Chapter Text
He pressed a shaking hand to the boiling hot blood drenching his clothes. He was shivering so bad his teeth clacked. Threadbare pants, layers upon thin layers, and sockless feet tucked into shoes with holes did nothing to stop the crispy cold from biting into him.
There was no thread left, but he still had a needle and tooth floss. The problem was, he was already dizzy, if he stopped now in the snow between some white suburban houses, he knew he might succumb to the cold and die of hypothermia. Some poor kid would come outside to frolic in the rare Christmas snow and see a homeless teen who had bled out overnight.
It was almost funny. Shit. Why was that funny?
The snow looked as warm as a comforter. A big fluffy blanket. He could imagine collapsing into it like clouds. Falling and becoming encumbered by the weight. Would it really matter at this point? He had nothing to lose.
He hadn’t thought it could get any worse until about two weeks ago when he was sleeping in a homeless shelter and a group of people attacked him and stole his binder.
Everything. His articles on exy and Kevin. His contacts, his optometrists note. Stuart’s phone number. People who could get him false identities and make a better life possible. The contact information of anyone who could have helped. It was gone. It was all gone.
Half a million dollars. Gone.
Nathaniel huffed out the tattered remains of a laugh as he stumbled down the street. His lower abdomen stabbed with pain as his diaphragm tensed. He had been pretty optimistic then. He had thought, at least I have my camera, my lockpick, my photobook, and my knives. He thought he could make do with a life of crime now that he was paranoid of homeless shelters.
And then he got stabbed. Because of fucking course he did.
It had only been a few minutes ago. He was sleeping by a vent on the street when someone with wolves’ eyes decided to rob him. They looked like his father, and that was enough to make Nathaniel freeze. They realized he had nothing of value and gutted him. The layers he wore were the only reason he was still alive. Getting up had still been one fucking hell of a challenge, Nathaniel had channeled his will for survival only to end up on a mockingly cheerful residential street.
In the wind, Nathaniel could hear laughter, singing, celebrating, gasps of joy, and the tearing of wrapping paper. The sounds grew blurry in his head. He blinked and the world fizzled with black specks. He squinted and the lights elongated and stretched across the sky before going back to normal.
He needed to find a house to break into— fast.
He looked down the street. Christmas lights on each house illuminated the blackness of night. Scents of cinnamon, chocolate, and pumpkin drafted out from opened windows. This was the wrong neighborhood to be in for house breakage. And the wrong time; Christmas Eve.
Then, Nathaniel saw his saving grace.
A house with a long driveway and Christmas lights that were turned off. The lawn was unkempt and there were no cars in the driveway.
He crept up the path that led around the garden and peered inside the front window for signs of residency. All the lights were off. The fox statues and the powered-off Christmas lights were the only indicators that someone lived there.
Opting for more secrecy, Nathaniel went to go around back. He felt relieved to find the fence unlocked. Even he got lucky breaks. He latched the fence closed behind him and shuffled over the snow until he reached an imposing door on the side of the house. The lock was extensive. With Nathaniel’s shaking fingers, it took an indeterminable amount of time spent cussing and steadying himself for the door to finally open.
When Nathaniel had finally picked the lock, he was treated to one of the most satisfying sounds he had ever heard.
Click.
With his head pounding and his heart roaring in his ears in waves, Nathaniel held a knife in the same hand he used to steady himself against the wall. He nearly tripped over his own legs as he made his way around the house. Not graceful, but silent. He hoped he wasn’t dripping blood.
A glance down crushed Nathaniel’s hope. There was a trail of blood leading from the side door. He smiled manically. There was probably a little pool of blood in the snow where he had picked the lock. The grin on his face suddenly felt unwelcome. Wait. Why was he smiling? Shit. He was going into shock.
Nathaniel shambled from the hallway he had entered and tried not to drip any more blood around as he checked the expansive living room, the bathroom, and the kitchen. Downstairs was clear. It was a well-loved home full of cheesy decorations that Nathaniel could only ponder at considering how lifeless Nathan’s house was. The dwindling stock of food and the tidiness told him that the residents were likely out on vacation. It didn’t take long rummaging in the cabinets before Nathaniel found an expensive-looking bottle of whiskey alongside some other alcohol varieties. Too bad for them one would go to waste.
With the whiskey tucked in his duffle, Nathaniel eyed the stairs and grimaced as he limped up them. There was an office with a promising framed medical degree on the desk, another bathroom, a guest room, and a master bedroom complete with a third bathroom. Nathaniel turned the temperature up and the thermostat kicked to life.
In the master bathroom, Nathaniel found an extensive collection of medical supplies. He locked the door just for peace of mind and sat on the floor with his back against the wall.
Under his coat, a red hole was eating its way through already-torn clothes. Nathaniel grit his teeth as he took off the rest of his layers. Once he had somehow managed to take everything off, Nathaniel was able to clean the cut on his gut and a few other bad wounds. The one on his leg was definitely infected and the mark on his back was burning with invigorated pain.
He eyed the painkillers but ultimately decided against them, untrusting the bottles even if he recognized the labels. Instead Nathaniel took a few burning gulps of whiskey and doused his injury, gasping at the stinging pain.
He readied the stitches in his hand and tried to thread the needle. Nathaniel squinted one eye and saw double. Maybe all those nights in the cold had caught up to him. Or maybe skipping all those meals, being too scared and stubborn to accept charity, was siphoning him away.
