fic: Castaway (1/2)
hi! this is my first time posting here. I've been out of the Static Shock fandom for a few years, I think - hard to tell, because I rotate in and out of fandoms - but now I'm back! not that I ever posted here before that, as implied by my first sentence... anyways. I bring you fic. and I will also probably be bringing fanart soon. hopefully that will liven things up a bit.
Aaand Fic! unbeta'd because if I wait until I find a beta then I will never post it. I don't post the majority of the fics that I write because I'm SUCH A PERFECTIONIST, GOD WHY. also a procrastinator.
Title: Castaway (pt 1/2) Unwell (pt 1/?)
rating: .... I don't know. warnings are a better way to determine things!
Warnings: uh, sort of child abuse? and angst.
Spoilers: Sons of the Fathers and Gear
summary: Richie gets in a fight with his dad. really, the whole thing probably wouldn't be as bad if he'd just remembered to grab some shoes before leaving.
length: ~2,700 words
Disclaimer: if I owned Static Shock, don't you think it would still be on air? not mine, sadly, or we'd have a box set, too.
Notes: When my best friend was kicked out of her father's house a few years ago, she left with literally only the clothes on her back. she walked barefoot to the house of a friend who lived in the neighborhood and got a ride to her mother's house. She was dealing with an entirely different kind of abuse, but that's part of what inspired this. The title is from the Matchbox20 song Unwell.
It wasn’t that his dad hadn’t tried to change after finding out that his son’s best friend was black, because he had. Tried, that is. As far as actually changing went there hadn’t been much progress. It was possible that Richie was being a little overly hard on his father, because after all, it wasn’t easy to change a view that one had held for an entire lifetime, even if that view was completely and totally ridiculous. (Richie had meant it when he’d called his dad’s racism ‘stupid,’ even if, in retrospect, it made him sound… well, stupid. The actions that racism led people to were mostly terrifying, but the ideology itself was just stupid.) Maybe that was why Richie couldn’t quite believe that he was being too hard on his dad; it wasn’t easy to find sympathy for bigots, wasn’t easy to try looking at things from their perspective, because hate and ignorance don’t do a lot to make people empathize. But really, Richie didn’t think he was being too hard on his dad, because his dad hadn’t actually changed. Oh, sure, he’d stopped ranting about how blacks were ruining society, but if he’d had a bad day at work (which was nearly every day), it was black coworkers that he complained about, speaking about them with a particular contempt that was absent when he talked about his white coworkers, who were always referred to by name and never by their race. The only thing that Mr. Foley had changed was the way that he talked, and even that hadn’t changed much. In some ways it had gotten worse, because now, unable to rant about blacks without fearing that Richie would run away again, he had taken to complaining about a different group, unknowingly alienating his son even further. Homosexuals were even worse than blacks, because they were perverts, deviants twisting the fabric of society with the intent of destroying it for absolutely no reason at all. Blacks, at least, couldn’t help that they were born black. Gays, though? They were just sick in the head.
So no, Richie didn’t really think he was being overly hard on his father, because his father was still a bigot, and the little bit of effort he had made to change was too little, too late for Richie. Still. He had gotten plenty of practice over the years, practice with not responding, with just keeping his head down and biting his tongue to keep from saying anything even though he hated himself for it because his life would only get worse if he started butting heads with his dad. He’d had a fantasy for years and years of just waiting until he was eighteen and then telling his father all of those things he’d kept bottled up inside, every time that he’d had to sit there and listen while his dad boiled over with hatred and ignorance, and then leaving, finding a place on his own, and maybe then his mom would finally divorce the guy and they could just… he could move in with his mom and everything would be so much better, neither of them suffocating under his father’s wrath, and why hadn’t she divorced him yet anyways? Hell, forget divorce, why had she married the guy to begin with? Not that Richie was complaining, as he owed his existence to the union, and he rather liked existing, although he knew logically that if he hadn’t been born then he wouldn’t miss any of it because he wouldn’t- anyways, couldn’t it have been a one night stand or something instead? His mom was meek around her husband, practically a doormat, but Richie knew that that wasn’t the case in most other situations. Couldn’t she have just raised him as a single mother? Except that if it weren’t for his dad’s job they wouldn’t have moved to Dakota in the first place and then Richie wouldn’t have Virgil, ironically enough, and as much as he hated- as much as he wished things were different, he wouldn’t change a thing if it meant he and Virgil wouldn’t be friends.
