Little Boy Blue and the Man in the Moon

CONTENT:
Rating: Teen
Flavor: Drama
Language: some
Violence: some
Nudity: none
Sex: no
Other: none

Author's Note:

This has been sitting in my head for years; glad I finally got around to writing it. Special thanks to Rian Steelsheen for wondering about various things regarding the story and inspiring some exchanges.

Malcolm sighed. He really shouldn't leave Tommy alone at home. Without even a housekeeper or cook, he could end up burning the place down. Malcolm rubbed his face. That wasn't funny. But all right, he could pick up some junk food burgers or chicken on the way home. Would Tommy want some? What was he going to do for dinner? It would be typical if he brought something home and Tommy already had everything planned or taken care of. Then it would look as if Malcolm were condescending to him.

When had this become so complicated?

He could always just call Tommy and ask. So he pulled out his cell when he got back to his car.

There was no answer.

Well, it wasn't the first time his son wouldn't take his calls. Tommy obviously didn't want to talk to him, so Malcolm snapped the phone shut as it started to go to voicemail.

It was a big mansion. Father and son could avoid each other easily within its many halls.

Little Boy Blue and the Man in the Moon

(Tommy is 17. Rebecca has been dead 9 years.)

==#==

Tommy didn't come home.

Malcolm dozed in his chair, the phone close at hand. It was a fitful, restless half sleep, plagued with worry. One night, he'd get a call from the hospital, or worse, the police, sadly informing him that his son had been in a horrific accident, that Tommy had finally managed to kill himself.

There was nothing Malcolm could do to prevent this. No therapy, not counseling. Parental guidance? That was a joke.

He could beg Tommy not to do this, and his son would just look at him with cold, accusing eyes.

Sometimes, he had nightmares of answering the phone and listening to Tommy gasp his life out in a bloody car wreck, begging for help that Malcolm couldn't give. Sometimes it was worse, and he'd dream of waking up in the morning, and only hearing his son's final words on a voicemail recording, while he'd remained oblivious that his boy was dying.

How could he lose someone so close to him and not even know? Something so momentous, so final, should be felt, not pass by unheralded like some trivial mundane event.

The phone rang, the real one, and Malcolm shot upright, his body tensing, his heart pounding. He took a breath and thumbed the handset. "Hello?"

"Mr. Merlyn? Your son is here at Precinct 12."

"Is he hurt?"

"He was wearing his seatbelt."

Malcolm closed his eyes. Thank God. "I'll be there as soon as possible."

It wouldn't take long. He was already dressed, after all. It just took a moment to straighten himself up, grab his suit jacket. Now he could look as respectable as possible while picking up his slobbering drunk child.

==#==

Malcolm had the sign-out routine down pat. He kept his expression neutral, closed, while the officer with the disapproving scowl steered Tommy out of lockup.

"Heyyy, Dad," Tommy slurred, leaning precariously close to falling on his escort. "So good to see you again." A big cheesy grin lit up his face.

The officer shoved Tommy at Malcolm, and Tommy caught himself by clutching Malcolm's sleeve. "No need to be so pushy," the inebriated teen chided, then broke into uncontrollable giggles.

"Let's go."

"Heyyyy... Pushy, pushy... everybody should jus' lighten up!"

Malcolm grabbed his arm and forcibly guided him outside. He just about man-handled Tommy down the steps, because it was clear the boy couldn't navigate them safely on his own. "Get in the car." Malcolm shoved Tommy at the passenger door, and turned when he heard his name called.

"What? No limo?" Tommy groped for the handle.

Malcolm walked back to be met by Officer Riley, who was outside on a cigarette break. "He's a handful," Riley said in a mild tone. He passed Malcolm a small plastic bag containing a handful of pills.

"Thank you, Riley. You'll see your bonus by Thursday."

"Any time, Mr. Merlyn."

Malcolm pocketed the contraband without a second glance, but he was seething inside.

Tommy lolled in the passenger seat; Malcolm wasn't even sure he was conscious. He gripped the wheel; he gritted his teeth. He drove them home.

When the car was safely parked in the driveway, Malcolm turned and hit Tommy on the arm, a bit more forcefully than he meant to, but it succeeded in waking the teenager.

"Ow! What the fuck?"

"Get out of the car," Malcolm snapped. He released his seatbelt and exited the BMW.

