Love Me Anyway
The fifth time a ‘worthless’ child is put into her class, Elizabeth Weir decides she’s not going to give up on him. She’s had enough of delicately trying to avoid dealing with the unresponsive ones, talking to the silent ones, ignoring the trembling ones. As she looks at the ragged little boy shuffling his bare feet on the white carpet, she resolves to help him…
…whatever reprimands that will earn her from the school’s administration.
Oh, it’s a convenient lie to tell the government, the media, the public: “Of course we’re taking care of the refugee children! We’re wonderful people, so of course we’re giving them an education, providing them with housing and clothes and all the necessities… all at our expense, of course.”
Bull shit, all of it. The battered youths who made it to the city are thrown into the system and left there to rot. It is one of those unspoken deals: you leave them alone, and you keep your job.
Screw them. Elizabeth knows that she couldn’t bear to follow silent orders anymore; she is going to try and save him.
It’s with this attitude that she opens the first day of class, making sure to pay the same amount of attention to his cramped letters, smashed together in the shaking hand of a nine-year-old, and the evenly spaced sentences of the others. When the crayons are given out she saves one brilliant blue for him, knowing that the rest of the class will grab any that he tries to get.
And when lunchtime comes she dismisses the class to go down to the concrete lunchroom, then looks up to see him standing uneasily in front of her desk.
“Yes, Nolan?”
He flinches slightly at the sound of his name and her green eyes narrow minutely, trying to see if there were bruises underneath the filthy rags he was wearing. Had a parent come to the city with him? Had he been abused?
Shifting from side to side, Nolan lifts the paper bag he had hidden behind his back.
“Um, Ms. Weir, this was in my desk.”
“Is it not yours?”
“No, ma’am, I didn’t…” He blushes faintly with embarrassment and continues to not meet her friendly gaze. “…I don’t have a lunch.”
“Here. Let me see it.” She extends one hand and is amazed at the contrast between her manicured nails and his dirt-stained, grubby hands. Once he has handed it to her, quickly and without touching her pale skin, she turns it over.
“It has your name on it.”
When he looks up, brow scrunching with lines of worry, she points to the neatly written “NOLAN” on the front of the bag.
“But-“
He hesitates, the conflict visible in his thin face and clenching fingers. To accept her help, and risk having it taken away? Or to push it away and possibly alienate the only person who might be willing to aid him?
After a moment, he swallows and takes the bag. She’s not sure if it’s shame or self-consciousness that’s on his face when he leaves to tag after the others, but a warm glow suffuses a bit of her heart as she watches him go.
If she makes a difference, any difference however small or insignificant, it will be worth it.
Elizabeth holds onto that thought as the days roll by, growing shorter and darker as the war encroaches on the lazy city. She tries to bring a bit of light into the children’s days by engaging them in new activities, showing them fascinating creatures, pushing them to think of ways to brighten their own lives.
And always, whenever he is in class, she watches Nolan. She doesn’t know what he does when he’s not in school, but she supposes he’s doing odd jobs for a tiny pittance of money, because when he comes back it’s usually with some small, gaudy trinket that he places on her desk at lunchtime. By now, roughly a month and a half into the school year, she’s got a separate drawer for his gifts.
He’s taken to learning with a shy hunger that continues to surprise her; his comprehension of a subject may be limited, but his determination to understand it seems infinite. Once or twice she ventures a question about his living conditions- she's checked both the official boarding roster and the unofficial one, and he isn't on either- and he deflects them smoothly enough that she knows he's been asked before.
After that she leaves it alone.
That doesn’t mean she’s not still curious. Who is he living with? Who is taking care of him- or who is he taking care of? He only eats half of what is in the bag, and squirrels away the rest; it's not for later, she feels sure. Chances are he's giving it to someone else, another family member, a pet...
