fic!
The first... probably half of this, I already posted a while ago. I've since added to it, it's done for real-real this time. I mean it.
Fic. In which Pearson and Bolger first meet. And Bolger is a surly little thing and Pearson just wants to look out for the whole damn world because he's an adorable loserface like that. PG. Gen.
[YGO is not mine]
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When they meet Bolger is a scrappy sixteen-year-old and Pearson is twenty-three and exhausted with life already. Waiting in line for food (because he's always waiting in line for something -- food, fresh water, medicine, toilet paper) and Bolger is obviously looking to start shit with Security. Too thin and bruised and scraped and ready to fight for what he needs to survive.
Pearson tells himself he should know better than to get involved. The kid is obviously self-destructive and will wind up either marked or dead before too long. Possibly even before the end of the day at the rate things are going....
And damn his inability to stand by and let that happen anyway.
Without a second thought he slides out of his place in line, grabs the loud-mouthed little shit by the arm and practically marches him off. Bolger cursing him out the entire way and Pearson shoots back just as sharply that tangling with Security won't win him anything but an early death or a prison term and a harder life for everyone else.
"I don't care!" is the inevitable response and Pearson remembers being him once. During that first year and the riots when people were screaming for food and medicine and for someone to help pull them out of this rubble-heap and there's still a puckered scar on his thigh from where a bullet went in.
"You should. There's nothing noble in getting yourself killed over a lost cause."
Bolger's chin lifts slightly, his face twisting into an expression of pure disgust and their heads are tilted close enough together that Pearson can see the cut creasing the boy's lower lip and the fading yellowish remnants of a bruise decorating his jaw.
"And how does standing in line waiting for scraps make anything better? People like you are letting them hold us down to work in a goddamn garbage dump."
"Let me guess, you think we should fight? Band together and stand up for the right to be treated as human beings." He pauses, not sure if he wants to laugh hysterically or start crying over how far away such a simple thing is. And in the end it's a strange sort of bitter smile that twists its way across his lips. "I've been there. I've been beaten and shot at and put in holding and I'm thankful every goddamn day that they hadn't started marking people back then. You think there's some grand revolution to be a part of? There isn't. There's nothing but a lot of poor and hungry people trying to keep alive. That's all. And most people are too tired to do much beyond stand in line and try to make things better in their own ways. You're old enough, you should realize this."
Bolger's expression is tight and angry through all of this and when he finally speaks his voice is a low growl. "I don't want to spend the rest of my life sorting trash."
"Neither do I."
They fall silent for a moment. Bolger looking as if he's torn between wanting to stomp away or possibly waiting for Pearson to walk away himself, and the expression on his face reminds Pearson a little bit of the dogs he sees roaming around. Something that used to be tame but then the world fell apart and in the ensuing desperation he found himself getting kicked for reasons he couldn't understand. The whole experience leaving Bolger wild-eyed and wary and ready to eye anyone that came near with pure mistrust and snap if they got too close out of some form of fearful self-defence.
He should just leave the kid be. Logically his mind knows that. He's saved him once now and gotten nothing but cursed at for his trouble. But all the same he smiles and finds himself saying, "Do you have a place to go?"
"Of course!" is the reply, one that Pearson expected and one that is said in a tone so aggravated and edgy (Bolger's eyes darting to the side as he looks as if he simply wants to run from the alley and never look back) that it's obviously a lie.
Pearson nods like he believes him, slow and thoughtful, and when he speaks again his tone is carefully distant. "I've got a place on the edge of the old industrial park near the BADs. I do repairs for people; got this old warehouse I've set up as a workshop. It's not the best place to live in, though. I'm trying to convert one of the side buildings into a house of sorts but it's a lot of work and between that and trying to do my regular jobs...." He shrugs, carefully watching Bolger's reaction (or more, lack thereof) out of the corner of his eye. "I could use a little help."
There's an edgy sort of silence, and for a moment Pearson thinks that maybe Bolger is going to tell him to fuck off when the reply comes in an edgy sort of mutter, "What the hell makes you think I could help with something like that? I don't know shit about building or renovating or...."
"You can learn if you want to try."
There's a vague sort of grumble and a huffy sigh in response and for a moment Pearson thinks that's all he's going to get, ready to turn away when a barely audible mutter of "nothing funny? Just basic labour for a place to live?" stops him.
"Nothing funny." And there's something about having to reassure him of that that leaves a sick sort of feeling in the pit of Pearson's stomach. "It won't be easy, but it's not sorting trash at least. And you'll get a roof over your head and steady meals. I've already got a few kids living there. One more doesn't make a difference in the long run."
"I'm not a kid!"
"If you were I wouldn't be asking you to do heavy labour," Pearson shoots back with a wry sort of smile. "So?"
It's a surprise that Bolger actually agrees to come back with him. Shoulders hunched in a leather jacket that's just a little too big as he trails along after, looking ready to bolt at any moment and Pearson tries to keep things light, talking about nothing of consequence. His tone indifferent as he goes on about his place and the work that needs to be done to make it habitable and the few children he's been keeping an eye on. Content to carry on a one-sided conversation even as a part of him questions his own sanity in offering shelter to someone he knows nothing about. Kids are one thing; kids probably won't rob him blind and murder him in the night. But this....
This is a risk he has to take. Just as before, his conscience won't let him do otherwise. So he shoots Bolger an easy smile as he rambles, all his misgivings hidden behind a cheerful tone and an easy, loose limbed, stride.