"Get in the car, get out of the car," Tommy whined as he fumbled his own way clear. "Just always tell me what to fucking do." He staggered around the car, leaning on the hood, then pushed off towards the front door. "Thanks for the ride, 'Dad,'" he sneered with a jaunty wave. "Seeya."

"Tommy, I'm not finish- Tommy!" Malcolm grabbed his arm, jerked him back around. With his other hand, he waved the baggie in Tommy's face. "What the hell is this?"

"Hey, my stash." Tommy smiled at the bag as if it were his best friend. He made a clumsy grab for it, but Malcolm held it out of reach.

"Tommy, you are shit-faced drunk, or wasted, or both," Malcolm yelled. "You wrecked your car-"

"Well, we know which you care about more," Tommy mumbled.

Malcolm stopped, aghast. "You could have been killed!" he screamed at the disaffected youth.

"Like you care?" Tommy yelled back. "All you care about are my grades! You don't give a fuck about me! Well, there's all my straight A's right there in that bag, so if you want to keep your honor student son, you'll hand them over!"

"You've been... doing drugs to get your grades up?" It was insane. The last vestiges of Malcolm's pride in his son shattered. It had been nothing but an artificially-induced sham.

"You should be happy. Isn't that what made you happy?"

"You are ruining your life with this shit!" Malcolm tried to hammer the words through Tommy's thick skull.

"Who cares?"

"I care!"

"Sure you do."

Why couldn't Tommy see it? What else could he do or say? Malcolm crushed the baggie in his fist. "No more, Tommy! I won't stand by and let you ruin your life. I'm going to clear all this filth out of your room, and you will straighten up-!"

"You can't do that!" Tommy's eyes flared. "It's my room!"

"Which is under my roof! And while you live here, you will abide by my rules!"

"Fuck your rules! And fuck your pompous, over-bearing shit!"

"Watch your filthy mouth! It's a good thing your mother isn't here - she'd hate this disgusting thing you've become!"

The hateful words echoed in the night. Tommy stood, mouth slightly agape. Malcolm might have felt ashamed, but it seemed to be the only way to get through to him.

Then, Tommy moved. Malcolm should have seen it coming; his training should have kicked in, but he was frozen in shock as Tommy's fist slammed into his face. He turned with the impact and caught himself on the side of the car.

"You shut up about Mom!" Tommy yelled, his voice thick with welling tears. He turned and trudged down the driveway, reaching into his jacket pocket.

Malcolm leaned against the car, still stunned. Slowly, he straightened. He gingerly touched his stinging lip, and his finger came away with a spot of blood.

He turned and stared after Tommy.

He hit me.

He couldn't move; his mind refused to think. Tommy disappeared around the bend.

He hit me.

The tingling in his cheek intensified to a throbbing pain. Unconsciously, his hand slide to cover it.

Then Malcolm got ahold of himself. With a scowl, he bent and picked up the pills he'd dropped when... He glanced once more down the driveway, but no. He wouldn't go after his son.

He went into the house and straight to Tommy's room. This would be easier with him gone.

==#==

The phone buzzed again. Laurel pulled her lips from Oliver's. "You know," she mumbled between his attempts at recapturing her mouth. "That's really starting to kill the mood."

"They'll give up," Oliver insisted.

The phone buzzed again, and Laurel shoved Ollie's hands out of her shirt.

"Ohhh...!" He groaned and reached down to grope on the floor for the phone lost somewhere in his jacket pocket. "What?" he barked into it grumpily.

Then he sat up straight, his eyes going unfocused as he listened. "Where are you? ...I'll be right there." He closed the flip phone. "I gotta go," he told her.

"Go?" Laurel shrugged a bra strap back into place. "Go where?"

Oliver stood, grabbing his jacket. "Tommy's dad just kicked him out."

"Oh my God."

Oliver stopped, one arm in a sleeve, and he bent to kiss her. "Sorry, babe."

"No, not; that's fine. Of course you have to go." She uncurled her legs as she stood. Tommy was Ollie's best friend, and he was a good guy. Ollie, too, was a good guy, despite his efforts at being a bad boy.

Laurel retrieved her own jacket, hanging neatly on the back of the door. She shrugged into it, flipped her hair out, shouldered her purse. She followed Ollie out, her mind on her worries for Tommy.

