About a Boy

Disclaimer: Neither Edward nor Suburbia belong to me. Neither does Kim. Neither does anything you might recognize. Everything else, including the lovely and talented Irish punk Shae O'Connor, belongs to ME! ME! YOU CAN'T HAVE MY SHAE, TIM BURTON, AND I CAN BORROW YOUR EDWARD! NANANANANANA!!! Wait. . .stop. . .Tim, I love you! (You get the point, right?) Also, if you see any inaccuracies in the description of anything, just review and tell me. . .I haven't seen the film since I was thirteen.

Chapter One: Of Books and Hands

Shae couldn't stop himself. He HAD to see what the castle looked like up close. There was something about it. . .something sad, something dark, something MAGNETIC. Of course he'd heard the stories about the man who lived up there. . .Edward Scissorhands. . .how he'd been brought down to Suburbia years ago, how he'd terrorized the townspeople and brought nothing but death and sorrow. Shae didn't believe a word of it, especially after listening to old Mrs. Kim's side of the story. She was just as much of an outsider as Shae himself was, having left Suburbia for so many years, then having come back as she grew old, to find that she had family from her deceased brother, Kevin.

Shae thought she was a little insane, and didn't exactly believe there was a man up there, especially not one like Edward Scissorhands, and even then, he'd probably be dead by now. Though perhaps. . .if he HAD existed, he'd been different, and Shae knew that these picture-perfect, suppressed Suburbians couldn't have handled something different. Hell, look at the way they'd handled HIM! Yeah, he'd heard the whispers, seen the discreet hand motions toward him. Well, when you were different, that was all people could see.

Shivering in the evening chill, Shae drew his leather jacket closer round his shoulders. His feet were warm in his scuffed Doc Martens, but the thin cotton plaid peg leg pants he wore were not defense against the early spring nip. "Almost there," he murmured to himself, clambering over a pile of rocks and tripping over a tree root. He fell to his knees in font of the large wooden gate. Rising, he dusted himself off disgustedly, murmuring, "Clumsy bastard," and flattening his palm against the gate, he pushed it open, wincing at the squeal of protest, and stepped into the most beautifully manicured garden he'd ever seen.

The hedges were trimmed expertly into fanciful shapes; topiaries modeled into llamas and dolphins and centaurs. There were only wild flowers, he noted—dandelions and bluebells and small wild rosebushes that were just putting out new buds. He thought it odd that flowers were neglected when so much attention was given to the bushes.

But he had not come to see the garden. He had come to see the castle. Stepping toward the door, he found it unlocked, and entered. Everything was very dark, and Shae found himself wishing he had a flashlight. Instead, he tugged his Zippo out of his pocket and flicked it a couple of times. The flame did more harm than good, drawing his eyes to it rather than his surroundings, and he closed it and returned it to his pocket. As his eyes adjusted a little, he looked round himself. He was standing in a large room, everything a mass of cobwebs, dust-filled corners, and some furniture draped in heavy canvas cloth. As he advanced, his boot caught on something lying on the ground, and he again fell sprawling onto his face. Cursing, he searched for what it was that had tripped him, brushing the object clear of debris and. . .Shae let out a mangled squeal. It was a HAND! And. . .and it was mechanical. Wires and metallic buttons protruded from the wrist, and as he looked about himself, Shae noticed another, identical hand, the mate of the one he was holding. They were beautifully-shaped, with very pale, fine skin, long, tenuous fingers, and wide, artistic palms. On a whim, Shae stowed them both in his voluminous jacket pocket. It seemed a very natural thing to do. After all, who would need them?

Rising, he continued along the hall, feeling his way along the walls, squinting in the darkness. His eyes adjusted to the dimness more, and he was soon able to walk without support. When he came to a staircase, he unhesitatingly climbed it. He took his time exploring, especially when he came to what looked at first glance to be a sitting room, with tall, red candles sitting in their silver candlesticks, dulled by age and lack of care. Shae tugged out his lighter and lit several. They illuminated a room full of the objects he loved most in the world—books! Scrambling hungrily toward a shelf, he pulled out an antique folio of Aristotle. He nearly wept at the beautiful, musty scent of old leather and paper as he opened it. Dusting off a portion of a couch, Shae sank back into the cushions and began scanning the pages avidly. When he became bored, he exchanged the folio for a volume of Milton. When Latin tired him, he found an old first edition of Treasure Island, and he fell asleep just as Jim Hawkins met Ben Gunn.