It felt like he had just swallowed a gallon of sand. Nathaniel needed water. The sink was so fucking far away but he managed to stagger up to it and get a few gulps of water.
With his body sweating, Nathaniel finally threaded the needle and his trembling body reverted to automaton-mode. The stitches were less neat compared to two other recently done ones. There was a long cut that was almost ready for the stitches to be removed across the middle of his chest and a definitely infected cut on his leg. It was courtesy of a very dull serrated knife.
Nathaniel tied the stitches and took off his wet shoes before his toes could turn blue. The vent next to him spewed gentle warmth. He slouched as painlessly as possible and a weird pressure settled over his body. His brain felt like it was encased in silicone.
Nathaniel fought feebly, silently, and motionlessly for consciousness. Occasionally a convulsion of pain would bring his consciousness just under the surface. His mind never breached. The light of the bathroom dimmed. A cheerful group was walking by outside the window. Their muffled voices grew louder. Raucous and filled with mirth.
He heard the drag of a heavy door and a bang against the wall. The voices were coming from the vent.
Oh.
Fuck.
He could clearly distinguish the male and female voices of maybe four to ten people.
This was not good.
They would call the police.
He was fucked.
The cheer in the voices stopped. Nathaniel was glad he had locked the bathroom door. Maybe he could fit out the window.
With a body heavier than lead, Nathaniel pulled his layers back on.
He caught snippets of conversation;
“You little shits…curtains…windows.”
“Air condition—”
The sounds of questions. Quiet questions. The scary silence of realization.
“Then how…?”
“HOLY SHIT!” A man yelled. “Is that fucking blood?!”
“Get back here!”
“All the way…”
Shushing.
“Backdoor.”
“...the gun safe.”
“Calm down!”
“Shhhhh.”
“…knives…”
“Outside Holy fuck— look!”
“Fucking quiet!”
“...stairs.”
SHIT.
Nathaniel needed to get out of here now.
Barely able to feel his body, Nathaniel stuffed some medical supplies in his duffle.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs. An army was on its way.
Nathaniel grunted from the effort as he climbed up the toilet and tried to get the window open. The position was strenuous. He felt a snap and a burning sensation and his head rushed with blood as heavy as metal.
He fell backward and failed to suppress a few gasps of pain.
The sounds he made were pathetic— small and full of genuine terror and hints of agony. The footsteps outside reacted instantly. Hushed tones and change in the air.
“That a kid?” Someone said.
“We should call the fucking police—“
“We don’t know their circumstances.” A girl said.
The group argued in hushed tones.
“Alright!” A man’s voice boomed. “Get out of there right now. I’ll call an ambulance before the police but if you don’t answer my questions it’s the latter. Who are you and what are you doing in my house? Are you hurt?”
“Foxes,” a woman urged quietly. “Go. We don’t want to overwhelm them.”
Overwhelm Nathaniel? An intruder in their home? By the sounds of it, there was a gun in the hands of this man.
Nathaniel struggled to get up and was hit by a wheeze and a couch he instinctively suppressed, the pain-wracked his body and he took a minute to regain his breath.
“I would prefer not to break down the door,” the man urged. Impatient. Just like Nathaniel’s father.
“Are you okay in there?” The woman asked. “Do you need an ambulance?”
He peered out the window and saw his shuffling footsteps from earlier.
“How old are you, kid?” The man asked.
Nathaniel unlocked the window and began to open it.
“Was that the window? It’s a floor high, kid. Not worth it.”
The window creaked as Nathaniel pushed it farther up.
“MATT! Seth! Make sure this kid doesn’t die falling out the window!” The man’s tone grew more urgent as the window creaked open. “Out the back by the side door! Go go GO! ”
His stitches burned. The blood was leaking through the infected cut on his side and the stomach wound. The bathroom was a mess of red to prove it. Nathaniel pushed his duffle out the window. Then he squinted his eyes closed and pulled himself out.
Cold, hard ground. The snow broke his fall but it was sharp and stinging. Nathaniel grabbed for his duffle and wrapped both arms around it. He tried to move but his stomach stung with pain. Nathaniel rolled over, gasping in breaths of snow.
He squinted at a tall man looming over him. Nathaniel lashed out with his knife and the figure careened backward. Voices clamored like bells in his head. He managed to sit up and held a knife between himself and two people who were much bigger than him.
“...woah, woah. It’s okay buddy,” the guy with wild spiky hair was saying.
“...the fuck’s the little maniac got a knife?”
“Put the knife down?” The spiky guy asked nicely.
Nathaniel blinked through the snow.
His eyes snapped to movement as a giant came hulking from behind the corner. The man was dark-clothed, muscular, and tall enough to be his father. He had an army with him— Lola, DiMaccio, Romero, and Jackson. They were back. Just like when they came and took him. Like when they had held him down and suddenly blood was pouring down his throat.
Nathaniel struggled to breathe.
The large man grumbled something and reached for him. Nathaniel recoiled. He was certain he was going to tear in half but he scrambled backward away from the man until his head hit the back of something. His cloudy breath obscured his vision and Nathaniel curled in on himself.
The action caused so much pain that his vision turned black. He keeled over in the snow.
Unconscious massaged his head like his father’s rough hands holding him just under the water. He felt himself being carried in big, warm arms and struggled with all the energy he had left. He heard voices panic and shush him and suddenly he was set on something softer than anything he had slept on in two years.