But that hadn’t been where his original train of thought had been heading, Richie thought as he walked, arms folded close together for warmth and eyes glued to the ground in front of him, watching out for bits of glass and metal to avoid. Since becoming a genius his “mental train station,” as it were, had grown exponentially, with thoughts taking so many different paths that it was a wonder he hadn’t gone insane yet. Actually, it was probably less of a wonder and more of thank-god-for-Virgil thing, but that was also an entirely different topic. The thing that Richie couldn’t figure out was why he had opened his mouth this time. He’d spent almost sixteen years dealing with his father’s seemingly endless rage at every person who was even minutely different from what he deemed the norm. As a kid it had always been blacks, and then as Richie got older it was him, too, because he wasn’t the son that his father had expected. Not the son that his father hadn’t wanted, because even though he was terrible at showing it Sean Foley did love his son, but definitely not what his father had been expecting in a son. So it wasn’t even that he wasn’t used to his father’s rage being aimed at him, because he’d had as much if not more experience being the object of his father’s rants as hearing his father go off about African-Americans. Particularly now that his father had bang babies and gays to rant about as well.
It hadn’t really been anything different tonight. His dad was dominating the conversation at dinner, if a tirade could be called conversation, in a particularly foul mood because Maggie wasn’t there, working late- which meant that dinner was warmed up and not fresh - and for some reason, Richie couldn’t hold back any more. He couldn’t remember exactly what it was that his father had said, couldn’t even really remember what he’d said, but it had escalated quickly. He was yelling, because his dad was yelling, and then they were both standing up, chairs pushed away from the table and food forgotten, and he’d said something that had made his father particularly mad, he wasn’t sure what, and suddenly he was stumbling backwards, glasses askew and a throbbing pain on the side of his face, and then he tripped over the chair and was sitting on the floor, staring up at his father’s livid face. “Get out,” his father had hissed, pointing to the door as though Richie needed directions, “I will not tolerate that kind of talk or that kind of behavior in this house, and if you can’t keep your mouth shut and show some respect then you don’t belong in this house. Out.”
“See, that’s the problem here,” Richie had said as he stood up and straightened his glasses, “you won’t tolerate anything.” Without waiting for a response and too angry to think about logical things like shoes and jackets Richie had left, going out the back door because even though his mind was too preoccupied to think about things that he needed it had plenty of room to be spiteful, although going out the back door when his father had pointed to front door was not, in the grand scheme of things, a particularly spiteful thing to do.
And now, here he was. Barefoot, wearing nothing but baggy jeans and a hoodie, wandering the streets of Dakota. In winter. At least it wasn’t snowing this time. I guess next time I should run away in the spring, Richie thought, but it wasn’t really funny. When he’d first stepped out of the house, he’d still been running on the adrenaline from the fight. He could have gone back inside and grabbed shoes and a jacket, but how would that look? Like surrender. Like a laugh-track moment in a sitcom where everything was going to be alright in the end. No, at first, he’d just started walking, as good as oblivious to the fact that he wasn’t wearing shoes or weather appropriate attire. That hadn’t lasted long.
Without thinking about it, Richie had started walking in the direction of the Hawkins residence. He was almost there, now, but it had taken him a lot longer than it would have under normal circumstances. It wasn’t because he was barefoot, feet shifting from bright red to a dangerous blue and quite possibly cut in more than one place without his knowing it because they were so cold, and it wasn’t because he was so caught up in his thoughts that he wasn’t paying attention to the speed he was walking at. No, it was just that Richie could be stubborn, too. People tended to underestimate him, not just as Richie Foley but as Gear too, and it was mainly because people were comparing him to Virgil, or to Static. Actually, Richie was fairly certain that people would have underestimated him even without V’s presence, because he was just one of those people that didn’t seem likely to do much of anything worth noting. Really, if it weren’t for Virgil, they’d probably be right- if it weren’t for Virgil then… well, Richie didn’t have much going for him.
