The Breakfast Club does not belong to me; I give all credit to John Hughes, who deserves it immensely.
Ah! My first Breakfast Club fic. Just a one shot, I'm afraid, since I've got tons of other projects I should be working on (for those of you waiting for an update on ASoB, chapter 15 is on its way). I just got this idea in my head and it refused to give me any peace until I agreed to sit down and write it out. So, here it is! I hope the characters are at least semi-believable. Bender is sooo difficult to write! Feedback would be greatly appreciated, since this is my first excursion into the Breakfast Club world. Hopefully not the last, but we'll see. Enjoy!
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Two Inches From the Heart
The Vernon phone was not in the habit of ringing after 8 PM, even on weekends. Understandably, it came as a great shock when, at two o'clock in the morning, a sudden call rocked the husband and wife out of a deep sleep. After a moment of frantic searching in the dark with one hand, Richard at last managed to grab the receiver.
"Hello?" he ground out, rubbing his eyes and forcing himself to sit up. Nancy turned on her bedside lamp and blinked up at him over her shoulder, unaware that one of her hair curlers had come loose. She watched her husband's face rapidly shift from annoyed to confused.
"I'm sorry, you said Bender? John Bender?" he spluttered. "That can't be right, why would he . . . well, what happened to him?"
Nancy propped herself up on an elbow, staring curiously at him. His expression sobered considerably, and she knew better than to question him when he hung up the phone and moved to get dressed.
The two of them tried to head upstairs quietly – it was pretty late, after all – but it turned out that John's father was still up and about. Considering all the wild stories John had told her about his old man, Carl Bender was not exactly what Allison had imagined. Rather than the ogre she envisioned, she saw instead an older, balder, fatter version of his son, with the same dark complexion and eyes. A vision of John in thirty years.
The sight of him pulled the two teenagers up short, halting in their tracks. The man was drunk all right, there was no mistaking that, and that meant John had to be on guard. He had hoped he could spare Allison some of the ugliness of this place, and hadn't been expecting his father to be awake (conscious) at this time.
Carl was hunched over a bottle of beer at the kitchen table, his broad shoulders drawn up to keep the rest of the world at bay. He lifted his gaze up to meet them and took a lazy swig from the bottle.
"Hey," John began uncomfortably. "Uh . . . I was just getting Ally something to drink. We'll be heading out soon."
"At thiss 'our?" Carl belched, blinking unevenly.
"I'm taking her home."
"Y'ain't takin' my car."
"We were gonna walk, actually," John replied in a slightly more defensive tone. Allison could already see the change in her friend's posture; his stance widened, his hands unconsciously balled into fists. She could imagine his chin jutting out ever so slightly, a taunt to hide the apprehension inside. It was difficult not to think about how often he had to do this sort of thing.
The older man turned his eyes on the young woman standing beside his son. "You fucking 'er?" he asked her, leering. Allison's eyes widened, and every muscle in John's body seemed to tighten all at once. Carl snorted. "Christ. You got a new one every month."
"Let's just go," she whispered, resting a hand on her friend's arm. John shook her off, still glaring at his father.
"She's my friend," he said icily, narrowing his eyes at the man before them.
"When was th' last time you had a girl here you weren't drillin', boy?" Carl asked, leaning back in the chair. The wood groaned underneath him. "'Sides, she's cuter than th' last one."
"Don't talk about her like that," his son shot back, a clear warning creeping into his voice. His old man was drunker than he usually was, and it was this deadly calmness that was putting John on edge more than anything. Allison bit her lip and backed away towards the door that lead down to the basement, where John's room was.
Carl regarded his son quietly, remaining in his seat. He took another sip of beer and said coolly, "She left us, you know. Yer mom."
Allison's heart sank into the pit of her stomach, and she was suddenly very glad she couldn't see the look on John's face. The young man stayed where he was, perfectly still, but his fists seemed to have melted.
"When?"