That’s when he knew everything was fucked.
After a few minutes of breathing, Nathaniel became aware of a great many eyes on him. He felt out for his duffle and found it right by his arm. Nathaniel grasped it while listening.
“He’s in pretty bad condition. I think we should call an ambulance.”
“Alli, have you ever had to go to the hospital while homeless? He’s definitely got no insurance, the bill would be insane.”
“God bless ‘merica.” The man with the gristly voice grumbled.
“And it’ll all be for nothing if he dies.” The saccharine woman, who sounded headstrong although panicked, said. “Move the table back. I’m going to sit there and treat this kid’s wounds.”
Someone touched Nathaniel's side. In one instant, he had a knife pressed to the older woman’s throat. It took her a moment to be scared. Everyone behind her was frozen.
Her reaction surprised Nathaniel. The fear melted into something soft.
“Hey,” she said quietly . “I’m so sorry, I didn’t ask before touching you.”
What the fuck?
She was apologizing?
The woman looked genuinely concerned at seeing the confusion on Nathaniel’s face.
He realized just how shaky his hand was and pulled the knife away. The room was tense as she scooted away and the big man who looked horribly like Nathaniel’s father made his way over with hulking footsteps.
Nathaniel scrambled up to sit despite the woman's and his body's protests.
The man raised a hand and Nathaniel flinched. Hard. He held both arms up in defense and hid his head behind his knees. Seconds ticked by as he held the position. Nathaniel’s arms were shaking so fucking badly in midair but he couldn’t will it to stop. He realized they probably had a full view of his burned left hand and all the scars on both hands.
“Jesus Christ,” the man said. With decades of pain in his voice.
He couldn’t see the full truth of Nathaniel’s past. That his dad had let years and years of accumulated anger out and made his life goal putting Nathaniel in as much pain as possible. But what he could see was extreme abuse. From the resounding silence, the whole room could see it.
“Foxes. Out.” The man said. “Call Bee.”
Nathaniel was still in a tight ball. He was too disoriented to think about how pathetic he must’ve looked.
“Hey, honey? My name is Abby. I’m a nurse, okay? You’re injured and I would really like to help you. That man over there is Wymack. He’s going to stay in that chair and he isn’t going to move and he isn’t going to hurt you.”
He relaxed his legs a bit and peered through his arms at Wymack on the far armchair. The woman was a liar, he was here to protect her and would hurt Nathaniel if he attacked.
“What’s your name?”
Nathaniel didn’t respond aside from lowering his arms slightly.
From two arms-widths away, Abby tilted her head. “Can you talk? Are you deaf?”
He didn’t respond.
“Do you want us to call an ambulance or the police?”
Nathaniel shook his head, put his legs on the ground. He clenched a knife in his hand.
Abby seemed oddly relieved that he had finally communicated and strangely . “May I ask why? It’s okay. You can talk to me.”
Except he couldn’t. Nathaniel still felt the lingering cut of a knife when he merely thought about speaking or opening his mouth.
It didn’t matter how inconvenient it made the situation, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Even when he was being shanked in an alleyway minutes ago, even as his binder with all his money was stolen.
His loud mouth had gotten him in more trouble with his father than it was worth. Still, to remind himself that all his demons could just be told to “fuck off” and verbally torn to shreds kept him alive and mouthy. It was the one liberation he always had. His dad could chain him down, he could use any sharp material he liked, he could deprive Nathaniel of water and food and sunlight, but Nathaniel would still lash out with vile words.
Then finally, Nathan decided to do something else about Nathaniel and his tongue. And Nathaniel had tasted iron. Red iron.
Channeling all his will, Nathaniel lifted his chin, about to open his jaw. His throat tingled as his neck stretched, and he slapped a hand to his mouth just as his tongue stabbed with the ghost of an agonizing, stabbing sensation. He tried not to shudder, and stomped on the ground. He needed to break something. Something that wasn’t him. Although he wasn’t sure he could be broken anymore than sand could be crushed.
From across the room, Wymack’s eyes tightened like he was in pain.
“Hey,” Abby said. “You’re alright. You don’t need to say anything if you can’t. Are you injured in your mouth?”
He shook his head.
“Okay, will you show me?”
He shook his head again.
Abby inhaled. “Then… would you at least take off your layers so I can get a look at you?”
He shook his head a third time, tightening his fingers on the knife.
“Let me clarify,” Wymack said gently. “We will absolutely call an ambulance or the police if necessary. Give Abby your knife and let her help you goddamnit. If that’s worse than an ambulance, we will call one. But Abby will be a million times more considerate than the nearest hospital. Not to mention you drained half that bottle of Johnnie Walker, giver her something to work with, damnnit.”
Nathaniel looked to the man, understanding of his threat, no matter how softly it was spoken. He handed the blade to Abby.
She walked over to give it to Wymack. The second it went in the man’s hand, Nathaniel nearly bolted. He felt his breaths become more shallow, and the pain from his lower abdomen only invigorated the reaction. His head quickly clouded, becoming discombobulated due to a lack of oxygen.
Nathaniel’s reaction shouldn’t have been noticeable, yet Wymack quickly gave the knife back to Abby. “Abby, hand this to a Fox. I’m sure they're right out the door listening.”
“Are not!” Someone’s muffled voice shouted down the hall.