The point was that when compared to Virgil, Richie wasn’t much. And people were always comparing them, even if only subconsciously, because they were always together. Until the events that led to Richie becoming Gear, Richie had been a B- average student. Most of his grades had been high Cs and low Bs, and that was partly from not trying but it was also just that learning was hard. And actually, that was probably why he hadn’t been trying. Teachers and his father had always just said he was stupid or lazy for not getting what they were trying to teach him, and Richie had always kind of believed them. Thinking about it, it seemed more likely that he’d had an undiagnosed learning disability and- that’s not the point, Richie thought, narrowing his eyes as he cut off the train of thought. The point was, until the big bang, Virgil had been the smarter of the two of them. Virgil had been the more confident of the two, which had only increased with him becoming Static. Richie was bullied less than V, but that had more to do with the fact that he had plenty of practice with just ducking his head and shutting up, while V’s dad had always encouraged his son to stand up for what he believed. Richie was just the class clown. Harmless, stupid, obnoxious, but occasionally funny, which made it acceptable. People had always underestimated him, and probably always would, and maybe he deserved some of that, because it wasn’t as if some of it wasn’t true. His usual response in a situation of fight or flight was flee, Richie, flee! So far it had kept him alive, so he wasn’t going to regret that, but Richie could be stubborn too. Maybe it didn’t show as often in him as it did in Virgil, but Richie Foley could be stubborn.
And it was stubbornness that had slowed him down as he walked the distance between his house and Virgil’s. He wasn’t stupid. He knew that for the sake of his health he should have walked faster, or, heck, called V on the shock vox and gotten picked up rather than stay out in the cold, but he also wasn’t oblivious to the fact that Virgil was always saving him. He didn’t mind it, most of the time. It was annoying, sure, and it really only encouraged the papers to call him Static’s sidekick instead of his partner, but it wasn’t like it happened more than once a month (to hear the Flash tell it it was every other day that Richie needed saving, but the Flash was a lying liar who lied and a bit of a drama llama to boot, albeit one with a heart of gold).
But even outside of the superhero business, Virgil saved him a lot, too, perhaps more, though not in ways that were obvious or involved hostage situations (although that had happened too). And ever since finding out what exactly Richie’s home life was like, V had had this… look to him, a sort of anticipation that reared its head every time Richie’s dad came up in conversation, like he was ready to just swoop in there and save Richie. It wasn’t that Richie didn’t understand why or didn’t appreciate that his friend was willing to do just about anything for him. It was just…
Richie stopped, closing his eyes and letting his head fall forward, and didn’t cry. He sighed, his breath visible in the cold, and for a moment that was all he could stand to do. Just breathe and maybe that would be enough. He had uncrossed his arms and jammed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, even though it was warmer with his arms crossed and his hands tucked into his armpits. He didn’t even try to deny that he was punishing himself. He knew, logically, that it wasn’t his fault. In the sense of cause and effect, yes, if he hadn’t said anything then he wouldn’t be here now, but in the sense that he had no control over the way his dad was, no, he wasn’t at fault. His dad and his teachers and all of those people who had underestimated him were wrong, not just in light of his current status as a super-genius but in the grand scheme of things, they were wrong about him.
He knew all of that, clearly and logically laid out in his mind like the schematics of an invention, but becoming a super-genius had not changed the fact that he was human. He wasn’t at fault, but he hurt. He was angry, and since he couldn’t hurt his dad directly, he’d go the indirect route… even if that meant hurting himself. At least that way the outside and the inside were in balance.
He stood there a moment longer, allowing the emotional part of his brain to take control. Richie sighed again, running a hand shakily through his hair before jamming it back into the relative warmth of his pocket. The side of his face stung from his father’s backhand, and his feet were so numb with cold that he half believed they were burning, and… “Virgil will kill me if I get hypothermia,” he said on an exhale, managing a small smile before opening his eyes again. The Hawkins residence was right in front of him.
Richie walked up the steps, stood in front of the door, and hesitated, finger hovering above the doorbell. “C’mon, Foley,” he whispered, unsure if his voice was shaky because of cold or because of fear, “you’ve taken on guys like Ebon. It won’t kill you to ring your best friend’s doorbell.” He still hesitated. Just do it, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut, and then… he had done it. “Damn it,” he hissed, shoving his hand back into his pocket as though it had been burned. He hated this. Hated being seen as a victim, hated that someone would probably tell him he was braver for reaching out than if he had just stayed on the streets, hated that now was the moment when he couldn’t seem to keep a few stray tears from escaping his eyes.
