Title: Hooligan
Category: Comics ยป Watchmen
Author: Mad Bertha
Language: English, Rating: Rated: T
Genre: General/Angst
Published: 01-14-10, Updated: 01-14-10
Chapters: 4, Words: 7,920

Chapter 1: First Impressions

Author's notes:

Posted on kinkmeme, in response to captcha prompt, 'Hooligan 14-1'. Redrafted, with additional material. Many thanks to radishface for her excellent beta work!

This story is based on the graphic novel, it foreshadows/refers to events that took place in the GN, but not the film. However, it should work without the GN. The story is set between 1951 to 1975, mainly the early half of Walter's stay at the Lily Charlton Home for Problem Children, but Kitty Genovese and Blair Roche do come in a tiny way later.

Warning: occasional swearing and derogatory language

Watchmen are not mine, no, I'm not a long-haired bearded man living in Northampton nor DC comics.

1951

Within the first week of his arrival, Walter Joseph Kovacs had kicked a boy in the stomach and punched another in the scrotum.

(These were areas which were hidden from view; he was not eager to give any cause to have to leave the home.)

Walter had been heading up the stairs to his dormitory when one of three larger boys at the top started talking in a loud voice, "Look, it's that ginger runt." They flanked the stairs above him.

"Ginger nut, carrot nose, pull the trigger and off it goes!" One of the other boys chanted. They were not the worse he had heard by far, but he knew what would happen, what his life would be like there if he didn't act fast.

"Oof!" said the leader, bent double over his stomach. This was instantly followed by the other's scream. Walter proceeded unhampered up the stairs without another word while the other children looked on, a few brave souls laughing at what had just happened.

By the weekend, the word had spread and he was left alone for the most part; some sort of honor code stopped them from tattling, their boyish dignities wrapped up in the rules of silence tacitly enforced among them with both knowing looks and averted glances. They didn't want to tease him, and he wasn't keen to get to know anyone either, so it did not bother him that most children gave him a wide berth.

All except one.

The boy who was kicked was the leader of the group and appeared four years older than Walter but in reality was thirteen, only three years ahead. Sam was not sure what it was about Kovacs, but, since the kick in the guts, he noticed a few more things about the crazy ginger nut. It was not as if he was that unusual. Many of the kids at the home had issues with their parents, most of them had done something wrong of some sort to land there. He assumed this was the case with Kovacs, and his reaction on the staircase indicated the reason he landed up with them at the home.

Sam was not happy. He felt cheated, somehow. Kovacs had just got lucky and now everyone thought that the kid had won; but the game was far from over to Sam. He was not stupid, though, he did not establish himself through leaping headlong into things. He realised that was his mistake with Walter, he had underrated him and made a tactical error. So he resolved to get to know him a little. Mind-fucking, he told himself, worked best if you knew the weaknesses of the person you wanted to fuck up.

A couple of weeks later, he was on the way to school, seated at the back of the bus with his friends, Dave, fully recovered from getting his nuts punched in, and Mikey, when Kovacs came down the aisle and took a seat near the middle. That's when he knew he was going to the same school.

They were in different classes, of course, but he noticed during recess over the next few weeks that Kovacs did not make any friends and tended to keep to himself a lot. Again, nothing unusual, it was a pattern with many of the kids from the home. Many did not start with the rest of the kids in school at the same time but slunk in when friendships and allegiances had already been established. Kovacs came into school smack bang in the middle of the year. The reasons for landing them in the home did not disappear and still played a part when they were moved to their current schools. But Kovacs was only slightly friendlier at the home, a place where everyone was a bit fucked up. Sam himself knew the virtues of keeping a circle of friends close, a lesson he learned from his father.

All the kids had to choose at least one extra-curricular sport, and Sam had been boxing for a few years. One afternoon, he was skipping rope when Kovacs came in. He watched as the coach took him through some basics and then left him to shadow box on his own. Immediately, he could see that he had aptitude, picking things up very quickly. He also knew enough from observing Kovacs that it was not a good idea to approach him straight away.

The judge was so high up, he had to tilt his head all the way back to look at him. He hardly spoke to Walter, but when he did, Walter made sure that he was polite and answered the questions, just as the lady said. He heard his mother's name mentioned a few times and lots of big words. At the end, the judge sounded kinder and told him he was going to be looked after. After that, some more things were said that he didn't understand.

"Where am I going?" he asked after.

The woman, who had introduced herself as his 'case worker', said, "Back to where you've been staying." Walter had been staying at an 'almshouse.' "But don't worry, you won't have to be there much longer."

Worry drew his eyebrows together and he said, "Am I going to jail?"

"No, Walter, you're not going to jail."

He felt only slightly relieved. "Will I go home then?"

She looked at him closely. "No, Walter, you're not going home. You're going to a children's home, where there'll be other kids like you. How do you feel about that?"

"Good," he said, and, for the first time since she met him, he smiled. At least, the corners of his mouth turned up.

Despite what the case worker said, Walter still worried that he might be sent back. At the home, he kept himself clean because he wanted to draw a line from that apartment that was his home until then, the pungent toilet, dishes in the sink, flies buzzing around the trashcan. The daily routines, the timetable, and even the repetition of fish on fridays, roast on sundays, these were welcome in their predictability; never to have to scrounge around, like he did at the apartment to fill his stomach, when she was lying in a stupor after a busy night. He tried very hard not to think about when she was in court, about how she cried.