But if this other person is a parent, why haven't they gotten a job? Nolan still comes to class dressed in the threadbare jumpsuit he’s worn since the start of the school year, one he probably salvaged from an abandoned home. Elizabeth sorely wants to buy a new set of clothes for him, but her salary barely covers her own expenses, and only the tutoring she did on the side allows her to buy him lunch every day.
Whenever she thinks about it, knowing that even in the smoking city a day laborer can earn enough to clothe his child, she gets mad. And if she had been able to find out who Nolan's father or mother was, she would have had a long talk with them.
But Nolan will not talk about it, and she's found out from experience that he's hard to follow. Once he slipped into the slums, Elizabeth was forced to stop. In her dress and heels, lacking the demeanor or appearance of a city worker, she would have stuck out like a sore thumb. At best she would have been the subject of unwelcome attention; at worst...
So she bides her time, waiting to see if this mysterious figure begins to be productive, begins to help. As a month passes and there is still no sign of Nolan's companion aiding him in any way, she grows more and more frustrated.
Then, six weeks after school started, Nolan does not show up for four days. It is the longest he’s been absent, and her worry is about to overwhelm her when he walks uneasily into the classroom on the fifth day.
"Nolan!" She has to keep herself from jumping out of her chair to hug him. "Where have you been?"
"Ms. Weir," he says softly, and a cold feeling begins to build in her stomach, "I have to leave."
"Leave? Why? Where will you go?" Of course, he's legally allowed to drop out, and the school board will probably wave him goodbye, but she knows it is one of the worst decisions he may ever make.
He is bright, sometimes frighteningly so. His drive to succeed, his knack for solving puzzles and thinking outside the box, means that he can one day be the world's top scientist, or diplomat, or anything else he put his mind to. She knows this; she has seen the shine of greatness, of potential underneath the patina of sewage and filth. But if he drops out now, if he loses this chance for a higher education, he will never be anything more important than a chimney sweep.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Weir." And from the way his eyes slide across the carpet, she knows he means what he says.
"Nolan-"
"I'll pay you back, don't worry."
She swallows indignation.
"That's not it at all-"
But Elizabeth knows her words will be useless. She blinks, looking at the little boy who walked into her life only a month and a half ago, and tells herself she will not cry.
"You don't have to do this."
"My father needs me. But thank you for everything, Ms. Weir. It..."
He pauses, biting his lip ever so slightly before looking up and meeting her eyes for the first time. It is this that tells her he will never set foot inside her classroom again.
"It meant a lot to me."
And then he turns, and is out the door before another protest can escape her lips.
Elizabeth sits at her desk, left with a drawer full of baubles and the memory of brilliant blue eyes.
Three weeks later she is walking down a side street holding a bagged lunch and feeling useless. There is little need for teachers any more, because the children have either fled to the strafed countryside or are working full-time to compensate for the loss of income resulting from a parent’s death. Crime has skyrocketed, and Elizabeth has had the sinking realization that if Nolan has not already escaped the oily city he is probably dead... or soon will be.
Had she made a difference? Had those precious days in her presence helped him at all? How naïve she had been, to believe that a worthless child could be saved...
No! That is not her thinking, Elizabeth tells herself sternly. It is the sooty rain making her contemplate such things. She did make a difference; she must have made some difference...
Up ahead, partially obscured by the sullen drizzle, she catches a glimpse of a figure walking down the street. Her breath hitches as she recognizes the slumped shoulders, the faded orange jumpsuit, the way the small feet shuffled along the ground.
Nolan?
She bites her tongue before she calls out his name. If it is him, this is her chance to follow, to find out where he’s living, and what exactly is wrong with his father. Anger begins to rise at the satisfying thought of chewing out the selfish and arrogant man who dragged Nolan out of her class, and she quickly undoes the pins holding her hair back. A few more adjustments later Elizabeth looks like a homeless woman, head permanently bowed, posture practically screaming 'obedient/beaten'; the slushy rain will help obscure her identity even further.
Transformation complete, she heads after her former student.
