WC Fic: Then He Walked Away
Title: Then He Walked Away
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Hughes
Spoilers: None
Content Notice: None
Word Count: ~1,000
Summary: Sequel to Gave Me a Name. Neal confronts Hughes about their shared past.
A/N: When I wrote “Gave Me a Name,” we didn’t know much about Neal’s backstory other than his dad was a dirty cop. I am going to keep that conceit going for this follow-up, which was requested by my good pal elrhiarhodan for my timestamp meme.
Title is a lyric from the song “Father of Mine” by Everclear. Also, this kinda-sorta fills the “undeserved reputation” square on my HC Bingo card
----
I look up wearily as the elevator dings - Parking Level 3 already? I push myself off of the wall I’ve been leaning against on the ride down from the lobby and trudge to where my car is parked. It isn’t far - being an Assistant Director has its perks - and I look forward to getting home and crawling inside a Scotch bottle for a while. I should feel better on a day like today, but I don’t.
I suppose I should have expected to find Neal waiting for me in the car. That he is behind the wheel is surprising. I lean over wearily, rest a hand on my knee and just look at him.
The window comes down and he looks right back at me. In that moment, I know he knows.
He says nothing, but then neither do I, and after a few more moments of this staring contest, I just sigh wearily, walk around to the other side of the car and toss my briefcase on the back seat. The car’s moving before I pull my seatbelt on.
We pull out of the parking garage and into cross-town traffic; it’s after 7:30, so outbound traffic in the tunnel is light. Neither of us says anything.
When we finally stop, we’re in front of what looks like an institutional-type building in a rundown part of Jersey City by the river. It has an iron fence around it, and on top of that sits a lazy furl of razor wire. Behind the fence is a small playground - swings, a sand pit, slides. There are one or two kids on the basketball court.
“This is the group home where I lived once when I was a kid,” Neal says to the steering wheel.
“Neal -“
“After my mother died, there wasn’t anyone to take me, really, so I wound up here.”
I say nothing. I know he’s lying; he knows I know he’s lying, because we both know he grew up in St. Louis and lived with his aunt after his mother died.
“Why did you never come?”
“I couldn’t. I had to leave everything behind.”
“So you could start your new life?”
“So you could too,” I say.
He laughs, more a snort than anything else, and I know I deserve all the bitterness I hear there and more.
“Your mother and I were never good for each other, and we never would be. She didn’t want me around anymore, and I didn’t want to make it any harder.”
He shakes his head and doesn’t look at me.
“She was my CI, did you know that?” That gets his attention. “She worked at a diner where the local wiseguys used to hang out. She’d slip me information every now and then, and I’d -“
“Slip it to her?” he supplies.
I shake my head. “Nothing like that. When things got hairy, she changed jobs, and she wasn’t my CI anymore. But I liked her, so we got together for a little while. Then you came along.”
“You marry her?”
I shake my head. “I wanted to, but Rosalie wasn’t interested in marriage, she was a free spirit. And then… things changed.” Rosalie changed, and the memory of it is still painful. “Today they call it bipolar disorder, but - well, I was young and stupid and a coward then. I left her and my baby boy behind, just because she told me to.”
“She told me you were a dirty cop,” he says, and this surprises me.
I look at him and he meets my eyes and his eyes are exactly like mine and why did I never notice that before?
“I wasn’t,” I say, because why? I still need him to think I’m a good man or something? I don’t even know.
“That’s why I’m the way I am, you know, it’s why I’m a con. I figured the apple wouldn’t have fallen far from the tree.”
I close my eyes. I never wanted to speculate about why he made the choices he had to in his life; here’s proof it was all my fault. “I’m sorry.”
“I think you should be.”
I suddenly want to cry, to yell, to rage about the bad choices I’ve made. I want to throw myself in front of a train, I want to puke, I want to fall into a hole and never come out of it. I know in this moment that I would gladly give it all up if I could have saved my child even one moment of the pain and difficulties he’s had to endure in his life. But I can’t. I never can, and nothing will ever be enough to make up for it.
“What happens now?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
He starts the car again and we’re driving, I notice, West towards the Turnpike. I don’t realize he’s taking me home until we get off on Route 80. At this time of night, it takes less than fifteen more minutes to get to my house.
“You want to come in?” I ask, and I take his silence for a no. I get out and close the door, grab my briefcase from the back seat. I feel, suddenly, so very old as I bend over to look at him one more time.
“I don’t expect this to mean anything to you, Neal, but you’re a good man, and I’m proud of you,” I say.
He nods and I stand. He pulls out of the driveway and drives away.
I wonder if I’ll ever see him again. Or my car.
