To everyone who knew him, he was the epitome of control. He was the one who was calm, collected, logical, loyal, and utterly unflappable in a crisis. Mr. Nice-to-Everyone, even nosy reporters poking in where they weren't needed, wanted, or welcome. Mr. Fix-It, Mr. Build-It, Mr. I-Can-Always-Make-Another when Sky Captain dropped it or lost it or let the enemy of the month blow it up. The darkest anyone had ever seen his expression was when they caught him scowling at a tangled bundle of wires or glaring at a mangled pile of machinery that had, until a moment before at least, been very promising. He was the base mascot in a way, sweet and adorable and socially naïve. He was also utterly, completely miserable.
No one ever saw that side, though. He made sure of it.
It wasn't all façade, or at least he didn't think it was. He really did believe that most people were basically good, underneath all the scratches and chips that the world inflicted on the surface of their personalities over the course of a lifetime. Being nice to people came almost as naturally to him as putting screw A into hole B so that engine C would run like it was supposed to rather than exploding or dying in midair. Comic books and gum were precious not only because they gave him half of his ideas and protected his teeth from the grinding damage years of having other people's lives in your hands tended to inflict but because they were things he truly enjoyed. He had wondered once if his love of such items was an attempt to make up for the childhood he'd never really had, but the thought had made his Dubble Bubble turn to bile on his tongue and he had immediately cut off that line of reasoning.
In the end, it was the "immature" aspects of his character that caused him to hide the other facets. His supposed innocence made him into a sort of beacon of – what? Purity? Decency? – something, something that meant something to the people around him, the people he cared about, the people he cherished. The people he would give his life for in an instant. The people he wished some nights would fall into the degree of danger that was necessary for him to prove that he would take their place in a coffin. He represented something that they needed to believe in, and recognizing this he had long ago stuffed his monsters into the darkest corners of his mind, bringing them out only when he was alone and could ignore their clamoring no longer.
Tonight was one of those nights. It didn't matter that he hadn't seen his father in fifteen years, didn't matter that the bastard had no way of getting to him here, at least not directly. All that mattered at this very moment was that the specter of Phillip Dearborn had decided to rear its ugly head, and that meant that the public side of Dex was busy thinking of ways to explain his injuries in the morning while the private side propelled his fist into his jaw again.
It's Friday, no one will hear anything, they've all gone to town…
A hard smacking sound as his knuckles met his cheekbone.
You pathetic little fuck, always locked in your room. When are you going to get a friend already? Or are you too good for other people?
He picked up an empty beer bottle from the nightstand – he always tried to down a couple before the memories took over, it lessened the pain – and smashed it across the fingers of his left hand. A few shards stuck in the skin, blood welling up around them slowly.
Say you were working on the telephones and accidently broke a transformer cover.
You can't live in a dream world. Dreams don't come true. Figure it out.
Stand up on the bed now, close your eyes, waver a little. The chair's there – fall so you miss it, or someone will notice it's gone and ask, his rational self murmured. He started to go over, tried to save himself out of pure instinct, and then punched out again in pure rage at his attempt at self-preservation.
Goddamn coward, afraid of a little tap or two from your old man. Going to have to man you up.
The cold, hard boards of the floor bruised his shoulder, but nothing else. He'd learned too long ago to go limp before he hit the ground, and the vague pain wasn't enough to satisfy the black maelstrom in his head.
What're you going to do if you have to fight a war like I did? Just curl up and die? No son of mine-
Piles of texts and comics crashed to the floor as he threw himself sideways into the dresser. His side hit a half-open drawer, knocking the air out of his lungs and making him grope at his chest.
The breaking glass surprised you, made you fall off of the ladder. That's it. You just fell.
His first degree had been on the dresser top, hidden among the stacks, and as he launched himself against the drawer again it succumbed to gravity. The corner of the frame caught the back of the head as he bent forward, gasping for oxygen, and he cried out for the first time during this session. Copper from where he'd bitten down on his lip too hard filled his mouth, and he moaned low in the back of his throat.
What are you screaming for? You think this is pain? You think this hurts? I'll give you something that will hurt, cry-baby.
Fell off the ladder and hit your head. Maybe it tipped backwards, kind of threw you a ways. That seems more plausible with these injuries. Yeah. They'll believe that.
Still whimpering slightly, he dragged himself into his chair and considered the articles on his desk. The hot plate – that would have to be next, wouldn't it? He plugged it in and, while he was waiting, gave himself a few more smacks across the face, his skin growing super-sensitive before numbing entirely.
Burns are nothing, you dumb asshole. You remember that 'B' you got in English last week? Yeah? You know what starts with 'B', don't you? Let's see if you do.
It was ready now, nice and hot. Rolling up his sleeve, he laid his forearm across the top, smelling burned hair and flesh almost immediately. A hiss escaped him, but he didn't move.
Bet you don't go visiting 'B' territory again, do you? I didn't think so.
Say you burned yourself earlier, before you went to look at the telephone. Probably no one will even see it, if you keep your sleeves rolled down. Your face is what you'll have to explain. Caught your chin on a box as you fell off the ladder, that's it.
He persevered in his self-castigation, practically feeling his father's hard grip pressing his arm to the burning metal. "Please," he whispered, mouth tight against his elbow. "Please, daddy, let me up. 'M sorry. Please. It hurts." A second more, and the weight holding him down vanished. He yanked the scorched limb back and cradled it, rocking back and forth slowly as a thin sob fled his cracked lips.
A suddenly knock on the door brought him bolt-upright, eyes wide in horror. They didn't hear, he tried to comfort himself as the demon that was his father fled back into its midnight corner, well aware that when others were about it stood no chance of defeating his iron will to keep his secrets to himself. "…Yes?" he queried, hoping his voice was semi-normal.
"…Dex?" Joe. Shit. If anyone will notice something off, he will.
"Yeah, Cap? You need something?"
"...Your door is locked," the voice noted curiously, the handle turning slightly as the man on the other side tried to open it.
"Oh! Sorry. I was kind of in bed already. Did you need something?"
"Catch you in middle of something?" His tone was joking, but Dex sensed a layer of suspicion underneath the friendly joviality.
"Well, like I said, I was in bed."
Still outside and frustrated as hell, Joe decided to go for broke. "Whoever she is, she must be quite the rough little minx," he said. Dropping any pretense, he went on. "Either that or you're taking an ax to your furniture, judging from the noises I've been hearing."
"I thought you went to town with Polly," Dex shot back at him.
"I did. Then I came back, because she was annoying me."
"Isn't that usual for her?"
"Yes, it is. What's not so usual, however, is for you to do the same thing with equal aplomb. Like you are right now," he added acidly, crossing his arms and leaning against the frame. "Open the door."
"Do you need something, or are you just aiming to keep me awake all night?"
"All night seems a bit premature, seeing as how it's only eight o'clock."
"So you don't need anything."
"Yes, Dex, I do," he sighed wearily, sick of the game. "I need you to open this door immediately, before I kick it in and find out why you sound like you're talking through a mouthful of cotton balls."
Every fiber of his being froze at those words. Play it cool. You were working on the phones, caught a little shock that threw you off the ladder. Smacked your face, crunched the transformer glass in your hand. End of story. Tell him you stumbled coming back from the bathroom a minute ago, maybe he'll believe that's all he heard. Gulping, he sat up as straight as he could manage with his still-throbbing ribs and flipped the lock without leaving his seat.
"It's open," he said finally, trying to steel himself up to lie to the man he loved as the door swung open. Got to get this right. He can't know, it'll hurt him too much. He'll send me away, I know it. I have to lie. I have to.
I hate to.