"Few hours ago. Left a note on the fridge. Fuckin' bitch."
John glanced over at the fridge, but stayed where he was standing. For a moment he was silent, and then he managed a small shrug. "Well it's not like you ever gave a shit about her in the first place, right?"
Carl slammed his beer bottle down so hard on the table that it shattered under his hand. "The fuck 'm I supposed to do now? Huh? Come on, smartass, you got any ideas?" he snarled. "What do I do now my woman's gone? You gonna turn queer and keep this shithole house straightened up for me? Gonna cook for me now? Huh?"
John took a step back, but refused to let go of his bravado. No way was he going to cower in front of Allison. "Why do you care?" he shot back. "You treated her like crap every day, and now you're pissed at me 'cuz she got sick of it? What the fuck did I ever do?"
Suddenly Carl lurched to his feet and hurled the remnants of the bottle aside, his eyes round and huge as they bore into his son. It was only then that the teens realized he had a revolver tucked into his jeans. Chest heaving, he grabbed it and pointed it unsteadily it at John, his aim off from the drink.
"Iss all yer goddamn fault," he wheezed. "You . . . you ruined everything."
Allison made a noise in the back of her throat – something between a squeak and a whimper – and John instinctively moved to block her, his body taut and afraid. He had seen that piece only a few times in his life, but it was usually his mom that had been staring down the barrel, not him.
"Ca – Dad . . ." he pleaded, hardly in a whisper. "Think about this. Think about what you're doing." Carl's breathing slowed, and his eyes seemed to glaze over.
"You know . . . I didn't want you," he was saying, staring at something beyond them, through them. "But I had to marry 'er. Had to keep you. She'd a left me if . . . if I didn't . . . stupid Cath'lic bitch. Stupid fuckin' . . ."
"Dad –"
Allison felt the bullet go through his shoulder as if it was her own body. She was too stunned even to scream as it shattered through the wood of the doorframe next to her head, barely inches away. Warm red drops splattered on her, and she tasted it in her mouth.
John's right hand came up and covered the hole, and he stared down at it for a moment as if in a daze. He then turned and blinked at Allison behind him, seemingly unaware of the crimson pouring out between his fingers, under his palm, dripping down his arm. Carl watched it spread over his son's torso, seeping through the cheap cloth of his shirt, and then looked down at the hot gun in his hand.
"Maybe it was me," he said aloud, almost inaudibly, but Allison heard every word. With perfect calm, he raised the pistol to his temple. "Maybe I should've . . ."
John tried to cry out, tried to do something; he even managed to take a wobbly step forward, but Allison stayed frozen against the doorway and didn't even flinch when Carl pulled the trigger. She knew she should have looked away, shouldn't have seen the way his skull seemed to come apart from the inside. Shouldn't have seen the spray that snowed crimson against the kitchen cabinets. His body fell with an earth-shattering thud that resonated through the whole house.
She sank to the floor.
John staggered forward and made to kneel at his father's side, but then stopped and turned back to his stricken friend.
"It . . . it'll be okay," he muttered, dropping down next to her. His eyes began rolling towards the back of his head. He lifted his bloody hand to touch her but couldn't seem to find anywhere for it to land. Instead he let himself crumple backwards onto the floor, landing with such dignity onto his side. A noise began clawing its way up Allison's throat, gathering momentum as it rose, but she shoved a fist into her mouth and bit down on the knuckles. Her skin nearly broke, and she swallowed the pain down along with whatever sound it was that fought to escape. She took a few deep breaths, unable to tear her eyes away from his bent shape on the kitchen tile. Slowly she removed her hand, using all her strength and willpower not to get sick. Trembling, she reached up to tug on the phone cord and pulled down the receiver.
She dialed 911. The dispatcher was prompt, professional, and assuring. The call was short. And in the silence that followed, Allison couldn't keep from staring at the hole in her friend's shoulder. It looked like it was growing bigger and bigger with every second, threatening to consume him whole and drag her down too.