She didn't know his dad well; he seemed a more distant sort of parent than Oliver's mom and dad. Tommy complained about him so often, Laurel had wondered if the police shouldn't actually get involved.

She'd mentioned it to her dad, who'd listened thoughtfully, asked a few clarifying questions, then had this bit of wisdom to impart:

"Sweetheart, you only hear one side of the story, and only the bits this kid Tommy wants to gripe about. I'm sure," he'd said, giving her a pointed look, "you've complained a time or three about what a terrible ogre your old man is. That's normal, honey. Rich kids like Merlyn and Queen don't know when they got it so good."

But Mr. Merlyn actually kicking Tommy out? It's lucky Tommy had such a good friend like Ollie.

==#==

Tommy trudged down the side of the road, his head down, his shoulders slumped, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He'd puked a few yards back, now he was feeling a lot more sober. He didn't cry. That was stupid. Stupid that his fucking father would talk such fucking bullshit. Fuck that, Malcolm didn't deserve any of Tommy's feelings, not even hurt. Barely even anger. Fuck it all. Tommy wouldn't care.

He squinted as some headlights swept around a bend towards him. They slowed, stopped a bit past him, then Oliver's voice came out of the blackness behind them. "Tommy?"

Tommy crossed the road and got into the car.

"What were you doing? Trying to walk to my house?" Oliver joked.

"If need be," he replied in a steel tone.

His friend instantly sobered. "You wouldn't have to. I'm here for you, man." Ollie put the car in gear and started a three point turn maneuver with more points. "I'll always be there when you need me."

"Thanks," Tommy said, before his throat closed. He put a hand to his forehead, not his eyes; he was not crying like some baby. He turned towards the window, not that Oliver could see, in the darkness.

"So what happened?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"'Kay."

Tommy fumed silently to himself, trying to dry his stupid, useless tears with the heat of rage.

He blamed his father for everything. Every mistake, every absence, every misstep. Sometimes, guiltily, he wondered what it'd be like if it had been his father who'd died that night. He and Mom would have carried on, wouldn't they? Become closer, a stronger family. She wouldn't have become some distant mountain that Tommy could never reach, no matter how loudly he shouted.

His father could die now.

No!

Despite everything, he didn't want his father gone, he didn't want to leave, to run away. All he wanted was his father back! The one he'd lost when his mom died. Despite the years that had passed, the distance they'd come, inside he was still just a little boy whose father meant the world to him. A friend, a teacher, a protector. The man a boy could count on to share his laughter, to banish his tears. To be there in the dead of night when the nightmares came.

Tommy loved his dad.

Had loved his dad.

Wanted to love his dad.

He swiped at his face. He was drunk, and it was making him maudlin. The stone silence didn't help. "I wrecked the car again," he mentioned to Ollie.

"Shit, Tommy!"

"Dad got my stash. He's gonna toss my room. Shiiiiiit..." He rubbed his face. "I'm so fucked."

"You can crash at my place as long as you need," Oliver said. "We've got plenty of room."

"Thanks, man. You're..." Tommy pushed through before he choked up again. "You're a good friend."

==#==

Mr. Merlyn was downstairs in the study, talking with Oliver's dad. Oliver wished he could hear them from the landing. As it was, he only caught the tail end of Mr. Merlyn telling his dad something about Tommy being in trouble again. He didn't even sound angry or upset, just... cold. Deadly. Oliver shuddered inside.

He calculated the odds of getting caught if he crept downstairs and listened at the door. Not good. Then the voices stopped and Oliver stood up straight, acting casual.

Robert and Malcolm came into view in the foyer; Robert turned. "Oliver! Oh, there you are."

Oliver feigned surprise. "Yeah, Dad?"

"Could you tell Tommy to come down?"

He started to move automatically but then locked his knees. "No."

"What?"

"What if he doesn't want to?" Oliver had stood up for Tommy - against bullies, against teachers, anyone who tried to trash talk his friend. Now maybe it was time to stand up for Tommy against his father. Hadn't this gone far enough?

Malcolm gave him a stern glare, but all he said was, "Oliver, please." There was a haunted air about his face, his frame, like a man battling illness. And was that a bruise on his cheek?

Robert said quietly to Malcolm, "Let me talk to the boy." He started up the stairs.

Oliver fell into step beside him. "But Dad-"

"Son, I know you want to help your friend, and that's commendable."

