vagueangel
in
__vam
Just Another Kid
Summary- Bam's known for a while that Ville has a little.. problem. But what happens when it starts getting out of control?
Rating- Mostly PG-13, but since it's me, there are NC-17 bits thrown in.
Caution- This is a bloody long story.
Right then... onward.
So, Tuesday. Generally a night of.. Well, of getting our asses handed to us in softball, followed by me yelling 'It's okay, team! Let's go drink this one off!' which is then followed by 2-3 hours of drunken insanity, invariably ending with the entire team getting thrown out of Bennigan's. Sounds fun, yes? Yes. Perhaps another chapter before the annihilation begins.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“I don’t wanna talk about it.” Ville frowned, picking at a scab on his scratched up hands. “Your room is boring. Haven’t you got anything to play with?”
Dr. Jackson shook his head. “No. We’ve talked about this before, Ville. If you don’t talk to me, I can’t help you get better.”
Sighing, Ville shifted restlessly on the couch. “I don’t need you, you know,” he said crossly. “I have Bammie to take care of me.”
Jackson nodded a bit. “Bam is very important to you.” He saw Ville nod. “He wants you to get better; that’s why he brings you here.”
Ville sat and fidgeted, not meeting the doctor’s eyes. He looked out the window, then down at his inked stained left arm, tracing the designs with one finger. “I’ll be better when I forget again.”
Leaning forward a bit, the doctor began rummaging through a large drawer. “That’s not the best thing for you.” He glanced over at the younger man. “How old are you, Ville?”
“Gonna be eight in three weeks,” Ville replied immediately. “And then me and Bammie will have a party and have cake and ice cream. Maybe Mizee and Lily will come.”
“You’re seven, then.” Jackson watched Ville nod, then held out a hand mirror. “Do you look seven, Ville?” As his patient scowled, he continued. “How old is Bam?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Don’t you look just as old as Bam? When you stand up, you’re quite a bit taller than he is. Does it make sense for a seven year old to be taller than a twenty-five year old?”
Ville continued to scowl, curling up a bit. “Shut up.”
“Feel your face, Ville. Seven year olds don’t have stubble. They don’t have to shave.”
“Shut up!”
“You are twenty-seven years old, Ville. Look.”
Looking down at the mirror, Ville saw his reflection through the blur of tears. He studied the image intently for a moment before hurling the mirror across the room with a loud cry. When the doctor jumped, he scrambled off the couch, folding his slight frame into the narrow space between couch and wall.
Hearing shattering glass and Ville’s cry, Bam burst into the doctor’s office. He looked around in confusion before seeing his boyfriend crammed into the tiny space, rocking frantically. “What the hell happened?”
“Everything is fine, Bam. Please have a seat in the waiting room.” Jackson stood, moving to lower himself slowly to the floor a few feet from Ville.
“The hell it is. Look at him! And there’s broken glass-“
“Have a seat in the waiting room.”
About to argue, Bam looked at Ville again and sighed, backing down. He reminded himself that he had found the best doctor he could, that the man knew what he was doing.
Jackson sat quietly for a few minutes, giving his patient a chance to calm down. “This is confusing and frustrating, isn’t it?”
Not responding, Ville just kept rocking, his arms around himself, but his pace had become less frantic. He had his eyes squeezed shut, and he was holding his bottom lip between his teeth.
“We’ll take a break. You said you had a dog.” Jackson tried to find a comfortable position on the floor. “I had a dog when I was a kid, too. My dog’s name was Pickles. What was yours named? Sam, was it?”
After a pause with no response, he continued. “My dog was white and he had brown spots. He had one blue eye and one brown one. Can you tell me what color your dog was?”
Licking his lips, Ville opened one eyed. “G-gray,” he mumbled, still rocking, slowly now. “Sami was a gray puppy dog.”
“Ah, I see.” Jackson smiled encouragingly. “Dogs are wonderful, aren’t they?”
Ville nodded a bit, both eyes open now. “Sami was my best friend. I wanted to get another puppy dog, but Bammie said no.”
“He did? Well, that’s a shame.”
“Yeah, cause I got asthma, and allergies, and he says a puppy will make me sick.” Ville stopped rocking, but stayed in his little cubby hole. “He gave his one to Ryan to take care of, cause I’ve been here so long.”
Jackson nodded solemnly. “That does seem like a good idea. Do you think you can do me a favor, Ville?”