He woke up with a strange numbness in his chest, and a dim light buzzing overhead. It stung his eyes, and he squeezed them shut for a moment. His head was swimming. He felt like his limbs were made of sand.
"Fuuuuck," he groaned. Right away he figured he was high on something, probably some kind of painkiller. He felt bandages on his chest and noticed for the first time that his left arm was in a sling. It was only then that he really realized he was in a hospital, and felt an instant wave of unease. Before he had a chance to think back, a weird noise caught his attention.
It was a familiar yelp that made his heart stir a little in the numb cage of his chest – a sound he would recognize anywhere in the world. He turned his head just in time to see Allison fling herself on his arm. His good arm, thankfully. In the split second he had to study her before she buried her face in the crook of his neck, he saw tears in her eyes.
"Easy there, Ally-May," he grunted, trying not to show in his tone how painful her embrace was (good arm or not, she jostled him a little). She sniffled noisily and moved her arms to wrap around his neck, gently this time. He could feel her shaking.
And then John remembered. He remembered everything, remembered why he was there, why his chest was wrapped up in white gauze, why his best friend was clinging to him like a lifeline. He remembered his dad falling, and how there was so much red dripping down the white cupboards.
His voice sounded hollow even in his own ears. "So. I guess my old man is . . ."
She nodded against him. He swallowed thickly and reached up with his mobile hand and rested it on her arm, the best he could do in way of a hug. He wondered if he should be feeling more upset than this. There was a strange sort of . . . nothingness. Probably shock. He kind of hoped it wouldn't wear off.
Bothered by the silence, he finally let out a small, pathetic little laugh. "Well, I guess we should be grateful he didn't have the shotgun handy. You'd be visiting me in a morgue right now. And the kitchen would be a fucking mess –"
"Please don't," she whispered, tightening her hold on him. "That bullet missed your heart by two inches, John. Don't joke."
Slightly humbled, John patted her arm and fell silent. Two inches? He supposed being a wiseass wasn't the best way to deal with the situation anyway, but damn if he didn't know what else to do.
After a while she released him and wiped her face with the back of her sleeve, looking paler than he'd ever seen her before. He licked his lips and tried to divert the subject elsewhere.
"Does anyone else know I'm here?"
"Just Brian. I knew he'd want to make sure you're okay."
He nodded. Good thinking. His friends would probably spend more time bitching at him for dragging their asses out of bed at this hour than actually worrying about him. But not Brian. John smiled a little at the image of his geeky friend rushing to the hospital with candy and flowers. Bri was just the type to do that sort of thing. Poor kid would have a shitfit if he thought for a second is buddy Bender had kicked the bucket.
"Guess he'll be bulldozing through here soon, huh?" he asked wryly. "Championing my cause?" Allison gave a little half-grin that was resembling his own more and more these days, but she didn't reply. He couldn't for the life of him figure out why he was being his usual dipshit self at a time like this.
Part of him wondered what Claire or Andy would say, if they saw him here. It occurred to him that he hadn't thought of either of them in a while, not since that Monday when they made it pretty clear that Saturday's detention didn't stick. All that seemed so long ago, though. These days he had a hard time caring, even though on some days his friends would see an unmistakable twinkle in his left earlobe. Allison and Brian stuck with him, and that was good enough.
He paused at the thought of Allison and looked up to see that she still had blood on her shirt. His blood. Which meant she hadn't even left his side to get cleaned up properly. She caught his awed stare and smiled back awkwardly, before she suddenly remembered something.
"I brought the note your mom left. Couldn't just leave it there."
A slight pang in his chest. "Hold onto it for now," he muttered, looking away. She stopped rummaging through her purse and glanced up at him. "I don't really wanna deal with that shit right now."
She nodded and shook some hair out of her eyes. "Want anything?"
"Beer. Lots of beer."