Within minutes she is lost in a tangled confusion of alleys and walls, passing the gutted frames of burned houses, overflowing dumpsters by which mad men huddle and whisper to themselves, rotten squares that used to be war-time gardens. Suppressing a shudder, Elizabeth keeps her eyes of the boy ahead of her and tries not to look around.
Finally he slips into an opening that seems to be no more than a crack in a crumbling brick wall. She takes a breath, gagging on the stench of decomposing flesh and human waste, and slips through it too.
It is one of the narrowest alleys she has ever seen, if it can be called that, and there would be barely enough room for her to sit, let alone stretch out her legs. Garbage litters the wet ground, but an overhanging roof provide some protection against the rain. All in all, it’s one of the better places in this part of the city.
As Elizabeth hesitates, she sees Nolan crouch down next to an older man who is slumped against the wall. When a soft greeting of “Hey, Dad” reaches her ears, she knows this is who she’s been looking for.
When she appears next to Nolan, the father stirs and cracks open bleary eyes. She recognizes the hazy look brought on by heavy drinking and barely notices the film caused by pain as vexation fills her. No wonder Nolan had to drop out; a drunkard for a father was a heavy burden for anyone to bear, let alone a nine-year-old boy!
“Who’s that?” The man asks as her jaw tightens. His voice is rough, grated, like someone sandpapered his vocal chords.
“Hello, Ms. Weir.” Nolan says, without much surprise. She’s not concerned that he heard her following him, but she appreciates that he let her. Perhaps he wants a better life than this, where his father sits in filth all day and he works to scrap up enough money to get them by another day.
“I’m Nolan’s teacher, Mr. Sheppard.” The bite in her voice is hard to control.
“Wha- teacher?” His green eyes blink, trying to focus on her face. When they do, their intensity and sharpness startles her.
Perhaps he is another drop out who could have been great. Maybe he was, at some point in the far past.
“Yes; your son attended the Atlantean Boarding School for several weeks before you forced him to stop.”
“We weren’t making it by on the lunches he stole from the school.” The man retorts. “He had to get real work, not sit and draw pretty pictures.”
“With an education of any kind, your son could have something better than ten hour shifts in an ammo factory!” She snaps back, trying to keep her rage under control. “And you’re a sad man if you force your child to work and sit around all day waiting for another drink. I don’t see you putting any effort into helping yourself!”
His eyes flash and she is shaken by the pure fury that fills them, by the savage way his lips curl and his hands clench the grimy fabric of his pants.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He growls, the threat in his voice sending a shiver through her. “Don’t you think you can come preach to me as though I’m some lowborn scum who’s lived on the streets his whole life, you bitch.”
Before her jaw can drop she recovers, rallying her wits.
“If you weren’t preaching material, you wouldn’t be here. I don’t care how badly you need your next fix of drugs or swig from a bottle, Nolan shouldn’t have to pay for it. You have no excuse, no reason at all-”
“If I could walk, you could bet your fucking money I’d be working instead of him! Do you think I do it because I want to? I don’t have a choice.”
Stunned by the despair that creeps under his angry words, Elizabeth looks at him in with different eyes. Can’t walk? What could that…
Oh.
Now she recognizes the badges under the dirt and body fluids, the glint of metal on his shoulders, the distinct gray-green color of the Stargate Wings.
John Sheppard had been a pilot in one of the most infamous, elite groups ever to fly the sky. He must have been a damn fine one, too, because only the best get into the ‘Gates. And now, paralyzed from the waist down, living in a city that didn’t give a damn about the heroes of the past, he is forced to depend on his child instead of taking care of Nolan, as, it is clear, he wants to.
Her lips part but no words escape, leaving them in the gloom with only the sound of the rain falling to interrupt the silence.
The rage in his tense face begins to ebb, and finally something like annoyance crosses through the bright green eyes. I don’t need your pity, it says. But before he can speak, an explosion rocks the city. Like a toy, she is picked up and thrown through the air, crashing into the wall as debris flies everywhere, followed by a gout of flame that narrowly misses Nolan’s thin body. She sees him crouch over his father, protecting him even as John wraps his arms around his son, and then sees nothing at all as her eyes lose focus and the world slides into shades of gray…
…and then black.
