Waiting For The Sun
By Myriddin
Author's Notes: Slight AU, with the premise that Brandon and Callie met before the events of the series, and Callie wasn't taken into the Foster home. Just a one-shot, but it's my first time for this couple, so please R&R to tell me what you think.
A little out-of-character for the on-screen Brandon and Callie, but nothing major, I think. Brandon is a little less naïve, with references to a not entirely perfect childhood. Callie is just a little more open with him, because their relationship and trust has had time to develop.
The opaque night surrounded him on all sides as he crouched below her window, any light reflected by the moon currently hidden by a thick overhang of clouds. The air was chilled and biting, mournfully fitting for the late autumn season, and he blew on his hands in a feeble attempt to warm them. Knowing the lights in the master bedroom had gone out over half-an-hour ago, he waited patiently, and it wasn't long before he felt his phone vibrate at his hip. Taking the signal for what it was, he straightened just as the window slid open, his hands habitually going to her hips to help ease her petite form down.
In the dark, he heard the soft sound of her feet touching onto the ground, her hand slipping into his. A strange thrill rang through him, as he judged by touch and not by sight, her palm sliding against his, her fingers curling around his wrist. He was certain she could feel the way his heart was pounding in the wild thrumming of his pulse; he could picture the tiny, nearly imperceptible smile she would try to hide, but he always noticed after the long months he'd spent learning to read her.
Hand in hand, they began their journey down a path so familiar that every step had become some innate memory, every weave and curve recognized until they came to their destination, the neglected local playground. The clouds had moved on, allowing the full face of the moon to shine down, illuminating the rusty play equipment and the litter-ridden ground. She tugged impatiently on his hand and he followed her lead, craning his head to the side to take in full sight of her.
He was struck by a boyish kind of awe, staring at this girl who had so turned his world upside down. Before meeting her, he never would have done this- snuck out, maybe, but never done so on a near-nightly basis, taking the risk of a late-night bus ride to halfway across the city to meet a girl, lying to his moms and keeping up the charade with a girlfriend he no longer had any real feelings for. This girl, this girl who had changed him, changed everything, the one for whom he kept up so much pretense at her request, was beautiful, and so worth it, even if she didn't seem to believe it.
She watched the kindling of quiet appreciation in his gaze, different from the vulgar, lusting stares of men she had known in the past. His was different; wanting, loving, and rendering her feeling whole yet still strangely vulnerable. She smiled in quiet appreciation, squeezing his hand.
His eyes flicked to the t-shirt and jeans she wore, quirking an eyebrow in inquiry. "Aren't you cold?"
She shrugged, not willing to admit she had been in such a rush to meet him, she had forgotten her coat. He rolled his eyes at her stubbornness, sighing as he shrugged off his jacket, wrapping it around her shoulders. She accepted the gesture with a shy smile and a whisper of thanks, slipping her arms into the sleeves. The well-loved jacket, already baggy on him as it was a hand-me-down from his father, swamped her, but his warmth lingered against the brown leather, his scent meeting her nose as she ducked her head to allow him to free her hair from the collar.
Smoothing the lapel down, he pressed a kiss to her neck, a surprised huff escaping her as his cold nose touched against her skin. "Brandon," she whispered, tilting her head up toward him. A tender brush of lips, the kiss was gentle, brief, and when they parted, Brandon gave her a soft smile before heading to the nearby bench to take a seat.
Wordlessly, he opened his arms invitingly, giving her the option of whether to accept the embrace or not. She liked that about him, that he never assumed or insisted, and she settled herself against him, her back to his chest, head tucked beneath his chin. He smiled as she curled into him so trustingly, releasing a soft sigh of content, and he kissed her forehead, leaning his head against hers.
She shivered, ever so slightly, and his arms tightened around her, his smile fading into a frown. "You have to take better care of yourself, Cal."
Callie stiffened, as he knew she would, interpreting his statement as a shot at her independence. He clenched his jaw, debating his next words. "You're no good to Jude if you make yourself sick," he said softly, carefully, hating to have to use her feelings for her brother to make his point, but Callie was stubborn, Brandon concerned, and Jude was perhaps the only soft spot in the thick armor between her and the world.
There was a long, tense silence between them and Brandon reluctantly decided to release her, unsure whether his touch was still welcome with how stiff and uncomfortable she had become against him. But as he began to drop his arms, Callie reached up to grab his wrists and he froze, waiting for her next move. She slowly took in a deep breath, letting it out in a rush as she seemed to deflate with it. Brandon stayed still.
She maneuvered herself around in his lap until she faced him, finding balance with her knees upon his thighs and her arm looped around his neck. Locking their gazes, she opened her mouth to speak, but never had the chance, as his eyes suddenly changed, hardening, darkening, in less than a heartbeat. He swiftly grabbed her chin, turning her head to receive a better view of the swelling bruise on her left cheek.
"Did he hit you again?" Brandon's voice was deceptively soft and Callie could feel the sudden tension in his muscles, the underlying temper in his eyes. She tried not to mind it. Her hands immediately flew to her face to try and hide, but he caught her wrists and tugged them down, exposing the damage again to his eyes. "Did he?"