"I don't think that's what the doctor mea –"
Somebody coughed uneasily at the doorway, interrupting her. Both John and Allison looked up, and froze. "Either there's something other than morphine in this IV," John managed at last, "or that's Richard Vernon standing in the doorway."
"What are you doing here?" Allison queried, staring at their principal in disbelief. She had never seen him in anything other than his ridiculous 'Barry Manilow' suits, but it looked like he picked out his turtleneck and slacks while in the dark.
"I, uh . . . got a call from . . . well, here," Vernon stammered, taking a cautious step into the room. His hair, normally combed back stylishly, was tousled and wrought with cowlicks. "Told me that you, were . . . well, I had to stop by."
That actually surprised John a little. He hadn't expected much when, years ago, he had put down Vernon's information on his contact list after his folks finally got medical insurance. It had been more of a joke than anything – no way would Vernon actually give a rat's ass and come all the way down to Shermer Central Hospital just to make sure he was alive. As far as the man was concerned, John Bender could rot in a ditch somewhere. Or at least, that's what John figured the sentiment was. Apparently he was wrong. Either that, or Dick just couldn't resist the opportunity to show the world what a decent man he was, condescending to help the school thug in his time of need.
Yeah. That last one sounded more likely.
His thoughts must have been reflected on his face. Vernon scratched the back of his neck, looking slight unsure of himself again, and Allison wordlessly excused herself from the room. She gave John a lingering look as she left, and when the two men were suddenly alone, an oppressive silence took her place.
Vernon looked around him, sizing the room up, letting his eyes rest everywhere but on John's face. "I talked to the police. Heard about your dad. I'm sorry about that."
John stiffened and mentally inserted as much space between them as possible. "Whatever," he muttered, looking away.
The principal didn't seem to know what else he could say to sound sympathetic. It was pretty obvious that John didn't want to talk about it anyway. He cleared his throat again and sat down on a chair a safe distance away from the bed.
"So where's your mother?" he asked. By the way John's expression darkened, he figured he probably should have avoided that question.
"She hightailed it outta here. Smartest thing she's ever done probably," John snorted. One would have to be blind, though, not to see the sudden hurt in his eyes, swiftly blanketed by anger and disdain.
Vernon was almost afraid to speak again, in case he managed to bring up another painful topic. The two of them sat awkwardly together for a moment, before temptation got the best of him.
"I gotta ask, Bender," he sighed at long last. "What were you thinking, putting me on your contact list?"
John shrugged as best as he could, still not making eye contact. "Figured it would be a good way to piss you off," he replied tersely.
Vernon gave him a look. "Try again."
He threw back his head a bit, shaking hair out of his face with a acidic smile on his face. "You telling me you'd pass up this opportunity? A chance to appear like the bigger man here?" he asked scathingly. "You might hate my guts – and Lord knows you're an asshole – but you know better than to refuse a call like this. You've got a reputation to consider, Dick. And just think what the neighbours would say if word got out that you ignored one of your precious students in a time of need."
Richard frowned, and John raised an eyebrow. "What . . . you thought I'd call you a saint, or something? Throw myself at your feet? Your hidden agenda runs way deeper than mine, your Holiness."
"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Bender. It doesn't change the fact that, out of all the people on that list, I was the only one who answered that call. So what does that tell you?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at the young man before him.
John gave a dramatic sigh. "It tells me that I need to seriously update that list. I could have sworn I put my grandmother on there. Crazy old hag doesn't even care about her own 'sonny boy'."
Richard curled his lip in disgust. "Cut the bullshit for two seconds, will you? Do me that one favour. You may have fooled your little friend out there with this tough guy crap, but it doesn't work with me."
"Right, right." John nodded seriously. "I guess you've 'known dozens like me' and 'we're all the same' and –"
"That's not it, smartass," Vernon cut him off. "I see right through this show of yours because . . ." Here, he trailed off and seemed to hesitate, bracing himself for something. "Because my father killed himself too."