…whatever reprimands that will earn her from the school’s administration.
Oh, it’s a convenient lie to tell the government, the media, the public: “Of course we’re taking care of the refugee children! We’re wonderful people, so of course we’re giving them an education, providing them with housing and clothes and all the necessities… all at our expense, of course.”
Bull shit, all of it. The battered youths who made it to the city are thrown into the system and left there to rot. It is one of those unspoken deals: you leave them alone, and you keep your job.
Screw them. Elizabeth knows that she couldn’t bear to follow silent orders anymore; she is going to try and save him.
It’s with this attitude that she opens the first day of class, making sure to pay the same amount of attention to his cramped letters, smashed together in the shaking hand of a nine-year-old, and the evenly spaced sentences of the others. When the crayons are given out she saves one brilliant blue for him, knowing that the rest of the class will grab any that he tries to get.
And when lunchtime comes she dismisses the class to go down to the concrete lunchroom, then looks up to see him standing uneasily in front of her desk.
“Yes, Nolan?”
He flinches slightly at the sound of his name and her green eyes narrow minutely, trying to see if there were bruises underneath the filthy rags he was wearing. Had a parent come to the city with him? Had he been abused?
Shifting from side to side, Nolan lifts the paper bag he had hidden behind his back.
“Um, Ms. Weir, this was in my desk.”
“Is it not yours?”
“No, ma’am, I didn’t…” He blushes faintly with embarrassment and continues to not meet her friendly gaze. “…I don’t have a lunch.”
“Here. Let me see it.” She extends one hand and is amazed at the contrast between her manicured nails and his dirt-stained, grubby hands. Once he has handed it to her, quickly and without touching her pale skin, she turns it over.
“It has your name on it.”
When he looks up, brow scrunching with lines of worry, she points to the neatly written “NOLAN” on the front of the bag.
“But-“
He hesitates, the conflict visible in his thin face and clenching fingers. To accept her help, and risk having it taken away? Or to push it away and possibly alienate the only person who might be willing to aid him?
After a moment, he swallows and takes the bag. She’s not sure if it’s shame or self-consciousness that’s on his face when he leaves to tag after the others, but a warm glow suffuses a bit of her heart as she watches him go.
If she makes a difference, any difference however small or insignificant, it will be worth it.
Elizabeth holds onto that thought as the days roll by, growing shorter and darker as the war encroaches on the lazy city. She tries to bring a bit of light into the children’s days by engaging them in new activities, showing them fascinating creatures, pushing them to think of ways to brighten their own lives.
And always, whenever he is in class, she watches Nolan. She doesn’t know what he does when he’s not in school, but she supposes he’s doing odd jobs for a tiny pittance of money, because when he comes back it’s usually with some small, gaudy trinket that he places on her desk at lunchtime. By now, roughly a month and a half into the school year, she’s got a separate drawer for his gifts.
He’s taken to learning with a shy hunger that continues to surprise her; his comprehension of a subject may be limited, but his determination to understand it seems infinite. Once or twice she ventures a question about his living conditions- she's checked both the official boarding roster and the unofficial one, and he isn't on either- and he deflects them smoothly enough that she knows he's been asked before.
After that she leaves it alone.
That doesn’t mean she’s not still curious. Who is he living with? Who is taking care of him- or who is he taking care of? He only eats half of what is in the bag, and squirrels away the rest; it's not for later, she feels sure. Chances are he's giving it to someone else, another family member, a pet...
But if this other person is a parent, why haven't they gotten a job? Nolan still comes to class dressed in the threadbare jumpsuit he’s worn since the start of the school year, one he probably salvaged from an abandoned home. Elizabeth sorely wants to buy a new set of clothes for him, but her salary barely covers her own expenses, and only the tutoring she did on the side allows her to buy him lunch every day.