----
Thank you for your time.
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Hughes
Spoilers: None
Content Notice: None
Word Count: ~1,000
Summary: Sequel to Gave Me a Name. Neal confronts Hughes about their shared past.
A/N: When I wrote “Gave Me a Name,” we didn’t know much about Neal’s backstory other than his dad was a dirty cop. I am going to keep that conceit going for this follow-up, which was requested by my good pal elrhiarhodan for my timestamp meme.
Title is a lyric from the song “Father of Mine” by Everclear. Also, this kinda-sorta fills the “undeserved reputation” square on my HC Bingo card
----
I look up wearily as the elevator dings - Parking Level 3 already? I push myself off of the wall I’ve been leaning against on the ride down from the lobby and trudge to where my car is parked. It isn’t far - being an Assistant Director has its perks - and I look forward to getting home and crawling inside a Scotch bottle for a while. I should feel better on a day like today, but I don’t.
I suppose I should have expected to find Neal waiting for me in the car. That he is behind the wheel is surprising. I lean over wearily, rest a hand on my knee and just look at him.
The window comes down and he looks right back at me. In that moment, I know he knows.
He says nothing, but then neither do I, and after a few more moments of this staring contest, I just sigh wearily, walk around to the other side of the car and toss my briefcase on the back seat. The car’s moving before I pull my seatbelt on.
We pull out of the parking garage and into cross-town traffic; it’s after 7:30, so outbound traffic in the tunnel is light. Neither of us says anything.
When we finally stop, we’re in front of what looks like an institutional-type building in a rundown part of Jersey City by the river. It has an iron fence around it, and on top of that sits a lazy furl of razor wire. Behind the fence is a small playground - swings, a sand pit, slides. There are one or two kids on the basketball court.
“This is the group home where I lived once when I was a kid,” Neal says to the steering wheel.
“Neal -“
“After my mother died, there wasn’t anyone to take me, really, so I wound up here.”
I say nothing. I know he’s lying; he knows I know he’s lying, because we both know he grew up in St. Louis and lived with his aunt after his mother died.
“Why did you never come?”
“I couldn’t. I had to leave everything behind.”
“So you could start your new life?”
“So you could too,” I say.
He laughs, more a snort than anything else, and I know I deserve all the bitterness I hear there and more.
“Your mother and I were never good for each other, and we never would be. She didn’t want me around anymore, and I didn’t want to make it any harder.”
He shakes his head and doesn’t look at me.
“She was my CI, did you know that?” That gets his attention. “She worked at a diner where the local wiseguys used to hang out. She’d slip me information every now and then, and I’d -“
“Slip it to her?” he supplies.
I shake my head. “Nothing like that. When things got hairy, she changed jobs, and she wasn’t my CI anymore. But I liked her, so we got together for a little while. Then you came along.”
“You marry her?”
I shake my head. “I wanted to, but Rosalie wasn’t interested in marriage, she was a free spirit. And then… things changed.” Rosalie changed, and the memory of it is still painful. “Today they call it bipolar disorder, but - well, I was young and stupid and a coward then. I left her and my baby boy behind, just because she told me to.”
“She told me you were a dirty cop,” he says, and this surprises me.
I look at him and he meets my eyes and his eyes are exactly like mine and why did I never notice that before?
“I wasn’t,” I say, because why? I still need him to think I’m a good man or something? I don’t even know.
“That’s why I’m the way I am, you know, it’s why I’m a con. I figured the apple wouldn’t have fallen far from the tree.”
I close my eyes. I never wanted to speculate about why he made the choices he had to in his life; here’s proof it was all my fault. “I’m sorry.”
“I think you should be.”
I suddenly want to cry, to yell, to rage about the bad choices I’ve made. I want to throw myself in front of a train, I want to puke, I want to fall into a hole and never come out of it. I know in this moment that I would gladly give it all up if I could have saved my child even one moment of the pain and difficulties he’s had to endure in his life. But I can’t. I never can, and nothing will ever be enough to make up for it.
“What happens now?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
He starts the car again and we’re driving, I notice, West towards the Turnpike. I don’t realize he’s taking me home until we get off on Route 80. At this time of night, it takes less than fifteen more minutes to get to my house.
“You want to come in?” I ask, and I take his silence for a no. I get out and close the door, grab my briefcase from the back seat. I feel, suddenly, so very old as I bend over to look at him one more time.
“I don’t expect this to mean anything to you, Neal, but you’re a good man, and I’m proud of you,” I say.
He nods and I stand. He pulls out of the driveway and drives away.
I wonder if I’ll ever see him again. Or my car.
----
Thank you for your time.