Only later would he allow himself to savour the look of absolute, unguarded shock on Bender's face. Whether it was shock at the confession itself, or the fact that he was the one being confessed to, one couldn't really say.
"Right when I was about your age, in fact," he went on, slightly calmer now that it was hanging in the air between them. "And let me tell you, nothing makes a boy grow up faster than being left to take care of a sick mother. Now, since you don't seem to have that luxury, I'm guessing you've still got some time left to be a kid."
John snapped his jaw shut and tried to mask his earlier astonishment, but even though he was staring resolutely at the foot of his bed, Vernon knew he was hanging on every word. Relaxing a little, he leaned his elbows on his knees and blew out a long, heavy breath.
"And man, my mother, she was . . . well, she was bitter," he admitted. "Hell, she'd been bitter for years. Bad marriages do that to you, I guess. My dad was a terrible husband to her, let me tell you. He drank, he cheated, ignored her, he was always between jobs . . ."
At his long pause, John finally lifted his head. Vernon looked older than he'd ever looked before, in John's eyes. "So I shouldered the burden. I grew up. Thought I didn't really have a choice in the matter. Thought that if . . . if I worked hard, brought in money to pay the bills, paid attention to her and all that, maybe . . ." he paused and shook his head a little, as if finding the whole thing stupid even today. "Maybe I could make her happy. Because as shitty as it was for the two of them, I don't think she knew how to live her life without him. I think she missed him. And I hated myself for not being able to fix it."
John could hardly stand the look on his principal's face. It felt like he was invading someone's privacy on a level that should never be touched. He didn't quite know what to do with himself. He wanted to fidget, like he always did when he was uncomfortable, but at the same time he was too afraid to move a muscle.
"How did he do it?" he heard himself ask. There was really no sensitive way to ask that kind of question.
"Hung himself in the garage. I found him when I was pulling the car in after school."
John couldn't help but feel just the slightest bit of respect for the man.
"Look, Bender," Vernon sighed, finally meeting his eyes. "I don't know what happened between you and your dad in those last minutes you two had. But you're probably doing what a lot of kids in your position do. What I did. You're blaming yourself for something that was out of your control, something you can't be held responsible for. I know how that feels, and I know what it's going to do to you in thirty years, unless you realize, right here and now, that there was nothing you could have done to stop it."
It would have been a good time to say something. Anything. And there were words hovering on the tip of John's tongue, but he couldn't seem to force himself to speak while those eyes were watching him so closely.
At his silence, Vernon nodded once and rose to leave, and John felt a moment of panic at the thought of being alone with all these revelations.
"I could have been a better son," he blurted out, before he could stop it.
Vernon turned abruptly and gazed at him with inscrutable eyes. Stunned at himself, John prayed the man hadn't heard him properly. Where the hell did those words come from? That wasn't at all what was supposed to come out. It couldn't have been.
But Vernon moved back towards the bed and crossed his arms over his chest. Oh, yeah. He heard him all right. "I hope you didn't mean that."
"I –" John cut himself off, deciding he should probably think through his next sentence carefully. It had to make sense. He had to make Vernon see that it was true. "It's just that . . . my old lady left because he made her unhappy. He treated her like shit. And he was always mad because I made him unhappy. I was always pissing him off. I ruined his life, so he ruined hers. That's why she left. And that's why he . . ."
Vernon leaned down and grabbed the plastic rail at the edge of the bed, letting his head hang low for a minute. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, so quietly that John almost didn't make it out. "Listen, son, you . . . you cannot carry a load like that for the rest of your life. I mean that. Don't make the same mistake I did."
He exhaled heavily and lifted his head, looking incredibly tired. John was only vaguely aware of the fact that the man had just called him 'son'. He hadn't expected to feel oddly touched by that.
"Your mom left because your dad was a bitter, drunken asshole who was unfit to be a father. She left because she's an irresponsible woman who can't own up to her mistakes and do what's best for her kid. Now you tell me how any of that is your fault. Because I gotta say, from where I'm standing, it looks like you're the victim here."