When Shae woke, he was covered in a blanket, and had a small scratch on his left cheek. Rubbing his palms over the fine stubble that had grown over his jaw during the night, he wiped the sleep from his eyes and glanced at his watch. It was 10:45, and he nearly panicked before realizing that it was Saturday. He sighed in relief and sat up. It was several moments before his brain let him in on the fact that there was a man sitting in an armchair opposite him, and that he had long, gleaming blades in the place of fingers. When he did realize it, however, he was not afraid. He looked up at the man's face.

It was livid white, with small scars littered across it. The man had a high, wide forehead, no eyebrows, and deeply-set, heavily shadowed black eyes. His nose was straight—one of the most perfect noses Shae had ever seen, and his cheekbones were high and pronounced, with deep hollows beneath them. His mouth was small and dark, with a meticulously shaped upper lip, and a fuller, more reckless lower lip. His chin and jaw were stubborn, and his coal-black hair, feathery and matted, was long and thrown haphazardly at every angle.

Shae doubted his own hair looked too much better at the moment. "Are you Edward Scissorhands?" he inquired. The man nodded hesitantly, but otherwise made no other move than the occasional twitch of a scissor. "I heard about you. . .I thought ye might be dead." There was a long pause. "You don't look old at all, but I bet you don't age. After all, you were built." Shae reached into his pocket, and retrieved the hands. "Are these yours?"

Edward's eyes lit up at the sight of his hands. "Wh. . .where did you find them?" his voice, low and uncertain, seemed rusty from disuse.

"Downstairs," Shae said, then remembered that he'd not introduced himself. "I'm Shae. Shae O'Connor."

"Do you come from. . .the village?"

"No, I'm from Ireland. My brother brought me here. He's marryin' a girl from th' village, though."

"Do you know Kim?" Edward inquired beseechingly.

"Mrs. Kim. . .aye, I know her. Everyone knows her. She left Suburbia f'r a long time when she was about twenty, but she came back maybe ten years ago. She's. . .she's the on'y one that really remembers you anymore. Th' on'y one what thinks ye might be still alive. Everyone else has either forgotten completely or is too scared to admit they remember, like." Shae murmured thoughtfully. Edward caught his eyes.

"Are you afraid of me?"

"No." Shae answered unhesitatingly. "I don't believe everything I hear, especially what these Suburbians say, but Mrs. Kim. . .she knows what she's talkin' about. She's different. Like me."

"Is she still. . .beautiful?"

"Aye, as beautiful as an eighty-five year-old woman's allowed tae be." There was a long silence during which both men studied one another.

Finally, Edward spoke up. "Why are they afraid of you? You're finished. You look like them. Even though you talk funny. . .you're not like me."

"I'm not like them, either." Shae shrugged. "I don't dress like them, I'm from a different country, I grew up a different way, I don't do things like they'd expect me to, I don't LIKE the things they'd expect me to."

"But you've never done anything. . .like I have." Edward detached his gaze from Shae's and stared mournfully at his scissor hands. "I am. . ." he searched for the word that Jim had always called him, ". . .a freak."

Shae knit his brow. "That's never right. Whoever called yeh that was only coverin' up his own insecurities. Now look. . ." he hesitated, "ye say I haven't done anything like you have. P'rhaps you're right. I've never killed a man. I've never had to. You have. But I've done worse than rid a town of one worthless slacker."

"But. . ."

"Yeh think you're a freak, well you could try not bein' one. See how they'll treat you if you're finished."

"But. . .I can't be finished."

"I can finish you."

Edward glanced up, blinking. "You. . .how?"