He opened his eyes when he heard the door swing open, managing a wan smile as he greeted his friend. “Hey V. Mind if I sleep over tonight?”
Please feel free to leave constructive criticism! or notes on formatting, etc, etc.
Aaand Fic! unbeta'd because if I wait until I find a beta then I will never post it. I don't post the majority of the fics that I write because I'm SUCH A PERFECTIONIST, GOD WHY. also a procrastinator.
Title: Castaway (pt 1/2) Unwell (pt 1/?)
rating: .... I don't know. warnings are a better way to determine things!
Warnings: uh, sort of child abuse? and angst.
Spoilers: Sons of the Fathers and Gear
summary: Richie gets in a fight with his dad. really, the whole thing probably wouldn't be as bad if he'd just remembered to grab some shoes before leaving.
length: ~2,700 words
Disclaimer: if I owned Static Shock, don't you think it would still be on air? not mine, sadly, or we'd have a box set, too.
Notes: When my best friend was kicked out of her father's house a few years ago, she left with literally only the clothes on her back. she walked barefoot to the house of a friend who lived in the neighborhood and got a ride to her mother's house. She was dealing with an entirely different kind of abuse, but that's part of what inspired this. The title is from the Matchbox20 song Unwell.
It wasn’t that his dad hadn’t tried to change after finding out that his son’s best friend was black, because he had. Tried, that is. As far as actually changing went there hadn’t been much progress. It was possible that Richie was being a little overly hard on his father, because after all, it wasn’t easy to change a view that one had held for an entire lifetime, even if that view was completely and totally ridiculous. (Richie had meant it when he’d called his dad’s racism ‘stupid,’ even if, in retrospect, it made him sound… well, stupid. The actions that racism led people to were mostly terrifying, but the ideology itself was just stupid.) Maybe that was why Richie couldn’t quite believe that he was being too hard on his dad; it wasn’t easy to find sympathy for bigots, wasn’t easy to try looking at things from their perspective, because hate and ignorance don’t do a lot to make people empathize. But really, Richie didn’t think he was being too hard on his dad, because his dad hadn’t actually changed. Oh, sure, he’d stopped ranting about how blacks were ruining society, but if he’d had a bad day at work (which was nearly every day), it was black coworkers that he complained about, speaking about them with a particular contempt that was absent when he talked about his white coworkers, who were always referred to by name and never by their race. The only thing that Mr. Foley had changed was the way that he talked, and even that hadn’t changed much. In some ways it had gotten worse, because now, unable to rant about blacks without fearing that Richie would run away again, he had taken to complaining about a different group, unknowingly alienating his son even further. Homosexuals were even worse than blacks, because they were perverts, deviants twisting the fabric of society with the intent of destroying it for absolutely no reason at all. Blacks, at least, couldn’t help that they were born black. Gays, though? They were just sick in the head.
So no, Richie didn’t really think he was being overly hard on his father, because his father was still a bigot, and the little bit of effort he had made to change was too little, too late for Richie. Still. He had gotten plenty of practice over the years, practice with not responding, with just keeping his head down and biting his tongue to keep from saying anything even though he hated himself for it because his life would only get worse if he started butting heads with his dad. He’d had a fantasy for years and years of just waiting until he was eighteen and then telling his father all of those things he’d kept bottled up inside, every time that he’d had to sit there and listen while his dad boiled over with hatred and ignorance, and then leaving, finding a place on his own, and maybe then his mom would finally divorce the guy and they could just… he could move in with his mom and everything would be so much better, neither of them suffocating under his father’s wrath, and why hadn’t she divorced him yet anyways? Hell, forget divorce, why had she married the guy to begin with? Not that Richie was complaining, as he owed his existence to the union, and he rather liked existing, although he knew logically that if he hadn’t been born then he wouldn’t miss any of it because he wouldn’t- anyways, couldn’t it have been a one night stand or something instead? His mom was meek around her husband, practically a doormat, but Richie knew that that wasn’t the case in most other situations. Couldn’t she have just raised him as a single mother? Except that if it weren’t for his dad’s job they wouldn’t have moved to Dakota in the first place and then Richie wouldn’t have Virgil, ironically enough, and as much as he hated- as much as he wished things were different, he wouldn’t change a thing if it meant he and Virgil wouldn’t be friends.
