A/N: I can't stress enough that this story comes with a trigger warning - a big one. Please, please, please keep that in mind throughout this chapter and in the upcoming installments. This is a Cal-centric fic, and as we all know, he did not have a picture-perfect childhood. My goal in writing this is to uncover a bit of the "why" behind some of his quirks, to peel back a few of his layers, and finally, to understand why his bond with Gillian was so very strong.

A dear friend volunteered to beta this for me, and so to her I say a resounding "Thank You." Those two simple words don't really do it justice, but they're truly heartfelt.

And now, on with the story...

(PS - To anyone still following "Take the Long Way Home," it's still being actively written, and my next update will be posted there. My muse just needed to switch gears for a little while.)


Part I(Age Six): Too Small to Fight Back, and Too Big to Forget…

The bottle smashes into the wall right above his head, and fear floods through his small body as he drops onto his knees. It's instinct – pure instinct. And by the time colorful, glass slivers begin raining down upon his skin, his hands are already curling over his head as he tucks himself into a ball. He wishes he were invisible. Rocks back and forth. Tries not to think about the kind, caring faces of the nurses who stitched his arm last time, because they cannot help him now. They are gone, and he is here, and he feels very much… alone.

Silence.

It floods through the room like a tidal wave, and he thinks – just for a moment – that maybe one broken bottle will be enough tonight. Maybe there won't be any hitting. Or any shoving. No trips to the doctor, or anything…

…worse.

In the next breath, though, he realizes it won't last – that the quiet is just another part of the storm, passing through the night like a ghost. So he tries to stay calm and concentrate on his breathing; tries to remind himself that he is fine, he is strong, he is brave. He doesn't think about the scar above his wrist, and he doesn't worry about what the neighbors might be able to hear: shouting, cursing, crying, and on and on again, like a very bad dream.

It's all so embarrassing.

It makes him feel small and lost and ashamed. But then again…

then again…

Maybe they don't hear anything. Maybe no one hears anything.

Because if they could, then wouldn't someone come to help?

Help.

Help.

Help.

The word is stuck in his head – one, two, three, four letters – and he's busy trying to distract himself with spelling, when the sound of laughter catches him completely by surprise. It's new. And different. And although he knows it should sound happy (that's what laughter is supposed to be, right?), it doesn't. It sounds low and growly instead, like a lion's muffled roar, and it makes him forget all about being brave. Gooseflesh crawls up the back of his neck like a weed, and he can feel the moment pressing down on him, weighing heavy against his shoulders until he curls up even tighter.

The sound keeps going and going, so he jabs his fingers in his ears and tries to make it all stop. Why won't it stop? And he doesn't know what he's done wrong this time, or why everything always feels so sad. He's just… he's so tired. Too tired. He's too small to fight back, and too big to forget, and he feels helpless.

Everything is tense, now. There's even a sickening scent in the air, and he doesn't like it at all. Everything he can hear and see and smell feels like a test, too – like someone's twisted idea of a dare. And he worries that if he cries or makes excuses… if he uncurls his body or tries to speak… then he will fail. So, he just concentrates on breathing – in and out, in and out – while he counts numbers in his mind and wonders how high he will get this time.

At twenty, mean words suddenly replace the laughter. And his mum is in the background, crying and asking for it to please stop. He wants to cry, too. He wants to run to her – to hug her, and to be hugged, and to pretend he's somewhere else.

But he's afraid… so he doesn't.

"What a pathetic little bastard," his father shouts – as if being six years old and terrified is some kind of unforgiveable sin. As if he can't even crouch on the floor correctly, and that everything is all his fault.

It hurts. It hurts his feelings, and there's a strange throbbing in his chest, and his stomach is aching so badly now that he thinks he might actually vomit on himself.

At forty, all of the unshed tears start to burn his eyes, so he digs his fingernails into his own skin to try and fight off the urge to let them fall. Sometimes those terrible words hurt more than the cuts and bruises do.

"You're nothing but a stupid piece of…"

By the time he reaches sixty, his shoulders are shaking. He can't quite catch his breath, and his eyes are still burning, and the trick with his fingernails is getting harder and harder to do – he's even broken the skin. And behind every horrible thing his father shouts, he hears his mum, too. So he tries to concentrate on her… and he tries to act braver than he feels, just for her sake.

He doesn't want her to cry anymore.

He's scared and ashamed and angry, all at the same time, and yet… he also wants to fight back. To prove his father wrong. To stand up, look the man right in the eye, and…

But he's only six years old.

His father might as well be a giant.

So he doesn't.

When he reaches seventy-five, the kick barely misses his right knee. And his father is even angrier, now – angry because it didn't connect… because his mum has started to yell even louder… and then because the second attempt is a failure, too. Six year old boys are quick, after all, and his instincts are sharp. He knows when to dodge, when to cower, when to keep still, and when to run.

(He doesn't like to run, though, because he doesn't want to be a coward.)

At ninety, the jingle of keys sounds dreadfully loud, and he hears those heavy, steel-toed boots carry his father closer to the door. Thud… thud… thud. He's so excited by the idea that the giant is going away– oh, he's opening the door, now! and then mum will make everything better, and his stomach won't feel so sick! – that he forgets about the "dare." He forgets that keeping still is safest. So he sits up instead, shaking the circulation back into his limbs and feeling proud of himself because he didn't cry.

At one hundred, though, the tears begin to fall… and he can't stop them anymore. His father is shouting again – shouting and swearing and kicking at the wall, waving keys instead of a glass bottle. And his little six-year-old face burns with embarrassment, because each barbed word the man hurls is so very, very mean.

The urge to cower flares up again. It wars with the instinct to run, and his legs lock in a battle of wills. His body seems to be fighting itself. He feels even sicker now, and he starts counting again in hopes that a routine will calm him down. But until the door finally slams and he hears his father walk away… nothing does.

Maybe when he's older – when he's bigger and stronger – he'll be able to fight back. To help his mum. To be happy, sometimes.

And maybe when he's older, everything will make sense.

But honestly?

He doesn't think he'll ever understand how so much anger and hate can possibly fit inside one man.


To be continued...