He couldn't tell if the sudden flare in his heartbeat was out of anger or the fleeting hope that maybe what Vernon said wasn't so crazy. What the hell could he say to all that? How was he supposed to reply?
Vernon saved him the trouble. "Well, you've got one thing I didn't have back then. You've got yourself a group of messed up kids, like Miss Reynolds out there, who for some reason seem to care about you. Don't screw it up and push them away like I did mine."
He rose to his feet and, amazingly enough, rested a hand on the young man's good shoulder. Without another word between them, he walked out of the room and left John sitting there with an uncomfortable weight in his stomach.
A moment later, Brian's concerned face poked through the door. "Hey, Bender. How are you holding up?"
"Just dandy, Bri," John replied wryly. Brian edged his way into the room uncertainly.
"I, uh . . . I would have brought flowers, but I figured you'd kick my ass for that, so . . ." Allison slipped in behind him and gave his arm a little affectionate nudge as she made her way to sit on the edge of the bed.
John smirked a little. "I really do only need one arm to take you down."
"Well, um . . ." Brian went on, sobering up. "I guess . . . I mean, I'm really sorry, Bender. About what happen –"
"You know what, man?" he interrupted, holding up a hand. "I've been down that road all night. Let's just not, right now. Thanks, but . . ."
"Yeah," his friend nodded quickly. "Right, right."
Allison reached down and gently took John's hand, giving it a light squeeze, but didn't look at him. He guessed she was trying to hide tears again. Brian patted her knee awkwardly, and then rolled his eyes comically at John, as if making fun of her attempt at secrecy. He half-grinned in reply, and then simply watched the two of them in a way he never had before. Brian, with his lame jokes to lighten the mood, like he always did, trying for his and Ally's sake to pretend that this was like any other Friday night. And Allison, quiet and still like a statue, with her occasional squeaks of laughter and piercing looks.
The realization that he could have died tonight was not too distant in his mind, and he felt a sudden weightlessness with the relief that he was still here. In spite of all the bullshit he was going to have to work through tomorrow, and the day after that, he was going to be okay. He wasn't, just yet. But he would be. Sooner or later he would have to walk back into that house and see the way the kitchen cupboards were painted with a fresh coat of white, and that his mother's coat wasn't in the hallway closet anymore. Maybe he'd see her again, maybe he wouldn't. But he wasn't going to carry anyone else's baggage ever again, especially not hers. And he was never going to be a victim again, not for the rest of his life.
"Hey, Ally-May," he said quietly. "Feel like handing me that note my mom left?"
Nodding, she reached into her bag and fished around for a minute before pulling out the yellow slip of paper. Fighting to keep his fingers from shaking, John took it from her and stared down at it for the briefest of seconds.
Ignoring their sudden gasps, he tore it up and tossed the pieces aside, watching them drift to the dull, off white floor beside him. Brian and Allison exchanged baffled looks and then stared questioningly at him.
"I don't need it," he said simply. And then, his gaze sharpening on the girl sitting at his side, he asked, "I didn't ask you before. You gonna be okay?"
Her eyes welling up, she gave him a watery smile and nodded. Of course she was. She was going to walk away form all this with a scar, just like him, but he knew she would heal up just fine. He had the sneaking suspicion that she would have gladly taken that bullet in his place.
He turned to Brian. "You're gonna need to come up with some really good jokes in the meantime, little man. Don't let us down, now."
"Yeah, sure thing," Brian replied, looking more than a little mystified as he glanced between the two of them.
"Good." He leaned back into the pillows and settled down to make himself more comfortable, closing his eyes. "Now, if you two don't mind, I'm gonna pass out for a while."
"See you in the waking world," Ally said quietly, rising from the bed.
"Take it easy, Bender," Brian added. John heard him get up from the chair. He didn't even need to check with them to make sure that they would be there when he woke up.
There was no doubt in his mind.