But that hadn’t been where his original train of thought had been heading, Richie thought as he walked, arms folded close together for warmth and eyes glued to the ground in front of him, watching out for bits of glass and metal to avoid. Since becoming a genius his “mental train station,” as it were, had grown exponentially, with thoughts taking so many different paths that it was a wonder he hadn’t gone insane yet. Actually, it was probably less of a wonder and more of thank-god-for-Virgil thing, but that was also an entirely different topic. The thing that Richie couldn’t figure out was why he had opened his mouth this time. He’d spent almost sixteen years dealing with his father’s seemingly endless rage at every person who was even minutely different from what he deemed the norm. As a kid it had always been blacks, and then as Richie got older it was him, too, because he wasn’t the son that his father had expected. Not the son that his father hadn’t wanted, because even though he was terrible at showing it Sean Foley did love his son, but definitely not what his father had been expecting in a son. So it wasn’t even that he wasn’t used to his father’s rage being aimed at him, because he’d had as much if not more experience being the object of his father’s rants as hearing his father go off about African-Americans. Particularly now that his father had bang babies and gays to rant about as well.
It hadn’t really been anything different tonight. His dad was dominating the conversation at dinner, if a tirade could be called conversation, in a particularly foul mood because Maggie wasn’t there, working late- which meant that dinner was warmed up and not fresh - and for some reason, Richie couldn’t hold back any more. He couldn’t remember exactly what it was that his father had said, couldn’t even really remember what he’d said, but it had escalated quickly. He was yelling, because his dad was yelling, and then they were both standing up, chairs pushed away from the table and food forgotten, and he’d said something that had made his father particularly mad, he wasn’t sure what, and suddenly he was stumbling backwards, glasses askew and a throbbing pain on the side of his face, and then he tripped over the chair and was sitting on the floor, staring up at his father’s livid face. “Get out,” his father had hissed, pointing to the door as though Richie needed directions, “I will not tolerate that kind of talk or that kind of behavior in this house, and if you can’t keep your mouth shut and show some respect then you don’t belong in this house. Out.”
“See, that’s the problem here,” Richie had said as he stood up and straightened his glasses, “you won’t tolerate anything.” Without waiting for a response and too angry to think about logical things like shoes and jackets Richie had left, going out the back door because even though his mind was too preoccupied to think about things that he needed it had plenty of room to be spiteful, although going out the back door when his father had pointed to front door was not, in the grand scheme of things, a particularly spiteful thing to do.
And now, here he was. Barefoot, wearing nothing but baggy jeans and a hoodie, wandering the streets of Dakota. In winter. At least it wasn’t snowing this time. I guess next time I should run away in the spring, Richie thought, but it wasn’t really funny. When he’d first stepped out of the house, he’d still been running on the adrenaline from the fight. He could have gone back inside and grabbed shoes and a jacket, but how would that look? Like surrender. Like a laugh-track moment in a sitcom where everything was going to be alright in the end. No, at first, he’d just started walking, as good as oblivious to the fact that he wasn’t wearing shoes or weather appropriate attire. That hadn’t lasted long.
Without thinking about it, Richie had started walking in the direction of the Hawkins residence. He was almost there, now, but it had taken him a lot longer than it would have under normal circumstances. It wasn’t because he was barefoot, feet shifting from bright red to a dangerous blue and quite possibly cut in more than one place without his knowing it because they were so cold, and it wasn’t because he was so caught up in his thoughts that he wasn’t paying attention to the speed he was walking at. No, it was just that Richie could be stubborn, too. People tended to underestimate him, not just as Richie Foley but as Gear too, and it was mainly because people were comparing him to Virgil, or to Static. Actually, Richie was fairly certain that people would have underestimated him even without V’s presence, because he was just one of those people that didn’t seem likely to do much of anything worth noting. Really, if it weren’t for Virgil, they’d probably be right- if it weren’t for Virgil then… well, Richie didn’t have much going for him.