Fic. In which Pearson and Bolger first meet. And Bolger is a surly little thing and Pearson just wants to look out for the whole damn world because he's an adorable loserface like that. PG. Gen.
[YGO is not mine]
-----------------
When they meet Bolger is a scrappy sixteen-year-old and Pearson is twenty-three and exhausted with life already. Waiting in line for food (because he's always waiting in line for something -- food, fresh water, medicine, toilet paper) and Bolger is obviously looking to start shit with Security. Too thin and bruised and scraped and ready to fight for what he needs to survive.
Pearson tells himself he should know better than to get involved. The kid is obviously self-destructive and will wind up either marked or dead before too long. Possibly even before the end of the day at the rate things are going....
And damn his inability to stand by and let that happen anyway.
Without a second thought he slides out of his place in line, grabs the loud-mouthed little shit by the arm and practically marches him off. Bolger cursing him out the entire way and Pearson shoots back just as sharply that tangling with Security won't win him anything but an early death or a prison term and a harder life for everyone else.
"I don't care!" is the inevitable response and Pearson remembers being him once. During that first year and the riots when people were screaming for food and medicine and for someone to help pull them out of this rubble-heap and there's still a puckered scar on his thigh from where a bullet went in.
"You should. There's nothing noble in getting yourself killed over a lost cause."
Bolger's chin lifts slightly, his face twisting into an expression of pure disgust and their heads are tilted close enough together that Pearson can see the cut creasing the boy's lower lip and the fading yellowish remnants of a bruise decorating his jaw.
"And how does standing in line waiting for scraps make anything better? People like you are letting them hold us down to work in a goddamn garbage dump."
"Let me guess, you think we should fight? Band together and stand up for the right to be treated as human beings." He pauses, not sure if he wants to laugh hysterically or start crying over how far away such a simple thing is. And in the end it's a strange sort of bitter smile that twists its way across his lips. "I've been there. I've been beaten and shot at and put in holding and I'm thankful every goddamn day that they hadn't started marking people back then. You think there's some grand revolution to be a part of? There isn't. There's nothing but a lot of poor and hungry people trying to keep alive. That's all. And most people are too tired to do much beyond stand in line and try to make things better in their own ways. You're old enough, you should realize this."
Bolger's expression is tight and angry through all of this and when he finally speaks his voice is a low growl. "I don't want to spend the rest of my life sorting trash."
"Neither do I."
They fall silent for a moment. Bolger looking as if he's torn between wanting to stomp away or possibly waiting for Pearson to walk away himself, and the expression on his face reminds Pearson a little bit of the dogs he sees roaming around. Something that used to be tame but then the world fell apart and in the ensuing desperation he found himself getting kicked for reasons he couldn't understand. The whole experience leaving Bolger wild-eyed and wary and ready to eye anyone that came near with pure mistrust and snap if they got too close out of some form of fearful self-defence.
He should just leave the kid be. Logically his mind knows that. He's saved him once now and gotten nothing but cursed at for his trouble. But all the same he smiles and finds himself saying, "Do you have a place to go?"
"Of course!" is the reply, one that Pearson expected and one that is said in a tone so aggravated and edgy (Bolger's eyes darting to the side as he looks as if he simply wants to run from the alley and never look back) that it's obviously a lie.
Pearson nods like he believes him, slow and thoughtful, and when he speaks again his tone is carefully distant. "I've got a place on the edge of the old industrial park near the BADs. I do repairs for people; got this old warehouse I've set up as a workshop. It's not the best place to live in, though. I'm trying to convert one of the side buildings into a house of sorts but it's a lot of work and between that and trying to do my regular jobs...." He shrugs, carefully watching Bolger's reaction (or more, lack thereof) out of the corner of his eye. "I could use a little help."
There's an edgy sort of silence, and for a moment Pearson thinks that maybe Bolger is going to tell him to fuck off when the reply comes in an edgy sort of mutter, "What the hell makes you think I could help with something like that? I don't know shit about building or renovating or...."
"You can learn if you want to try."
There's a vague sort of grumble and a huffy sigh in response and for a moment Pearson thinks that's all he's going to get, ready to turn away when a barely audible mutter of "nothing funny? Just basic labour for a place to live?" stops him.
"Nothing funny." And there's something about having to reassure him of that that leaves a sick sort of feeling in the pit of Pearson's stomach. "It won't be easy, but it's not sorting trash at least. And you'll get a roof over your head and steady meals. I've already got a few kids living there. One more doesn't make a difference in the long run."
"I'm not a kid!"
"If you were I wouldn't be asking you to do heavy labour," Pearson shoots back with a wry sort of smile. "So?"
It's a surprise that Bolger actually agrees to come back with him. Shoulders hunched in a leather jacket that's just a little too big as he trails along after, looking ready to bolt at any moment and Pearson tries to keep things light, talking about nothing of consequence. His tone indifferent as he goes on about his place and the work that needs to be done to make it habitable and the few children he's been keeping an eye on. Content to carry on a one-sided conversation even as a part of him questions his own sanity in offering shelter to someone he knows nothing about. Kids are one thing; kids probably won't rob him blind and murder him in the night. But this....
This is a risk he has to take. Just as before, his conscience won't let him do otherwise. So he shoots Bolger an easy smile as he rambles, all his misgivings hidden behind a cheerful tone and an easy, loose limbed, stride.