Abby walked past and Nathaniel didn’t spare her so much as a glance. He kept his eyes on Wymack. Noticing all the man’s muscles and the strength he exuded. The man was moving slowly, making his voice gentle and keeping his posture relaxed.
Why? Was it because of him?
Nathaniel was irked by this consideration. He was strong to have survived the nonstop fucking torture his dad put him through. It was incredible he could even put himself back together after that amount of pain. He wasn’t fragile.
Wymack broke the silence with an infuriatingly gentle voice. “You’re okay, son.”
He meant it as a term of comfort. Nathaniel couldn’t help but hear a threat. A semblance to his dad. Wymack realized this mistake too late and Nathaniel was already scooting farther away on the couch despite the pettiness of the action and the pain it caused him.
“My bad.” The man put both hands up, slowly and offered his palms. “My bad. Chrissakes kid, move less, we can’t have you dying. It would help if you told us what to call you.”
Abby came back and sat between the two. “Alright, I’m going to assess you for injuries, is that alright?”
Nathaniel nodded.
“Take off your coat please.”
“What’s wrong with the word ‘please’, junior? You have a problem with it, now? Mind your manners, say it. Say please. Do it. Say it.”
“Hey, hey. Come back to me. Everything is fine. It’s me, Abby.”
Nathaniel looked up in time to see Abby share a communicative glance with Wymack.
“Can you make a noise?” Abby asked.
Nathaniel wasn’t sure how to answer that. Technically yes, but at the same time, he couldn’t will himself to if his life depended on it (which was proven when he got shanked). He couldn’t even cough properly. He shook his head with minimal motions.
“Can you open and close your fingers?”
Nathaniel held up his hand and did as she asked.
“Okay, in that sentence there were five words, hold up your fingers and let me know which it was that you didn’t like.”
Nathaniel held up five fingers.
“The fifth word?”
He nodded.
“Okay. Now, I need you to take off your coat if that’s okay.”
Nathaniel put one hand on his zipper and looked at Wymack.
Wymack put his hands up in resignation and sighed. “Would it help if I bought two younger folks in here instead of me?”
Nathaniel nodded slowly so his head wouldn’t devolve into dizziness.
He kept his eyes on Wymack as the man walked past, offering Nathaniel as much room as possible. In his place came the young man with the wild spiky hair and a girl with bright pastel hair. He couldn’t tell through his pounding head, but her eyes may have feigned kindness. He instantly distrusted her.
They pretended not to look, but all watched as he took off his coat, his oversized sweatshirt, his sweater, his long sleeve, and finally, his last T-shirt. As he took off his last shirt, Abby whimpered. Who he assumed to be Matt, choked. Even the wary girl, Renee, released a gasp.
Some cuts were more enraged than others. Some Nathaniel had not been allowed to stitch up. The non-knife ones were more distinct. You could probably categorize them: Gouges, forks, clay-carving tools, potato peelers, cheese graters, fountain pens, fire pokers, bullets, brands, barbed wire, roads, hacksaws, dogs, axes, a clothing iron, and every sharp or dull thing his father had ever grabbed. There were layers upon layers of dark and bright slashes and burns and gnarled and repeatedly torn skin.
His body was a canvas of cruelty and ravaged imagination. The only place untouched was his face.
Of course, the most notable was the scar on his back, where Nathan had carved “5 000 000 000” where Nathaniel couldn’t reach it and slowly, slowly carved other numbers over it, telling Nathaniel to do the math in his head.
“What’s five million minus the three hundred you spent on a hotel? Now subtract two thousand four hundred and sixty for that missed pass on your exy game. You’ll never see an exy racquet again.”
It had only been a few weeks since he had escaped so the cut on his back was still bad. The most eminent was the slash on his stomach. It didn’t look as deep as he initially thought. Then why was he so dizzy?
“Holy shit,” Matt said with a strained voice. “Please fucking tell me that’s I don’t know… a shirt? Or something! That— that can’t be real .”
“He’s underweight,” Renee stated. She seemed to be trying to look at the sheathes he wore, but her eyes kept going back to the scars. It was hard not to look at them, considering they were everywhere except his face.
“Did you stitch those yourself?” She asked through her tear-shaking voice. Nathaniel nodded. “Oh,” she sniffled. “You have experience— I mean your neck— oh God—” Her expression of empathetic ache tried to morph into something more professional, but her crinkled eyes gave her away.
She took a steadying breath, pulled out a stethoscope, and listened to different points on his sternum. Nathaniel’s vertigo helped the cold metal feel less invasive.
“Breath in. Hold. Breath out.” She felt around with her hands and Nathaniel couldn’t suppress a pained intake of breath when she touched near his injury. “You’re lucky it didn’t pierce the peritoneal cavity. You were… Well, it doesn’t matter. You’re okay now. I’m going to take off your jeans and then we’re going to get you on your side, is that okay?”
Nathaniel nodded and tried to get his wobbly body to comply. She slid off his pants and winced on seeing the long jagged cut along his side. “You’ll need to face the couch. Renee, hand me a pillow.” With her careful hands helping, Nathaniel managed to get on his side and a pillow wedged between his knees. He rested his head on his duffle bag and felt himself start to slip.
“Tha—” a shuddering string of sobs stopped Abby from saying anything more. She must have seen the mangled “5 000 000 000” on his back. She inhaled and—
Silence, for a moment.