The point was that when compared to Virgil, Richie wasn’t much. And people were always comparing them, even if only subconsciously, because they were always together. Until the events that led to Richie becoming Gear, Richie had been a B- average student. Most of his grades had been high Cs and low Bs, and that was partly from not trying but it was also just that learning was hard. And actually, that was probably why he hadn’t been trying. Teachers and his father had always just said he was stupid or lazy for not getting what they were trying to teach him, and Richie had always kind of believed them. Thinking about it, it seemed more likely that he’d had an undiagnosed learning disability and- that’s not the point, Richie thought, narrowing his eyes as he cut off the train of thought. The point was, until the big bang, Virgil had been the smarter of the two of them. Virgil had been the more confident of the two, which had only increased with him becoming Static. Richie was bullied less than V, but that had more to do with the fact that he had plenty of practice with just ducking his head and shutting up, while V’s dad had always encouraged his son to stand up for what he believed. Richie was just the class clown. Harmless, stupid, obnoxious, but occasionally funny, which made it acceptable. People had always underestimated him, and probably always would, and maybe he deserved some of that, because it wasn’t as if some of it wasn’t true. His usual response in a situation of fight or flight was flee, Richie, flee! So far it had kept him alive, so he wasn’t going to regret that, but Richie could be stubborn too. Maybe it didn’t show as often in him as it did in Virgil, but Richie Foley could be stubborn.
And it was stubbornness that had slowed him down as he walked the distance between his house and Virgil’s. He wasn’t stupid. He knew that for the sake of his health he should have walked faster, or, heck, called V on the shock vox and gotten picked up rather than stay out in the cold, but he also wasn’t oblivious to the fact that Virgil was always saving him. He didn’t mind it, most of the time. It was annoying, sure, and it really only encouraged the papers to call him Static’s sidekick instead of his partner, but it wasn’t like it happened more than once a month (to hear the Flash tell it it was every other day that Richie needed saving, but the Flash was a lying liar who lied and a bit of a drama llama to boot, albeit one with a heart of gold).
But even outside of the superhero business, Virgil saved him a lot, too, perhaps more, though not in ways that were obvious or involved hostage situations (although that had happened too). And ever since finding out what exactly Richie’s home life was like, V had had this… look to him, a sort of anticipation that reared its head every time Richie’s dad came up in conversation, like he was ready to just swoop in there and save Richie. It wasn’t that Richie didn’t understand why or didn’t appreciate that his friend was willing to do just about anything for him. It was just…
Richie stopped, closing his eyes and letting his head fall forward, and didn’t cry. He sighed, his breath visible in the cold, and for a moment that was all he could stand to do. Just breathe and maybe that would be enough. He had uncrossed his arms and jammed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, even though it was warmer with his arms crossed and his hands tucked into his armpits. He didn’t even try to deny that he was punishing himself. He knew, logically, that it wasn’t his fault. In the sense of cause and effect, yes, if he hadn’t said anything then he wouldn’t be here now, but in the sense that he had no control over the way his dad was, no, he wasn’t at fault. His dad and his teachers and all of those people who had underestimated him were wrong, not just in light of his current status as a super-genius but in the grand scheme of things, they were wrong about him.
He knew all of that, clearly and logically laid out in his mind like the schematics of an invention, but becoming a super-genius had not changed the fact that he was human. He wasn’t at fault, but he hurt. He was angry, and since he couldn’t hurt his dad directly, he’d go the indirect route… even if that meant hurting himself. At least that way the outside and the inside were in balance.
He stood there a moment longer, allowing the emotional part of his brain to take control. Richie sighed again, running a hand shakily through his hair before jamming it back into the relative warmth of his pocket. The side of his face stung from his father’s backhand, and his feet were so numb with cold that he half believed they were burning, and… “Virgil will kill me if I get hypothermia,” he said on an exhale, managing a small smile before opening his eyes again. The Hawkins residence was right in front of him.
Richie walked up the steps, stood in front of the door, and hesitated, finger hovering above the doorbell. “C’mon, Foley,” he whispered, unsure if his voice was shaky because of cold or because of fear, “you’ve taken on guys like Ebon. It won’t kill you to ring your best friend’s doorbell.” He still hesitated. Just do it, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut, and then… he had done it. “Damn it,” he hissed, shoving his hand back into his pocket as though it had been burned. He hated this. Hated being seen as a victim, hated that someone would probably tell him he was braver for reaching out than if he had just stayed on the streets, hated that now was the moment when he couldn’t seem to keep a few stray tears from escaping his eyes.
He opened his eyes when he heard the door swing open, managing a wan smile as he greeted his friend. “Hey V. Mind if I sleep over tonight?”
Please feel free to leave constructive criticism! or notes on formatting, etc, etc.