"I fell."
"Callie-"
"Brandon, don't."
He swore under his breath and she watched him warily, watching the different emotions pass through his eyes: rage, pain, fear, and a fierce protectiveness that still befuddled and somewhat discomforted her. She had never known anyone who cared the way he did, who wanted to protect her while still respecting that she herself was strong and independent.
His jaw clenched, setting in a familiar line of defiance and suppressed anger, and his hands around her wrists became painfully tight.
"Brandon…"
Memories flew through his head, each and every injury or hurt ingrained into his mind as if they had all happened yesterday. He'd tried so many times to help, to convince her to speak up, but every time he was stonewalled. She begged, pleaded, rationalized and guilted him into keeping quiet. He knew what the system was like, she said. They'd split her and Jude up. She couldn't let that happen. If he reported what he knew, Callie would deny it. She told him flat out. He gave in every time…and she kept getting hurt by the monsters Brandon couldn't protect her from.
"Brandon! Let go!"
He jerked back to reality as she called to him, meeting her gaze with dark, stormy eyes hazed over by rage. She met his stare blankly, passed struggling to free herself as to not risk further injury. "Let go, please. You're hurting me."
"You're hurting me."
The words resounded through the air between them as he released her as abruptly as if scalded. He stared at the red imprints left by his hands and his stomach rolled, the nausea overwhelming as he closed his eyes against what he saw. A hand gently cupped his chin, turning his face toward her as she whispered softly, asking him to look at her.
He did as she asked, though he stared sightlessly ahead, keeping himself frightfully still as revulsion filled him as he thought of his outburst of temper, his unintentional hurting of her. He had not meant to, he truly had not, but still the self-disgust rose in his throat, turned his stomach, refused to be displaced. How was he any different from him, from the bastard that hit her?
What made things even worse, he suddenly remembered, was the bleak acceptance that had filled her eyes when his temper got the best of him. His age and his immaturity was a constant daunting fact in his mind, and the fact that he was still a boy himself was disdainful. He couldn't be her hero; he couldn't be her knight in shining armor. Not to mention that look, the haunting submission she had shown, as if she expected the pain, thought it some integral part of life. An instant later, his shame was a palpable entity, and his temper a black shadow on his soul. He swallowed hard, and managed to choke out, "I'm sorry. Cal…I'm so sorry."
Callie looked at him again, and there was something there he could not bring himself to attempt to decipher, for fear of what understanding might bring him. Her fingers brushed through his hair, skimming downward to trace the curve of his cheek. The touch was soft and familiar and he tried to draw back, but her hand around his arm stopped him, not by physical strength but by the insistent way she spoke his name. "Brandon."
He shook his head, trying his best to deny her touch even as he longed for it. "My dad-"
"B-"
The vague memories of his early childhood, those his happy years with his mother and Lena had nearly completely smothered. His father coming home smelling like a brewery. Arguing with his mother. Shouting. Screaming. The crashing of dishes thrown against the wall and his mother's sobbing. "I'm like him-like them."
Callie cupped his face, forcing him to turn his head and look at her. "Brandon, stop."
"But-"
"No. Brandon, listen to me. You're nothing like him, or your father. I understand. I know you would never hurt me. It was an accident. You would never hurt me. I believe that. You should too."
He stared at her, bleakly, and she knew he wasn't really seeing her, not for the first few moments. He was remembering. Mike Foster might never have raised a hand to his son or ex-wife, but his addiction had left its mark nonetheless on his child's psyche. It had taken a long time for Brandon to share the story with her, to admit his life hadn't always been cookie-cutter perfect, and he'd only admitted as such when she'd scoffed at him ever being able to understand her own traumatic past and circumstances.
But Brandon had been raised by a cop and a schoolteacher, who had housed nearly a dozen fosters over the years they had been together. He had caught glimpses into the darker aspects her world, long before they had met, in his foster siblings, the skittish behavior of the twins when they joined his family, the world-weariness Stef displayed when she came home after seeing the darkness humanity was capable of.
She sighed, running her fingers along his jawline. "It was an accident, alright? You weren't even holding me that tight." She licked her lips, debating whether she should tell him the reason why his hold had even hurt was because her foster father, Carl, had jerked her back by her wrist earlier that afternoon when she tried to walk away. She decided on a (mostly) valid excuse, one that would hopefully dismiss his guilt without worrying him more. "I bruise really easy. It comes from being so pale. I'll be fine in a couple days, m'kay?" She wasn't lying entirely. The bruises were left by Brandon's hands. It was the redness and the swelling that Carl had caused.
Brandon nodded once, a weary surrender more than acceptance. He pointedly looked away from where her fair skin was already bruising, lightly but bruising nonetheless. "Hey…" he whispered, his voice choking off as he grappled for a single coherent sound.
"Hmm?"
"Y'know," he swallowed hard, against the desperate knot in his throat. "You know this isn't your fault." You don't deserve what he does to you. No one deserves that."