Then Matt made a sickened sound.
Abby brought her hand to her mouth to late to stifle her cry.
“Abby?” Wymack called. Footsteps rumbled in from behind the couch and Wymack growled. He must have been able to peer over the back of the cushions, and had seen Nathaniel’s scourged body.
Nathaniel tried to peek over the edge of the couch to see who Wymack had brought with him, but the awkward position made him bend in an agonizing way, and black specks crowded his vision until they were all he could see.
He welcomed the familiar respite.
“Jesus fucking christ,” Wymack rumbled.
He hadn’t thought skin could look like that. Dear God. He had to blink a few times to make sure his eyes were working right. Even then, the kid’s skin looked like it wasn’t real. When he looked closer and saw just how real it was Wymack’s skin damn nearly crawled off his spine.
Any sympathy Wymack felt was overshadowed by a slow-creeping and burning rage when he walked to Abby and saw the number on the kid’s back. He curled both fists, his eyes tightened. The flinching, the shielding, the scooting away, the muteness— this poor fucking kid. What sort of demented fucking monster had done this? Wymack wanted to find the bastard and strangle him. He couldn’t fucking stand knowing someone like that existed on this Earth. He had seen so much in the world and a lot of bad cases. But this was something else. It was stupid of him to think he finally understood the extent of the world’s brutality.
“He looks like a test body someone used for a bunch of fucking halloween makeup.” Allison said. “That is… makeup, right?”
“Fucking fucking fuck,” was all Seth managed.
“Wymack,” Abby said shakily. “He’s sweating pretty badly. The cut on his stomach isn’t too bad, But I think he may have a cellulitis-induced fever. He needs antibiotics.” She wiped her eyes with her sleeve.
Wymack wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her in for a side-hug. Who cared what bets were resolved, this was beyond money.
“Are we really sure we shouldn’t just call an ambulance?” Dan said. Despite her calm demeanor, she looked ready to hurl.
“What if the people who did this to him would just find him then and take him back?” Seth said, strangely verbose. Everyone looked at him. “What? I’ve known some shitbags who avoided the pigs and the system because they knew it would just bring them right back to abuse. We all know how fucking useless that shit can be. For all we know the psycho who did this is in with the pigs.”
None of them anticipated that Seth of all people would make such a convincing point.
The Foxes were silent in contemplation.
“So we’re adopting him?” Matt asked with gleaming eyes. He was only half-joking.
Seth’s sneer fooled no one. His previous words didn’t align with antipathy.
Allison raised her hand. “This is a democracy and I’m the queen. Adoption.”
Dan raised a hand. “I know some youth shelters, but even the good ones don’t have the resources to get him the help he needs. If he agrees then I’m cool with sharing Christmas with this kid. Renee?”
“The lock on the backdoor,” Renee started. “That’s not an easy one to pick, and he knows how to use a knife. He’s got this look in his eyes that says he’s dangerous. But it also says he’s been through more than anything I’ve ever seen. We should… help him, just carefully.”
“No need to stage a coup.” Wymack groaned. “Abby looks like she ain’t letting this kid out of her sight until he ain’t an inch away from death and doesn’t flinch away like I’m Satan himself. He’s staying here. Might as well join us for Christmas Eve.”
“Another stray has joined the fray.” Matt cheered half-heartedly.
“Fuckn’ yay,” Seth said.
“Merry fuckin’ Christmas Eve.” Wymack grumbled.
Abby was precariously trying to disinfect the boy’s leg while he was unconscious. He had a long cut along his thigh. The skin around it was red. There were sheaths strapped around his calves and his lungs and hip bones were clearly visible. It was a good thing they came home with a feast. Although arriving to a trail of blood was quite the surprise.
The doorbell rang, signaling that Bee had arrived. Dan got the door and Bee distributed friendly greetings as she walked down the hall. When she arrived in the living room, Bee took one look at their stray, who was in his boxers, revealing all his scars, and making the knives and armbands strapped to him obvious, and she blinked wide-eyed. “What’s the situation?”
Wymack breathed in and out to prepare himself to tell the story. “I got home and the back lock had been picked. There was a trail of blood leading up to the bathroom and this kid had locked himself in there. He jumped out the window and landed in the snow. He couldn’t walk and I tried to bring him in but he scrambled away from me like I was some kind of demon. Matt carried him in. He held a knife to her throat when Abby touched him on the shoulder and nearly had a panic attack when I was holding the knife. When I lifted my hand he put both hands up and curled into a ball. Hasn’t said a word.”
It was quiet as Bee absorbed that.
She was startled out of her ruminations by a notification on her phone. her expression scrunched up. “I’ll need to talk to him tomorrow.”
“Any advice until then?” Matt asked.
“Be patient with him. He’s probably homeless so he’ll be protective of his things. Don’t touch them or him without asking. Don’t corner him, both you and him should be able to leave a situation at any time. Offer choices and make sure your body posture is genuine. It has to match with what you’re saying.”
“What are you, a cautionary manual?” Seth asked.
“I’m here to help.”
“Do you think you actually can?” Seth sneered. “Can you get him to talk, even?”
“Have you considered that he can’t talk?”
“He’s got... vocal cords,” Seth seemed to be trying to remember a time when the kid made an audible noise that wasn’t just air.
“And a tongue?”