Whenever she thinks about it, knowing that even in the smoking city a day laborer can earn enough to clothe his child, she gets mad. And if she had been able to find out who Nolan's father or mother was, she would have had a long talk with them.
But Nolan will not talk about it, and she's found out from experience that he's hard to follow. Once he slipped into the slums, Elizabeth was forced to stop. In her dress and heels, lacking the demeanor or appearance of a city worker, she would have stuck out like a sore thumb. At best she would have been the subject of unwelcome attention; at worst...
So she bides her time, waiting to see if this mysterious figure begins to be productive, begins to help. As a month passes and there is still no sign of Nolan's companion aiding him in any way, she grows more and more frustrated.
Then, six weeks after school started, Nolan does not show up for four days. It is the longest he’s been absent, and her worry is about to overwhelm her when he walks uneasily into the classroom on the fifth day.
"Nolan!" She has to keep herself from jumping out of her chair to hug him. "Where have you been?"
"Ms. Weir," he says softly, and a cold feeling begins to build in her stomach, "I have to leave."
"Leave? Why? Where will you go?" Of course, he's legally allowed to drop out, and the school board will probably wave him goodbye, but she knows it is one of the worst decisions he may ever make.
He is bright, sometimes frighteningly so. His drive to succeed, his knack for solving puzzles and thinking outside the box, means that he can one day be the world's top scientist, or diplomat, or anything else he put his mind to. She knows this; she has seen the shine of greatness, of potential underneath the patina of sewage and filth. But if he drops out now, if he loses this chance for a higher education, he will never be anything more important than a chimney sweep.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Weir." And from the way his eyes slide across the carpet, she knows he means what he says.
"Nolan-"
"I'll pay you back, don't worry."
She swallows indignation.
"That's not it at all-"
But Elizabeth knows her words will be useless. She blinks, looking at the little boy who walked into her life only a month and a half ago, and tells herself she will not cry.
"You don't have to do this."
"My father needs me. But thank you for everything, Ms. Weir. It..."
He pauses, biting his lip ever so slightly before looking up and meeting her eyes for the first time. It is this that tells her he will never set foot inside her classroom again.
"It meant a lot to me."
And then he turns, and is out the door before another protest can escape her lips.
Elizabeth sits at her desk, left with a drawer full of baubles and the memory of brilliant blue eyes.
Three weeks later she is walking down a side street holding a bagged lunch and feeling useless. There is little need for teachers any more, because the children have either fled to the strafed countryside or are working full-time to compensate for the loss of income resulting from a parent’s death. Crime has skyrocketed, and Elizabeth has had the sinking realization that if Nolan has not already escaped the oily city he is probably dead... or soon will be.
Had she made a difference? Had those precious days in her presence helped him at all? How naïve she had been, to believe that a worthless child could be saved...
No! That is not her thinking, Elizabeth tells herself sternly. It is the sooty rain making her contemplate such things. She did make a difference; she must have made some difference...
Up ahead, partially obscured by the sullen drizzle, she catches a glimpse of a figure walking down the street. Her breath hitches as she recognizes the slumped shoulders, the faded orange jumpsuit, the way the small feet shuffled along the ground.
Nolan?
She bites her tongue before she calls out his name. If it is him, this is her chance to follow, to find out where he’s living, and what exactly is wrong with his father. Anger begins to rise at the satisfying thought of chewing out the selfish and arrogant man who dragged Nolan out of her class, and she quickly undoes the pins holding her hair back. A few more adjustments later Elizabeth looks like a homeless woman, head permanently bowed, posture practically screaming 'obedient/beaten'; the slushy rain will help obscure her identity even further.
Transformation complete, she heads after her former student.
Within minutes she is lost in a tangled confusion of alleys and walls, passing the gutted frames of burned houses, overflowing dumpsters by which mad men huddle and whisper to themselves, rotten squares that used to be war-time gardens. Suppressing a shudder, Elizabeth keeps her eyes of the boy ahead of her and tries not to look around.