Looking at him suspiciously, Ville frowned a little. “What?”
“Do you think you can sit on the couch again? I’m an old man, and sitting down here with you is killing my back.”
Slowly crawling out of the small space he had wedged himself into, Ville sat on the edge of the couch, looking ready to bolt. He watched the doctor with a slight air of distrust. “Now what?”
Jackson dug through a pile on his desk, coming up with a stack of Rorschach cards. “Now, we’re going to play a game. I’m going to show you a picture, like a black paint blotch, and you tell me what you think it is. Okay?”
Nodding, Ville relaxed just a bit, curiosity piqued. “I can do that; I’m good at pictures. I can draw, too. I drew two pictures yesterday.”
“Maybe on Thursday you can bring them with you. I’d like to see them.” Jackson picked out a card. “Are you ready? There are no wrong answers, Ville, just tell me what you think it looks like. Here’s the first one.”
Picking at his slice of pizza, Ville rested his chin in one hand. He sighed, pushing his plate away. “I’m not hungry.”
“Bullshit. You didn’t eat anything but beans on toast yesterday, and the day before that you puked up everything.” Bam devoured half a slice in one bite. “Finish that piece.”
“No.”
Bam sighed, wondering if Ville had actually been this contrary as a child, and if so, how his mother had restrained from locking him in his room until he was old enough to move out. “Don’t start with me, Vil. Eat it.” He watched his boyfriend huff and pout before taking a tiny bite.
Ville had stayed altered for three days, and showed no signs of snapping out of it. It was starting to scare Bam a little, even though the doctor didn’t seem particularly worried.
During the week’s second session, Dr Jackson had studied the drawings Ville had brought him, proclaiming the first to be a fairly typical product of an abused child, and that the second showed the longing for the adult part of the mind to remember and accept the scared child as a part of himself.
Ville was still steadfastly refusing to talk about what happened. He kept repeating that nothing had happened, that Bam had taken care of him like always. The doctor hadn’t tried to repeat the mirror trick, but he had asked Bam to find dated pictures of Ville and bring them the next week. He seemed unfazed at having to treat Ville as he would a child, so Bam tried to go along with it.
Now, seeing how withdrawn and unhappy Ville looked, Bam hurried to finish eating, wanting to try to take his love’s mind off everything. “C’mon, baby, smile.”
“I don’t wanna smile,” Ville mumbled around the last bite of his pizza. “It makes my face feel funny.” He got up and threw away his paper plate and empty can of soda. “I’m gonna play by myself for a while.”
“You sure, Ville?” Bam cleaned up the empty box, putting a couple leftover slices in the fridge. “I thought we could do something together-“
“No.” Ville sighed, shaking his head. “Gonna go up in my room,” he said, referring to the guest room that was now full of his art supplies, an acoustic guitar, a bass, and a small amp.
Bam let him go, and headed outside. At least the whole situation had led to Ville quitting smoking, though he was on a high dose patch. Unfortunately, Bam seemed to be picking up his slack, smoking more than he usually did. He left Ville alone for a little over an hour before going to check on him.
Ville sat on the floor, facing away from the door. His beloved Sylvester lay on the floor beside him, but he wasn’t paying attention to the guitar. He had one of his lighters and was concentrating on holding the flame to his arm, squirming and gasping when it got too hot. Instead of pulling the lighter away, he let the flame die and touched the hot metal to his skin.
Bam could see three or four marks marring creamy flesh already. He rushed forward to snatch the lighter away. “What are you doing?”
Looking up with blank eyes, Ville shrugged. He looked away when his boyfriend grabbed his wrist, holding out his arm to check the damage.
“Ville, baby, look at me.” Bam waited until green eyes found his tear bright blue ones. “Listen to me. You can’t do things like this. I won’t be able to take care of you if you do. You’ll have to go away, Ville, where doctors can watch you all the time.” Peering down at him, he couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “Do you understand me, angel? We won’t be able to stay together.”
Ville shrugged again, turning away and picking up his guitar. He plucked tunelessly at the strings, ignoring Bam.
Wiping frustrated, scared tears from his eyes, Bam watched him. “Don’t you care, Ville? Don’t you care that they’ll take you away from me?”
Finally looking at Bam, Ville shook his head. “You won’t let them, Bammie. You won’t let them take me away.”