Seth went pale and his eyes widened in horror. He looked at the kid’s unconscious face. Wymack hadn’t thought of that either. He hoped to mighty hell that the kid did. Wymack wasn't sure if he could handle the alternative.
“Regardless of whether he does or doesn't, he might never speak. It’s not always a choice. If he has selective mutism it would feel like a barrier is stopping him from talking even if he really wants to. Then again, maybe he’ll start talking tomorrow. We can’t know. For now I would suggest offering him alternate means of communication. Paper. Yes or no question.”
Wymack watched Seth’s fingers curl into fists. He was experiencing this for the first time, the helplessness of being too late to stop someone from getting hurt. The blind inferno directed towards humanity as a whole. “Lot of fucking good your profession is,” Seth spat.
Bee sent him a fierce yet understanding look. “I’m leaving him to you. For now, I have to go.”
Seth groaned. “Let me guess the fucking grinch is cranky again?”
Bee ignored him.
Wymack caught up to her in the hallway. “Is Andrew doing alright?”
Bee looked at him with empathetic eyes. “I think he still needs more time.”
Wymack sighed. “He was doing well up until the Winter Banquet.”
“Have you managed to find out what Riko said to him?”
Wymack shook his head. “I dunno but whatever this is, combined with his usual Christmas funk does not make a good combination.”
“It’s alright Wymack. You have your redhead to worry about. I’ll help Andrew.”
Wymack grunted. “Do your magic Bee.”
Bee smiled. “It’s up to him. I’m not magic.”
Wymack came back to the living room and tried to keep his posture non-threatening as he settled into a chair.
“Should we move him upstairs?” Matt asked.
“You almost got stabbed moving him the first time.” Dan pointed out.
Wymack looked at the kid on the couch. Abby had set a cold towel on his forehead and was about to wrap up his leg. When she touched his leg, he shuddered and hissed through his teeth. Wymack considered it was entirely possible he had no vocal cords or no tongue.
“You’re okay,” Abby said. “It’s just me. It’s Abby. Do you want— Wait don’t move—”
It was too late, he was moving so his front faced the whole room instead of his back. He set his duffle under his head, settled back down, and surveyed the room with icy eyes.
“Foxes,” Wymack said. “Shoo.”
Seth shook his head. “I think we deserve to meet our stray coach.”
The kid quirked his head at Seth. He had calculating eyes.
Abby sighed gently. “You don’t want us to call an ambulance or the police, correct?”
He nodded.
“Then would you stay here until your fever subsides?”
With the arm that wasn’t against the couch, he shrugged.
“Alright. Thank you. Can I check under your armbands for injuries?”
His eyes went murderous and the kid shook his head slowly.
“I just want to help.”
Without taking his eyes off Abby, the kid got up and pulled on a shirt that was two sizes too big. He eased himself back down to the couch again.
“Do you need water?”
He shook his head.
“A blanket?”
He shook his head but was shivering.
“Yeah right,” Matt stood up, causing the boy to tense. “I would appreciate not being stabbed.” He draped a comforter over the kid, who was buried briefly before his head surfaced. “I’m Matt, by the way. I forgive you for almost stabbing me when I carried you inside.”
The kid stared at Matt without remorse.
“Do you have weapons in your duffle?” Renee asked.
The kid pulled it closer to his body. He radiated anger. Self-defensive anger which stemmed from fear.
“Aren’t we going to introduce everyone first?” Matt said. “That’s Dan.” He pointed to everyone as he said their name. “Allison, Seth and Renee.”
“C’mon give up the duffle,” Seth chided. Completely ignoring Bee’s suggestions.
“Seth,” Wymack said quietly.
The kid held onto it with white hands. Holding on like it was the string tying him together.
“How about this, you pull everything out, show us the empty bag, then put everything back. We won’t touch anything,” Renee offered.
That seemed to be acceptable.
The kid— Wymack really wished he knew his name— set his duffle down on the table and unzipped it. He pulled out oversized clothes and set them on the side. He pulled out stolen medical supplies. He pulled out knives, throwing knives, and some switchblades. Finally, he pulled out the last few items; a camera and a big photo album, which the kid set on his lap.
“That’s everything?” Allison asked.
He showed them the empty insides of the bag.
“What’s with the album?” Seth asked. “Can I see?”
He shook his head. The kid packed everything back into the bag. Burying the photo album under all the clothes and wrapping the camera up in something soft.
“So we’re just fine with this dude having knives strapped to his legs?” Seth gestured expansively.
Renee shrugged. “He could have stabbed anyone by now. Let him keep the knives.”
Dan looked uncertain about that, but Renee sent her a reassuring glance.
“Would you let someone carry you upstairs?” Wymack asked gently.
The kid shook his head.
“Are we just going to open our gifts with this mute kid watching?” Seth asked. “Creepy as hell.”
“Shut up, Seth.” Dan flicked him on the head. “We’ll eat first then figure it out later.”
They shuffled out, Wymack walked out last. Distantly aware of those haunting eyes on him.
Nathaniel blinked up at the ceiling, doubtful that he could really be this warm. He was so comfortable it became uncomfortable. The pain was familiar, the warm voices echoing out from the hall wasn’t. The stitches were familiar, the respect that Abby and Wymack treated him with wasn’t. He barely resisted the urge to run. He couldn’t be this warm. He couldn’t be anyone or anything anymore. Not after what had happened.