Finally he slips into an opening that seems to be no more than a crack in a crumbling brick wall. She takes a breath, gagging on the stench of decomposing flesh and human waste, and slips through it too.
It is one of the narrowest alleys she has ever seen, if it can be called that, and there would be barely enough room for her to sit, let alone stretch out her legs. Garbage litters the wet ground, but an overhanging roof provide some protection against the rain. All in all, it’s one of the better places in this part of the city.
As Elizabeth hesitates, she sees Nolan crouch down next to an older man who is slumped against the wall. When a soft greeting of “Hey, Dad” reaches her ears, she knows this is who she’s been looking for.
When she appears next to Nolan, the father stirs and cracks open bleary eyes. She recognizes the hazy look brought on by heavy drinking and barely notices the film caused by pain as vexation fills her. No wonder Nolan had to drop out; a drunkard for a father was a heavy burden for anyone to bear, let alone a nine-year-old boy!
“Who’s that?” The man asks as her jaw tightens. His voice is rough, grated, like someone sandpapered his vocal chords.
“Hello, Ms. Weir.” Nolan says, without much surprise. She’s not concerned that he heard her following him, but she appreciates that he let her. Perhaps he wants a better life than this, where his father sits in filth all day and he works to scrap up enough money to get them by another day.
“I’m Nolan’s teacher, Mr. Sheppard.” The bite in her voice is hard to control.
“Wha- teacher?” His green eyes blink, trying to focus on her face. When they do, their intensity and sharpness startles her.
Perhaps he is another drop out who could have been great. Maybe he was, at some point in the far past.
“Yes; your son attended the Atlantean Boarding School for several weeks before you forced him to stop.”
“We weren’t making it by on the lunches he stole from the school.” The man retorts. “He had to get real work, not sit and draw pretty pictures.”
“With an education of any kind, your son could have something better than ten hour shifts in an ammo factory!” She snaps back, trying to keep her rage under control. “And you’re a sad man if you force your child to work and sit around all day waiting for another drink. I don’t see you putting any effort into helping yourself!”
His eyes flash and she is shaken by the pure fury that fills them, by the savage way his lips curl and his hands clench the grimy fabric of his pants.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He growls, the threat in his voice sending a shiver through her. “Don’t you think you can come preach to me as though I’m some lowborn scum who’s lived on the streets his whole life, you bitch.”
Before her jaw can drop she recovers, rallying her wits.
“If you weren’t preaching material, you wouldn’t be here. I don’t care how badly you need your next fix of drugs or swig from a bottle, Nolan shouldn’t have to pay for it. You have no excuse, no reason at all-”
“If I could walk, you could bet your fucking money I’d be working instead of him! Do you think I do it because I want to? I don’t have a choice.”
Stunned by the despair that creeps under his angry words, Elizabeth looks at him in with different eyes. Can’t walk? What could that…
Oh.
Now she recognizes the badges under the dirt and body fluids, the glint of metal on his shoulders, the distinct gray-green color of the Stargate Wings.
John Sheppard had been a pilot in one of the most infamous, elite groups ever to fly the sky. He must have been a damn fine one, too, because only the best get into the ‘Gates. And now, paralyzed from the waist down, living in a city that didn’t give a damn about the heroes of the past, he is forced to depend on his child instead of taking care of Nolan, as, it is clear, he wants to.
Her lips part but no words escape, leaving them in the gloom with only the sound of the rain falling to interrupt the silence.
The rage in his tense face begins to ebb, and finally something like annoyance crosses through the bright green eyes. I don’t need your pity, it says. But before he can speak, an explosion rocks the city. Like a toy, she is picked up and thrown through the air, crashing into the wall as debris flies everywhere, followed by a gout of flame that narrowly misses Nolan’s thin body. She sees him crouch over his father, protecting him even as John wraps his arms around his son, and then sees nothing at all as her eyes lose focus and the world slides into shades of gray…
…and then black.