'd developed a home made decoder out of brass tubes and a wire, made with tools courtesy of the Nest a while back. Once the pins were properly rotated, he pressed the slider with the pick and the lock opened. The hardest one unlocked, he made short work of the two other more average locks.
He slipped in, shutting the door quietly behind him. Padded silently up the stairs. Found what he was looking for in the second room.
He was reading in bed, white hair now interspersed with blonde. Fear briefly flashed across his face but then he slumped back. “Picks the best locks money can buy, on the shortish side, blended fighting style, southpaw and..." He paused. "Fondness for breaking fingers: kinda knew who you were when I got the details from what was left of my men. Been wondering if you’d ever get around to me.” Quiet laughter.
“Apologies, was held up. But I’m here now.” He pulled his scarf from around his neck. “Old friend.”
The End.
Now with author's notes.
Rating: PG
Warnings: GN-verse
Summary: What Walter learnt at the Home.
Beta: radishface
Posted on kinkmeme 3, in response to captcha prompt, 'Hooligan 14-1'. Redrafted, with additional material. Many thanks to radishface for her excellent beta work!
Continued from Part 3
---
The nurse looked over her glasses, sharp grey eyes trying to drill through his passivity. In one hand, a bag of ice wrapped in what looked like a tea towel. In the other, gauze to wrap around his splint. "Well, Walter, you really must be more careful next time you train," she said. It was difficult to deflect her suspicion but at least she asked no more questions.
---
Walter dove into his studies and his training; he abandoned comics, obtained through dubious sources as they were. He felt vindicated when word filtered down that some of the Minutemen might be Communists. Obvious now the foolishness of reading scripture as entertaining literature. The clarity of the prescriptions and exhortations of the Old Testament and the epistles found resonance in him. Even the ambivalent passages were intriguing; mysteries left across the ages to be deciphered.
Of pleasure--the poetry and the novels, those were the pleasures still retained; an entry into other worlds, far removed from his own (once, daydreamed while writing, and the ink from the fountain pen sprawled on the paper). Then there was flinging his body through space, catching the bars and swinging around them. He lost himself in the rhythm of kicking, punching, jabbing, the thuds of the punching bag, all the while dancing on his feet, bouncing off the training mat.
As for friendship… most of the friends made through Sam, they tumbled away. Nothing to regret. Simply ignored each other when in the same place. In any case, the boys seemed to have moved on to girls now.
What was more important: he had learned important lessons. Had taken part in breaking the law. Had been foolish not to question kindness. Should have asked whether anyone would really want to be his friend.
Possessed by the novelty and excitement, ousting reason. Remembered words and phrases swept through his mind, like disturbed bats; A mistake for the barman to be a drunkard--what else did he miss? Those toys for the favored children ... What did Sam do during the day, when he skipped school?
Walter’s voice deepened, became that of a grown man, his body losing the final vestiges of scrawny boyhood. During this time, the music shifted from Hank Williams and Big Momma Thornton to Bill Haley and the Comets and Elvis. Amongst the teenagers, Sam and his friends included, the boys slicked their hair back and the enterprising among them obtained leather jackets. The girls wore poodle skirts, pedal pushers, and their hair went up in pony tails, a far cry from the decent and properly feminine clothes of the past. All this happened around Walter while he had a deep suspicion of what these changes signified and kept himself apart from them.
He went to a film once: “Two Guns and a Badge”--Walter had a secret liking for westerns. He sat at the back, eating popcorn. But he’d wasn’t used to watching movies on his own. The movies were changing too. Aliens from outer space movies coming to procreate with or decimate the local fertile teenagers. Spoiled children of bloated middle class racing around in motorbikes and expensive leather jackets, torn apart by nothing less than some sort of vague dissatisfaction with their lives and prospects. Hollywood spewing out garbage from its overblown body.
Over time, he worked out that Sam was building his ties outside the school and the home, forging bridges with his father’s business. He would stay away from all of it. These things had always gone on, and would always go on, regardless of what he did. Scum floated from below to rise to the top, a never-ending cycle. Mere humans couldn’t do a thing about it. Walter thought of fire and brimstone, and the twin cities they rained upon from the heavens.
There were times, though, especially when he boxed, a nausea would rise from his stomach into his throat. Something whispered in the dark; kept him awake and wondering at night.
---
Winter 1954
The day before Sam left, he was on the roof smoking a cigarette as Walter climbed up the fire escape.
“Well. Decided you know me, after all? Come to say goodbye to an old friend, have ya?” Sam offered a cigarette to Walter, but shook his head. Sam shrugged and carried on puffing.
“‘Old friend?’” The disbelief in his tone was thick enough to slice.
“Look...” he said to Walter, but he didn’t continue. Instead, he shook his head. “Good times, eh, Kovacs?” Sounding older than his sixteen years, but then again, Sam was always older than his years.
“Been thinking about something I never told you,” Sam said, “about my father. You know, big gangster man, henchmen at his back and call.” Walter nodded cautiously.