He had finally escaped from his mother and planned on doing what she never did. He could ditch the paranoia. No more bloody trails, no more rabbit holes— just him and the boy it hurt to think about against the world.
Oh, how wrong he had been to hope.
His father found him. His father, who knew he could do anything now that the Moriyamas thought he was a goner, made every day of Nathaniel’s a living hell. He thought it had been bad before, but this time, Nathan had no reason to hold back. Time became nothing. Thoughts became nothing. Speech became nothing.
Pain was all there was.
He almost didn’t survive. He was getting ready to end everything when Stuart Hatford showed up and killed most of The Butcher’s men. Out of an instinct of self-preservation, Nathaniel evaded the police. They surely thought he was dead. Hell, Stuart probably thought he was dead. He had no idea who might still be alive and hunting him down, so he kept running. He didn’t even stop to check the date on the newspapers.
Nathaniel was nothing but a pair of feet running across cold cement.
Along the way, Nathaniel managed to retrieve the precious duffle his mother had stored in a safe in an abandoned building. It was a miracle he had found it and he thanked his mother for her foresight eternally. Inside laid the only precious possessions. His exy shrine with all his hidden money, his camera, his armbands and his photobook.
He squeezed his eyes closed when he remembered how utterly gone it was. Nothing. His dad’s voice, his father’s knife in his back reminded him.
“Five million. Zero. Five million. Zero. Zero. Nothing.”
Nathaniel opened his eyes to see a plate of food being shoved in his face by Abby. He felt like anything he ate would be immediately thrown up. Not to mention he hated the charity— these people were already doing too much for him. Too much for nothing.
The plate had grilled chicken, mashed potatoes, and vegetables. His stomach won out against Nathaniel’s stubbornness and he ended up eating some of the vegetables and less than half the chicken.
The ground was inconsistent, but Nathaniel refused to set his partially eaten food on the table and make the place messy. The blanket fell off his torso as he lifted himself and set two feet on the ground.
A hand appeared in front of Nathaniel’s face.
“The fuck are you trying to do?” The angry-looking guy asked. “Die? Lay the fuck back down before I push you.”
Nathaniel turned slowly to meet the man’s eyes. He recognized this one as Seth.
Nathaniel glared knives.
Seth laughed. “One nasty glare you got there Fuckface. Though I guess out of all of you, your face is the least fucked part of your body.”
He wasn’t about to let this antagonizer find his weak points, but Nathaniel pulled his shirt down by instinct. It was oversized enough to fall to midthigh if he stood up.
There was no regret in the shitty guy’s eyes. Which Nathaniel appreciated, even if it just meant he was talking to a sociopath. “You survived all that and can’t talk for shit?” He grinned. “Yeah, guess you're a stubborn dumbass like myself.”
Nathaniel watched as the plate from his side was stolen by Seth. He lunged for it only for Seth to pull it away. “Nu-uh,” Seth taunted with a side-smile.
With nothing else to do, Nathaniel curled up and laid on his duffle, putting his head down to become unnoticeable. He didn’t listen to their conversations as everyone shuffled back into the living room.
“Do you mind if we light a fire?” Abby asked him.
Without looking up, Nathaniel shook his head. Why were they asking him? He listened to the stacking of logs and the fireplace across the spacious living room glowed a warm orange.
Nathaniel squinted through a hole in the blanket, thinking about a time he and a wonderful blonde tried to make witch sigils and burned a stack of papers in a secluded section of the junkyard.
He closed his eyes. He had to be alive. He had to be okay.
“Here.”
Nathaniel looked up. A box was being offered to him by the person he recognized as Renee.
“We all agreed it would be evil to open presents in front of you without getting you one. So we just wrapped this up.” She pushed the box out. It was messily taped up in bright orange flyers.
Nathaniel tilted his head in confusion.
“It’s a gift. Take it.”
He squinted.
Seth groaned. “For fuck’s sake."
“You act like you’ve never done Christmas before,” Allison said from an armchair.
Nathaniel looked at her. Was it that obvious?
Allison’s eyes widened. “You have celebrated Christmas before, right?”
Nathaniel shook his head.
“That is so sad. I could cry,” She said, although she didn’t look about to cry. “What the fuck happened to you?”
Nathaniel thought about it. He pulled his duffle closer with claw-like fingers and looked down at the floor. What the fuck didn’t happen to him?
“Hypothetical,” Wymack rushed in. “It doesn’t matter because whatever happened it’s never happening again.”
“I will cry,” Abby said half-joking. “Please open the present.”
Renee set it on the table. Before making a move to grab it, Nathaniel unzipped his duffle and pulled out his album. He discreetly opened the back, where a taped-in folder held all the photos not valuable enough to be put in the pockets. He pulled two out.
The first photo was of a car, crashed in the middle of dense redwoods and smoking. The perspective made the car look tiny, and confined by the smoky redwoods. The next photo showed his feet as he dangled his legs off a cliff. The ocean writhed below, seafoam and sharp rocks clashing.
With everyone's eyes on him, Nathaniel put the album back, slid the photos forward on the table with one hand, and slid the gift toward him with the other.
“Are these photos for us?” Abby said with teary eyes.
Nathaniel nodded.
“Awww, thank you.” She smiled so warmly. “We’ll look at them while you open your gift.”
He carefully peeled off the tape.
“You have to rip it!” Seth yelled.