“I’ll have to, baby. So I’ll know you’re safe. Please, just don’t hurt yourself anymore. Don’t make me let you go.”
Rating- Mostly PG-13, but since it's me, there are NC-17 bits thrown in.
Caution- This is a bloody long story.
Right then... onward.
So, Tuesday. Generally a night of.. Well, of getting our asses handed to us in softball, followed by me yelling 'It's okay, team! Let's go drink this one off!' which is then followed by 2-3 hours of drunken insanity, invariably ending with the entire team getting thrown out of Bennigan's. Sounds fun, yes? Yes. Perhaps another chapter before the annihilation begins.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“I don’t wanna talk about it.” Ville frowned, picking at a scab on his scratched up hands. “Your room is boring. Haven’t you got anything to play with?”
Dr. Jackson shook his head. “No. We’ve talked about this before, Ville. If you don’t talk to me, I can’t help you get better.”
Sighing, Ville shifted restlessly on the couch. “I don’t need you, you know,” he said crossly. “I have Bammie to take care of me.”
Jackson nodded a bit. “Bam is very important to you.” He saw Ville nod. “He wants you to get better; that’s why he brings you here.”
Ville sat and fidgeted, not meeting the doctor’s eyes. He looked out the window, then down at his inked stained left arm, tracing the designs with one finger. “I’ll be better when I forget again.”
Leaning forward a bit, the doctor began rummaging through a large drawer. “That’s not the best thing for you.” He glanced over at the younger man. “How old are you, Ville?”
“Gonna be eight in three weeks,” Ville replied immediately. “And then me and Bammie will have a party and have cake and ice cream. Maybe Mizee and Lily will come.”
“You’re seven, then.” Jackson watched Ville nod, then held out a hand mirror. “Do you look seven, Ville?” As his patient scowled, he continued. “How old is Bam?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Don’t you look just as old as Bam? When you stand up, you’re quite a bit taller than he is. Does it make sense for a seven year old to be taller than a twenty-five year old?”
Ville continued to scowl, curling up a bit. “Shut up.”
“Feel your face, Ville. Seven year olds don’t have stubble. They don’t have to shave.”
“Shut up!”
“You are twenty-seven years old, Ville. Look.”
Looking down at the mirror, Ville saw his reflection through the blur of tears. He studied the image intently for a moment before hurling the mirror across the room with a loud cry. When the doctor jumped, he scrambled off the couch, folding his slight frame into the narrow space between couch and wall.
Hearing shattering glass and Ville’s cry, Bam burst into the doctor’s office. He looked around in confusion before seeing his boyfriend crammed into the tiny space, rocking frantically. “What the hell happened?”
“Everything is fine, Bam. Please have a seat in the waiting room.” Jackson stood, moving to lower himself slowly to the floor a few feet from Ville.
“The hell it is. Look at him! And there’s broken glass-“
“Have a seat in the waiting room.”
About to argue, Bam looked at Ville again and sighed, backing down. He reminded himself that he had found the best doctor he could, that the man knew what he was doing.
Jackson sat quietly for a few minutes, giving his patient a chance to calm down. “This is confusing and frustrating, isn’t it?”
Not responding, Ville just kept rocking, his arms around himself, but his pace had become less frantic. He had his eyes squeezed shut, and he was holding his bottom lip between his teeth.
“We’ll take a break. You said you had a dog.” Jackson tried to find a comfortable position on the floor. “I had a dog when I was a kid, too. My dog’s name was Pickles. What was yours named? Sam, was it?”
After a pause with no response, he continued. “My dog was white and he had brown spots. He had one blue eye and one brown one. Can you tell me what color your dog was?”
Licking his lips, Ville opened one eyed. “G-gray,” he mumbled, still rocking, slowly now. “Sami was a gray puppy dog.”
“Ah, I see.” Jackson smiled encouragingly. “Dogs are wonderful, aren’t they?”
Ville nodded a bit, both eyes open now. “Sami was my best friend. I wanted to get another puppy dog, but Bammie said no.”
“He did? Well, that’s a shame.”
“Yeah, cause I got asthma, and allergies, and he says a puppy will make me sick.” Ville stopped rocking, but stayed in his little cubby hole. “He gave his one to Ryan to take care of, cause I’ve been here so long.”
Jackson nodded solemnly. “That does seem like a good idea. Do you think you can do me a favor, Ville?”
Looking at him suspiciously, Ville frowned a little. “What?”