"Well, all you need it to take off those scissors an' put on your hands." Shae motioned to the appendages now lying on an end table. "Can't be THAT difficult, like. Will you lemme have a look?" Edward held his arms out stiffly, and Shae rose to inspect them. After twiddling with the ends of Edward's leather sleeves, he sighed. "It'd help if I could see exactly where th' scissors start." Edward bit his lower lip. "Will you let me loosen your clothes? I won't hurt you." The other man nodded wordlessly. Shae pulled one of Edward's arms to the side, carefully resting his wrist on the arm of the chair, then did the same with his other arm. Reaching forward, he unfastened the buckle at Edward's throat, and another at his chest, another at his stomach. It was strange, undressing another man, Shae thought bemusedly, as he peeled leather away from skin. There were tight muscles in the chest and abdomen, and Shae didn't doubt that Edward had his share of work with the numerous topiaries in the garden.

He continued unbuckling the leather garment down each arm, and it was not long till Edward's arms and torso were bare. He was so smooth and white, and hairless, like a baby. As Shae studied Edward's wrist, he noted that just where the carpals ended, if Edward did indeed have carpals, there also the pale skin ended, and switched into a network of leathery black tissue and protrusions of shiny metal. There was also, on the underside of the wrist, a small raised button, square and cold to the touch. Shae depressed it with a finger, and Edward drew in a breath, making a brief sound of pain, but the scissor hand detached easily and fell with a clatter to the ground.

Shae looked at Edward's face. His lips were set in a thin line, and his eyes bright with pain, tight round the edges. "I'm sorry. Does it hurt?" Edward nodded. Shae quickly picked up the hand matching that arm, the left, and fitted it carefully on. Something in the wrist clicked and whirred, and the hand sank perfectly into place. There was a long moment of silence. Shae looked into Edward's eyes. "C. . .can you move your fingers?" Edward shook his head, and Shae was dismayed to see a single tear trickle down his cheek. "Wait. Can you feel this?" Shae took Edward's hand gently in his own, and Edward smiled shyly.

"Yes. I can feel your fingers. They're. . .they're warm." His smile flickered, then fell. "But why can't I move them?"

"Maybe. . .maybe they first need to be moved for ye." Shae rubbed his palm over Edward's, and began to bend and stimulate his fingers. After some minutes, Shae felt Edward's thumb twitch of its own accord. Their twin smiles were pure joy. As they worked together, and time sped by, Edward became able to move all four fingers and thumb of his own accord, if a little stiffly and slowly. He did manage, however, to pick up a book and leaf through it.

Shae was about to detach his second scissor hand when he happened to glance at his watch. It was nearing three o'clock, and his brother would be worried. "Edward," he said softly.

"Yes?"

"I have tae go now. I can change your hand now, but I'll not be able to help you with it till tomorrow. Is that all right?"

"I can do it myself." Edward beamed. "I can make my fingers move myself." He held up his mobile left hand. Shae grinned, and unlatched the scissor hand. Again, Edward gave a pained sound, but Shae was quicker with the right hand. After the click and whirr, Shae rose. "Wait." Edward said. "Would you.. .could you help me with my clothes?" Shae smiled guiltily as he realized that he'd nearly left his new friend without refastening his clothes. Buckling the leather back into place, he stepped back. "Thank you." Edward whispered. "Will you come back tomorrow? I'm so lonely."

"You don't have to stay here anymore." Shae said suddenly. "They won't be afraid of you now you've got hands. And even if they are, I'll protect you." Edward had fallen very silent. "I'm sure things have changed since you were down there last. They've all but forgotten about you. All but Mrs. Kim."

Edward's eyes became beams of joy when Kim's name was mentioned. "Do. . .do you think. . .do you think they won't. . .hate me?"

"Well, not everyone will like you, but not everyone can hate you. It's impossible."

"Maybe. . ." Edward hesitated, ". . .not yet. I should get used to being finished first."

"All right. D'you need food, like?"

"No. I don't need to eat. I don't even need to sleep, but I like dreaming."

"Oh. Well, then, I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"Bye." On impulse, Shae reached out and gave Edward a firm, one-armed hug. Then, turning, he raced out of the castle, through the gardens, and climbed down the mountain as quickly as safely possible.