Just to be an asshole, Nathaniel took extra care to make sure the paper didn’t rip. He took his time while they looked over the two photos.
When he was done, he set the paper on the table and opened the box. Inside was a black winter coat.
“It’s a little big,” Wymack said. “It was meant to go to Andrew, but I learned a little too late that he doesn’t accept Christmas gifts.”
Andrew. Nathaniel squinted his eyes closed because it hurt to think. It hurt more than his stomach and more than his back and more than his leg. It hurt more than his dad. It hurt more than anything to think about that golden-haired blondie who saw Nathaniel like no one else could. Who saw all of Nathaniel’s scars and didn’t so much as flinch. The boy who he shared almost every truth with.
That had been how many years ago? Two? He didn’t know how long his father had him. He was averse to knowing.
“It was either give it to you or donate.” Wymack said hurriedly. “I’m sure it would’ve found you either way so don’t feel bad.”
He wished he could find Andrew. Not like it would ever happen. He just hoped Andrew was okay.
“Thanks for the photos,” Allison said. “You have some nice photography skills.”
Nathaniel tucked the coat away in his duffle.
It was like he had jumped right into a Christmas special from one of those shows he had watched as a kid. They always had tiny conflicts that were resolved with everyone okay and smiling no matter what. Here he was, not at all fitting in with these smiling people. Listening to them open gifts and thank each other. Holding a duffle with a present in it.
“I’ll be right back to get you some water. Thank you so much for the photos, they’re beautiful.” Abby said as she disappeared down the hall.
“Where was the ocean one taken?” Dan asked, putting on a pair of fuzzy socks that she had received as a gift.
Nathaniel just looked at her.
Dan nodded as if he had said something meaningful. “You truly are a poet. That’s only half-sarcasm. This note on the back is actually pretty poetic.”
“There’s a note?” Matt asked. He took the redwood photo, flipped it over, and started reading. “‘Guess we’re walking. It smells nice up here. Pines. Pollution. I miss Blondie.’”
Allison oooh-ed . “Who is Blondie?” She said with obvious intrigue.
Nathaniel looked off to the side.
“Girl you met?”
No response.
Matt leaned closer. “... boy you met?”
Nathaniel glared at him.
Matt put both hands up. “Hey, either way it’s cool, man.”
“Cool?” Seth sneered. “That’s fucking—”
Allison rolled her eyes from his side. “Are you really going to get hung up on something like that when we have a mystery with a hundred scars on our hands? The ocean photo looks like it’s taken from Europe based on the color of the water. Our mystery boy could be from anywhere in the world.”
“You mean ‘Fuckface.’”
She elbowed him in the stomach.
Nathaniel huffed through his nose in an almost-laugh and Seth sneered at him. He looked like he was about to say something snarky but Nathaniel had to double over and grasp the couch as he felt a sharp pain in his stomach. His breathing grew unsteady and his head pounded. Nathaniel took long, shaky breaths.
Seth sighed. “You get a free pass this time, Fuckface. But when you’re better, we’re gonna fight street-style.”
Abby came back and saw Nathaniel, curled up against the side of the couch. “Lay down.” She said, setting a bowl of ice water on the table next to the couch and wringing out a small cloth, and handing it to him.
Nathaniel laid back on the pillow and blanket he had set up and felt instantly relieved as he set the towel on his forehead and the blood cooled. He hugged his duffle and closed his eyes.
“And take these,” Abby offered a cup of water and two pills. He inspected them.
“They’re antibiotics,” she said. “It’s this or the hospital.”
He swallowed the pills dry and took some sips of water afterward.
“Are you nauseous?”
He waggled his hand back and forth. “Sorta.”
Abby left and Nathaniel watched Matt observe the photo he had given them. “Looks like you could’ve burned down the California redwoods.” Matt chuckled. “Sure hope you weren’t responsible for any forest fires.”
Nathaniel shrugged.
Matt paled and his nervous smile became more confused.
“He’s a menace to humanity,” Dan joked.
Seth walked up to Nathaniel and placed his hands on the arm of the sofa. “I don’t get the mute thing. Even if it’s an act it doesn’t work. There are loopholes. You can obviously write so just write what you want to say.”
Nathaniel flipped him off.
Seth mirrored the action, standing to his full height. “Universal sign language Fuckface. That’s your name now since you haven’t told us your real one.”
Nathaniel added his other hand to flip Seth off with both.
Seth laughed. Wymack tried to hide a smile behind his soda. Weird. He seemed like someone who preferred alcohol.
“Seriously, what should we call you?” Dan asked.
As far as Nathaniel was concerned, he had no name.
“Maybe Cameron because you have a camera…” Matt mused.
Nathaniel shook his head.
“I got it!” Matt said. “I’ll sing the alphabet and you tell me to stop on the letter it starts with.”
“Shut up Matt!” Seth yelled. He left and returned with a paper and pencil. “Don’t stab me with this,” he said, handing Nathaniel the pencil. “Now write, or you’re gonna be called Fuckface.”
They held their breath as he held the pencil. As he was writing, Seth tried to peer over his shoulder. Nathaniel moved to block his vision. When he was finished, he folded the paper neatly and handed it to Seth.
Seth unfolded with paper. He gritted his teeth as he read it. “You think you’re funny, Fuckface?”
“What did he write?” Wymack raised an eyebrow.
Seth held it up. “He wrote ‘Fuckface’.”