“Do you think you can sit on the couch again? I’m an old man, and sitting down here with you is killing my back.”
Slowly crawling out of the small space he had wedged himself into, Ville sat on the edge of the couch, looking ready to bolt. He watched the doctor with a slight air of distrust. “Now what?”
Jackson dug through a pile on his desk, coming up with a stack of Rorschach cards. “Now, we’re going to play a game. I’m going to show you a picture, like a black paint blotch, and you tell me what you think it is. Okay?”
Nodding, Ville relaxed just a bit, curiosity piqued. “I can do that; I’m good at pictures. I can draw, too. I drew two pictures yesterday.”
“Maybe on Thursday you can bring them with you. I’d like to see them.” Jackson picked out a card. “Are you ready? There are no wrong answers, Ville, just tell me what you think it looks like. Here’s the first one.”
Picking at his slice of pizza, Ville rested his chin in one hand. He sighed, pushing his plate away. “I’m not hungry.”
“Bullshit. You didn’t eat anything but beans on toast yesterday, and the day before that you puked up everything.” Bam devoured half a slice in one bite. “Finish that piece.”
“No.”
Bam sighed, wondering if Ville had actually been this contrary as a child, and if so, how his mother had restrained from locking him in his room until he was old enough to move out. “Don’t start with me, Vil. Eat it.” He watched his boyfriend huff and pout before taking a tiny bite.
Ville had stayed altered for three days, and showed no signs of snapping out of it. It was starting to scare Bam a little, even though the doctor didn’t seem particularly worried.
During the week’s second session, Dr Jackson had studied the drawings Ville had brought him, proclaiming the first to be a fairly typical product of an abused child, and that the second showed the longing for the adult part of the mind to remember and accept the scared child as a part of himself.
Ville was still steadfastly refusing to talk about what happened. He kept repeating that nothing had happened, that Bam had taken care of him like always. The doctor hadn’t tried to repeat the mirror trick, but he had asked Bam to find dated pictures of Ville and bring them the next week. He seemed unfazed at having to treat Ville as he would a child, so Bam tried to go along with it.
Now, seeing how withdrawn and unhappy Ville looked, Bam hurried to finish eating, wanting to try to take his love’s mind off everything. “C’mon, baby, smile.”
“I don’t wanna smile,” Ville mumbled around the last bite of his pizza. “It makes my face feel funny.” He got up and threw away his paper plate and empty can of soda. “I’m gonna play by myself for a while.”
“You sure, Ville?” Bam cleaned up the empty box, putting a couple leftover slices in the fridge. “I thought we could do something together-“
“No.” Ville sighed, shaking his head. “Gonna go up in my room,” he said, referring to the guest room that was now full of his art supplies, an acoustic guitar, a bass, and a small amp.
Bam let him go, and headed outside. At least the whole situation had led to Ville quitting smoking, though he was on a high dose patch. Unfortunately, Bam seemed to be picking up his slack, smoking more than he usually did. He left Ville alone for a little over an hour before going to check on him.
Ville sat on the floor, facing away from the door. His beloved Sylvester lay on the floor beside him, but he wasn’t paying attention to the guitar. He had one of his lighters and was concentrating on holding the flame to his arm, squirming and gasping when it got too hot. Instead of pulling the lighter away, he let the flame die and touched the hot metal to his skin.
Bam could see three or four marks marring creamy flesh already. He rushed forward to snatch the lighter away. “What are you doing?”
Looking up with blank eyes, Ville shrugged. He looked away when his boyfriend grabbed his wrist, holding out his arm to check the damage.
“Ville, baby, look at me.” Bam waited until green eyes found his tear bright blue ones. “Listen to me. You can’t do things like this. I won’t be able to take care of you if you do. You’ll have to go away, Ville, where doctors can watch you all the time.” Peering down at him, he couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “Do you understand me, angel? We won’t be able to stay together.”
Ville shrugged again, turning away and picking up his guitar. He plucked tunelessly at the strings, ignoring Bam.
Wiping frustrated, scared tears from his eyes, Bam watched him. “Don’t you care, Ville? Don’t you care that they’ll take you away from me?”
Finally looking at Bam, Ville shook his head. “You won’t let them, Bammie. You won’t let them take me away.”
“I’ll have to, baby. So I’ll know you’re safe. Please, just don’t hurt yourself anymore. Don’t make me let you go.”