She ducked her head, avoiding his stare, long hair falling forward to once more obscure his view of her face. She vehemently shook her head, pushing his hands away. He was sure, so certain, he could feel his heart physically hurting, even as that inexplicable ache grew stronger and more palpable with every moment she pushed him away.
"Callie. Please." There were layers upon layers to his pleading words, echoes of old arguments where he made clear he understood her plausible fear of her and Jude being separated, but wasn't it worth taking the risk to stop her foster father from hurting her further, from one day turning on Jude?
He reached for her once more, and she lightly grasped his hands, still refusing to look at him, absently tracing her fingers down the lifelines etched into his palm. "Don't. This isn't your problem to solve. You can't fix me, so stop trying. Just…be with me, please?"
He gave in with a sigh as he numbly nodded. He drew her back to him in silence. He slipped his hands beneath his jacket and her t-shirt, making her shiver beneath the attentions of his cold hands. He traced her fingers gently along her back and sides, the warmth radiating from her soaking into him with every touch.
With his hands, he mapped her, closing his eyes as he came across the odd scar here and there. He felt her body heat, her racing pulse, knowing she was warm and utterly alive under his touch, and he clung helplessly to that flimsy reassurance.
"It's almost Thanksgiving," he said softly, fumbling desperately for any change of topic he could find.
She nodded against his shoulder, looking at him through hooded eyes. "Hmm, yeah."
"Have you thought some more about what I asked? About you and Jude coming to dinner?"
"Brandon…"
"C'mon, Callie. We've been at this for months. It's about time my moms meet you."
"And the fact that you technically still have a girlfriend?"
"Talya? That same Talya who has a thing for her math tutor, and only stays with me 'cause she's afraid of what he'll do to her reputation?"
Callie said his name in a huff of sound somewhere between a laugh and sigh, as she twisted around once more and kissed him in a way that both soothed and enflamed him, and he returned her kiss, slowly, languorously, until her body sang with sensation and she melted into his arms.
"I'm not exactly 'bring home to meet the moms' material, B."
He arched an eyebrow. "Shouldn't that be more my decision?"
Callie groaned, leaning forward to tuck her head against the crook of his neck. Brandon smirked slightly as he recognized her avoidance tactic, bringing his hand up stroke through her hair. "Why are you so insistent about this?"
"Because I love you." The response was straightforward and direct, and if Callie was being honest with herself, she wasn't certain whether that scared or relieved her.
"Do you really?"
He drew back, enough to look her in the eye. "You still question that?"
She met his gaze levelly, and then she shook her head furiously, sighing with frustration. "No. I know you love me. That's what scares me."
"Why?"
Callie looked away.
He looked at her, staring at her with unreadable eyes for a prolonged moment. "Let me take get you and Jude away from here." He whispered an echo of a hundred other pleas, a hundred other attempts to help her. "Let's talk to my moms."
"We can't…"
"Why?" Another argument they'd had a dozen times, a dozen different ways.
She slid her arms around him neck, kissing him gently, and he knew she would not answer him. Surrounded by shadow and night, he was left waiting once more. They both were. He was never sure what it was they were waiting for.
The sun would rise soon, and they would return to their games of pretend. Her, to pretending everything was alright and that the nights with him were not her only haven. Him, to pretending he did not worry for her every second he lived and breathed, to pretending he did not care as much as he did.
Perhaps as the sun rose this time, things would be different. Perhaps in the daylight, she would smile when he said he loved her, and not seem so distant and frightened. Perhaps with the daylight, her bruises would fade, and all he would feel beneath his fingertips as he touched her would be smooth, unblemished skin free of marks of her past hurt.
Perhaps not.
These nights, as he sat there and held her, he could let himself imagine a fairytale ending, but every morning as the sun rose, reality was a cruel master. So why was it, as he waited for the dawn to break, that he was unable to suppress that feeling of anticipation, of hope that the day would bring something different?
Perhaps because he loved her, he was unable to squash all his feelings of the single, fleeting, ungraspable entity called hope. And in those moments when she gazed at him with dark eyes full of fear and pain and uncertainty, and most of all, a love she could never express in words, all he could do was hope.
They parted, and he opened his mouth to speak, but she shook her head, separating from him. He watched her rise from his lap, not looking his way, and he followed her as she started down the path. She did not say another word. He really had not been expecting her to.
Just before they came to her window, she stopped, and spoke again, still not daring to look at him. Her voice was softer than a whisper, more vulnerable than he had ever heard. "Do you really love me?"
His arms around her were the only answer she really needed, and she shivered in the embrace, even as he whispered the perpetual answer of, "Yes," into her ear. She swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat, forcing herself to speak, knowing this was what she wanted and what she needed to do. "T-then maybe it's time we talk to your moms."
His responding smile was equal parts reassurance and relief and she nestled closer. "And B? I lied before. About Carl and my wrists. I'm-"
He smoothed down her hair, pressing a kiss to her temple. ''It's alright. Why don't you just start with what happened today? That way, maybe, it'll be a little easier to tell it a second time."
She relaxed against him, in trust, in acceptance, and began to quietly speak.