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 here's the deal... I know I said I would try to write some Bam/Mige drunkeness.... But I really am not motivated. This story has been done for 2 months, and I just can't write anything else for it. Also, I was going to post the 'proper' ending first, but I fucked up and posted Chapter 53, which really doesn't work for that ending. So.... Due to my laziness, you get the long ending first. Without Bam/Mige drunkeness. Sorry. (blame litanya cos we were out THursday till all hours of the night/morning, and I was too tired to write anything on Friday. lol Luv ya babe!)
Chapter Fifty-Four
Ville’s first group session with the children was going well. The counselors were content to let him just listen for the first day, letting him get comfortable with the other patients. He listened, wide eyed, as a ten year old boy spoke.
“I was so mad at my mom. We were fine, when it was her and me. And then she had to go and have stupid Caitlin.” Mark shrugged a bit. “I guess I don’t mean that. She’s only a baby; she doesn’t know she’s annoying when she cries all the time.
“But my mom went across the street to borrow something from Mrs. Burke. And I was in the basement, and Caitlin was upstairs. There was like, this old gas can down there. And I was so mad!
“I spilled it on the floor. And then I lit it on fire.” His hazel eyes filled with tears. “I lit it on fire, with my baby sister upstairs. I was supposed to be watching her.”
His eyes watering in sympathy, Ville slid his thumb into his mouth, watching the boy fight for control. He wrapped one arm around himself, vaguely horrified, but mostly just feeling bad for the pain the boy obviously felt at what he had done.
The counselor was quiet for a moment, letting everyone take in what had just been said. “But you’re sorry, Mark. You know it was wrong. That’s important.” He watched the boy shrug again. “It’s a big step you took today, telling us what happened.”
Mark nodded hesitantly. “I never have, before. Not since I’ve been here.” He had been there for three weeks.
“What about you, Becca? Do you think you want to give it a try again, today?”
A seven year old girl with waist length light brown hair and big brown eyes bit at her lip. She looked around the small group, then back down at her hands. Shaking her head slowly, she whispered, “Sorry.”
“That’s okay. Maybe tomorrow, huh?” The counselor gave her a gentle smile, then turned to Ville. “No one will make you talk, Ville, okay? Becca’s been here for a week and a half, and she’s just not ready yet. So it’s okay if you’re not, either. But when you want to, don’t be scared.”
Mark let out a heavy sigh, nodding. “I didn’t tell for three weeks, and no one made me.” He looked at the newest member of his group. “But it kinda feels good, to not have a big secret all to yourself? It kinda feels good.”
As the group broke up, Becca stopped in front of Ville’s chair, peering into his face. “Someone hit you.” She watched him nod, and took half a step back. “Was it your mom or dad?”
“No!” Ville shook his head emphatically. “One of the grown ups upstairs did it. For no reason at all,” he added, pouting a little.
“I didn’t know people hit big kids, too.” Becca looked at him solemnly, eye level with him since he was sitting.
Looking back at her as seriously, Ville’s voice was quiet. “Did your mama or daddy hit you?”
“My step-dad.”
They both looked up as the music therapist called them. “Come on, you two. We’re waiting for you.” He smiled gently as they got up and followed him into another room.
The therapist handed out instruments, waiting patiently as they all traded them around until everyone was happy with what they had. He handed Ville the old acoustic. “Tina says you’re very good.”
Blushing a bit, Ville shrugged. “I can play,” he murmured. He watched the therapist point out the notes to a popular song on the other instruments.
“Hey, Ville.” Tim grinned over at him. “You know any Finnish swears?” He smothered laughter as his roommate nodded. “Teach me one.”
Ville thought for a moment. “Perkele.”
“What’s it mean?”
“Hell.”
Tim shook his head. “No! Teach me a bad one.”
Grinning back, Ville shrugged. “Vittu.” He repeated it a few times until the boy had it right. “It means fuck,” he whispered.
Giggling, Tim repeated it cheerfully until the therapist looked over and shushed them. He waited a minute before leaning over to Mark and whispering for a minute, motioning to Ville.
Mark joined in their sniggering. “Vittu,” he giggled. “Cool.”
“Boys, you’ve only got forty minutes until lunch.” The therapist tried to hide a smile; he preferred pleasant disruptions to depressive or angry ones. “Whatever is so funny can wait until then, can’t it?” When they nodded, the three looking contrite, he allowed himself a small smile. “Okay, then.”
When they got round to trying the song out, Ville played slowly, letting everyone keep up. He laughed with the kids when they made a mistake, or when someone played out of turn. The song sounded nothing like what it was meant to, but everyone had fun and it was a good contrast to the seriousness of group sessions.
As it usually did, the therapy session slowly degenerated into everyone playing their own little tunes, turning the sound into moderate chaos. Ville listened to everyone banging on drums, or shaking tambourines, or playing random chords on a keyboard. He finally started playing softly, a dissonant melody that somehow brought all the sounds together and made them cohesive.
The kids nodded in approval and continued their private song. The session ended in smiles and laughter as everyone carefully put their instruments away.