“Dad had this thing about being a man, y’know. Used to hit me whenever I cried as a kid, usual stuff. See you know what I mean. I can’t tell you how many times he’d tell me that this or that was pussy. He used to be proud when he got complaints of me fighting at school. Gave me my first beer at eight...”
Although he wondered where this was going, this side of Sam's father intrigued Walter.
Sam continued, “Yeah, my Dad. Anyway, one day, he’s drunk and I’ve done something stupid, I can’t even remember what now. He goes ape-shit, I’m not kidding you, Walter, he lit into me with whatever he could get his hands upon. I’d already hidden away his bat, so he reaches out and…” His voice was breaking. “Picks up this ruler. My steel ruler.”
They were both looking away from each other, Sam lost in his memory, Walter recalling the anticipation before the hitting began, how it was sometimes even worse than the actual punishment.
“Doesn’t care where he hits me. It’s all over my arms and legs, and some cuts ‘cuz he uses the edge too. Long story short, my teacher sees the damage, there’s investigations, and here I am, good ole Charlton.” Sam’s face scrunched up and one hand clutched his knees, the other holding the glowing cigarette while he shook. “I’ll be back with my dad when I leave.”
“Do you have to?” He realized as he said it that he wasn’t just asking about Sam leaving or where he would live.
He understood but shook his head sadly. “Ah, damn it, Kovacs.” He twisted around to look at Walter. “Never thought I’d miss anything about this shithole.” Sam pulled him into a hug.
There was that feeling again, the one Walter didn’t understand, the one that rendered him immobile. He took a deep breath, drawing strength on the last year and then pushed Sam away, saying, “Get your hands off me. Only here to hear the truth. Why?” And he was himself surprised by the multitude of questions he packed into that one word.
Sam smiled. “You know, they tried to give a little bit of shit for not dealing with you properly. Had to knock a few heads together.” Then he looked serious. “Okay. Sure, at the beginning, I was thinking of payback, and sometimes after that. But...” He shrugged, and something in his eyes was deeply frightening, made him skip a breath.
While holding Walter's gaze, he pulled the front of Walter’s shirt, leaned down towards him, face closer than it had ever been. “If you tell anyone anything, I’ll kill you. Understand?” Walter didn’t think this was worth a reply, so he made to remove Sam's hands before he was abruptly released. “Tomorrow, I’m outta here. Don’t s’pose you’ll be wantin’ to hear from me when you get out?”
He didn’t answer. He was imagining Sam one day taking over from his father, and the thing that had gripped his throat tightened.
“Thought you might want one of your own, was going to give it to you, back when...” Sam hesitated. Then he was holding something out in his hand, a pouch of some sort, made of leather. “Take it.” Walter knew he should not, but knowing did not stop him from receiving the offered gift, Sam’s hands against his own and a cool layer of leather in-between. With a soft chuckle, Sam looked away. “Who knows, maybe you’ll change your mind one day.”
He wished he could throw it back at him, but he had no heart to do it. Walter turned on his heel, confused. It must be anger he was feeling and it had been weak to cave and see him one last time.
---
When he returned to his dormitory, Walter unsnapped the pouch and peeled it open, breathing in the new-leather smell. It was a locksmith set: tweezers, pick blades, files and other tools held in place by strips of leather, laid in a bed of velvet, gleaming in a row.
It was so … complete, so new. But that was not the reason he kept it, despite avowing not to do the things he did in those early years at the home. Years later, when he left Charlton, he didn’t think about or acknowledge the real reason for packing it into his suitcase--and never would.
(It was a decade before he used it. The reasons then weren’t the same ones. He probably would have thought they were better ones.)
---
Autumn 1975
The leather was worn, and some other tools had been added over the years: some homemade, others discovered in thrift and secondhand tool shops. The scent of newness was long gone; instead, as with everything he wore, the smell of smoke prevailed.
He began with a tension wrench and hook pick to line the pins along the shear. The mortised steel deadbolt was an expensive, high security model--there were not many other ones in its league--and it had a sidebar that would deter the average thief. It was also one with a security vulnerability, and for this, he'd developed a home made decoder out of brass tubes and a wire, made with tools courtesy of the Nest a while back. Once the pins were properly rotated, he pressed the slider with the pick and the lock opened. The hardest one unlocked, he made short work of the two other more average locks.
He slipped in, shutting the door quietly behind him. Padded silently up the stairs. Found what he was looking for in the second room.
He was reading in bed, white hair now interspersed with blonde. Fear briefly flashed across his face but then he slumped back. “Picks the best locks money can buy, on the shortish side, blended fighting style, southpaw and..." He paused. "Fondness for breaking fingers: kinda knew who you were when I got the details from what was left of my men. Been wondering if you’d ever get around to me.” Quiet laughter.
“Apologies, was held up. But I’m here now.” He pulled his scarf from around his neck. “Old friend.”
The End.
Now with author's notes.