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 here's the deal... I know I said I would try to write some Bam/Mige drunkeness.... But I really am not motivated. This story has been done for 2 months, and I just can't write anything else for it. Also, I was going to post the 'proper' ending first, but I fucked up and posted Chapter 53, which really doesn't work for that ending. So.... Due to my laziness, you get the long ending first. Without Bam/Mige drunkeness. Sorry. (blame litanya cos we were out THursday till all hours of the night/morning, and I was too tired to write anything on Friday. lol Luv ya babe!)
Chapter Fifty-Four
Ville’s first group session with the children was going well. The counselors were content to let him just listen for the first day, letting him get comfortable with the other patients. He listened, wide eyed, as a ten year old boy spoke.
“I was so mad at my mom. We were fine, when it was her and me. And then she had to go and have stupid Caitlin.” Mark shrugged a bit. “I guess I don’t mean that. She’s only a baby; she doesn’t know she’s annoying when she cries all the time.
“But my mom went across the street to borrow something from Mrs. Burke. And I was in the basement, and Caitlin was upstairs. There was like, this old gas can down there. And I was so mad!
“I spilled it on the floor. And then I lit it on fire.” His hazel eyes filled with tears. “I lit it on fire, with my baby sister upstairs. I was supposed to be watching her.”
His eyes watering in sympathy, Ville slid his thumb into his mouth, watching the boy fight for control. He wrapped one arm around himself, vaguely horrified, but mostly just feeling bad for the pain the boy obviously felt at what he had done.
The counselor was quiet for a moment, letting everyone take in what had just been said. “But you’re sorry, Mark. You know it was wrong. That’s important.” He watched the boy shrug again. “It’s a big step you took today, telling us what happened.”
Mark nodded hesitantly. “I never have, before. Not since I’ve been here.” He had been there for three weeks.
“What about you, Becca? Do you think you want to give it a try again, today?”
A seven year old girl with waist length light brown hair and big brown eyes bit at her lip. She looked around the small group, then back down at her hands. Shaking her head slowly, she whispered, “Sorry.”
“That’s okay. Maybe tomorrow, huh?” The counselor gave her a gentle smile, then turned to Ville. “No one will make you talk, Ville, okay? Becca’s been here for a week and a half, and she’s just not ready yet. So it’s okay if you’re not, either. But when you want to, don’t be scared.”
Mark let out a heavy sigh, nodding. “I didn’t tell for three weeks, and no one made me.” He looked at the newest member of his group. “But it kinda feels good, to not have a big secret all to yourself? It kinda feels good.”
As the group broke up, Becca stopped in front of Ville’s chair, peering into his face. “Someone hit you.” She watched him nod, and took half a step back. “Was it your mom or dad?”
“No!” Ville shook his head emphatically. “One of the grown ups upstairs did it. For no reason at all,” he added, pouting a little.
“I didn’t know people hit big kids, too.” Becca looked at him solemnly, eye level with him since he was sitting.
Looking back at her as seriously, Ville’s voice was quiet. “Did your mama or daddy hit you?”
“My step-dad.”
They both looked up as the music therapist called them. “Come on, you two. We’re waiting for you.” He smiled gently as they got up and followed him into another room.
The therapist handed out instruments, waiting patiently as they all traded them around until everyone was happy with what they had. He handed Ville the old acoustic. “Tina says you’re very good.”
Blushing a bit, Ville shrugged. “I can play,” he murmured. He watched the therapist point out the notes to a popular song on the other instruments.
“Hey, Ville.” Tim grinned over at him. “You know any Finnish swears?” He smothered laughter as his roommate nodded. “Teach me one.”
Ville thought for a moment. “Perkele.”
“What’s it mean?”
“Hell.”
Tim shook his head. “No! Teach me a bad one.”
Grinning back, Ville shrugged. “Vittu.” He repeated it a few times until the boy had it right. “It means fuck,” he whispered.
Giggling, Tim repeated it cheerfully until the therapist looked over and shushed them. He waited a minute before leaning over to Mark and whispering for a minute, motioning to Ville.
Mark joined in their sniggering. “Vittu,” he giggled. “Cool.”
“Boys, you’ve only got forty minutes until lunch.” The therapist tried to hide a smile; he preferred pleasant disruptions to depressive or angry ones. “Whatever is so funny can wait until then, can’t it?” When they nodded, the three looking contrite, he allowed himself a small smile. “Okay, then.”
When they got round to trying the song out, Ville played slowly, letting everyone keep up. He laughed with the kids when they made a mistake, or when someone played out of turn. The song sounded nothing like what it was meant to, but everyone had fun and it was a good contrast to the seriousness of group sessions.
As it usually did, the therapy session slowly degenerated into everyone playing their own little tunes, turning the sound into moderate chaos. Ville listened to everyone banging on drums, or shaking tambourines, or playing random chords on a keyboard. He finally started playing softly, a dissonant melody that somehow brought all the sounds together and made them cohesive.
The kids nodded in approval and continued their private song. The session ended in smiles and laughter as everyone carefully put their instruments away.