"What about what Tommy wants? He has rights!" His father wasn't listening, only continuing on stubbornly.

"Dad, how can you do this? You don't know what's been going on over there."

"You don't, either," Robert shot back. "You only know one side of the story. How many times do you complain to your friends about your parents?"

"I don't," Oliver said. It was mostly true. His dad wasn't an ogre like Tommy's dad.

At the top of the stairs, Robert turned to face him. "Ollie, no one should come between a man and his son."

He opened his mouth to begin a protest, but no words came out. Looking into his father's eyes, he could feel their bond. He turned away.

"Let me talk to Tommy alone for a minute." Robert continued on down the hall and Oliver stood there at a loss. What kind of friend was he?

He turned and descended the stairs, to run away, out the door, so he didn't have to be here, witness to his failure. But he checked his headlong flight. He wouldn't be a coward.

Which led him to end up standing in the foyer with Mr. Merlyn. Oliver shot him a glare, almost daring him to say something, to start an argument.

For a moment, the man regarded him and his hostility, then looked down at his own clasped hands. He was not going to make the first move, then.

Oliver took the opportunity to study Mr. Merlyn's profile. Was that guilt? His expression was closed, hard to read. That was definitely a bruise on his face, and Oliver tried to figure out how the hell it got there. Mr. Merlyn was a straight-laced suit-and-tie kinda guy. He didn't go around getting into fistfights.

"Why did you kick Tommy out?" he blurted suddenly.

Mr. Merlyn turned, looked up at him, his brow furrowed. "What?"

"If you wanted him out of your house, why are you so eager to come here and get him?"

"Oliver, I did not kick Tommy out."

"He said you did." Oliver folded his arms.

Mr. Merlyn restrained a sigh. "I'm sure that's what he told you, but the fact is, he got angry and walked out."

Now Oliver stared down at the floor, chewing his lip with a frown. It wasn't that he didn't believe his friend, but he had to admit that exaggeration may have played a part in Tommy's story. Perhaps a great many of his stories.

Damn, Oliver hated when his dad was right.

Mr. Merlyn continued. "I know you might not believe this - Lord knows, Tommy doesn't - but I only want what is best for him. If you were a true friend, you'd want that too."

"I am," Oliver insisted, burned by the implication he wasn't.

"These drugs Tommy is on. They're not good for him. Being young and reckless and 'partying' is one thing, Oliver." Mr. Merlyn looked at him with those deep, chilling eyes. "Addiction is another thing entirely."

Oliver looked away. He didn't confess anything; he wasn't that dumb. And what could he have done? He badgered Tommy about the pills, but who was he to say what someone should or shouldn't do with their own life? He wasn't Tommy's father.

Oh. Now he began to understand what his dad had meant. Feeling disloyal, he kept his gaze on the floor.

==#==

"Tommy?" Robert knocked on the door and waited for an acknowledgement. He didn't want to walk in on anything embarrassing - or worse, something that would require intervention and discipline. He wanted to talk to the boy as a friend, not as an authority figure. "Tommy?"

With reluctance, the door opened. Tommy looked like hell, hair disheveled, t-shirt rumpled, a pair of Ollie's sweatpants thrown on. "Hey, Mr. Queen."

"Tommy, your dad's here."

Tommy sighed. "What does he want?"

"He wants to take you home."

Bitterness twisted the boy's lips. He seemed eager to say something, but not sure what.

Robert sympathized. "Why don't you let me in? We can talk while you get ready."

"Yeah, okay." Tommy vacated the door and headed for the en suite bathroom, making detours along the way to grab his pants, his socks.

Robert looked for a chair to sit in... he was fairly certain there was one under all the mess. With a shrug, he sat on the edge of the bed. "I understand you and your dad got into it pretty bad last night."

"Yeah, what'd he tell you?" Water ran in the sink.

"Well, he said you got drunk, wrecked your car, had drugs on you, and then you got into an argument and you hit him."

The water kept running.

"Was any of that inaccurate?" Robert asked, staying with a mild tone.

"Not... Well..." Tommy's voice faded. "No."

"I know you and your father don't see eye to eye, but he loves you, Tommy."

The water cut off with a protesting squeak from the faucet. "How can you tell?"

"He tells me so."

"Yeah, he tells me that, too. But I don't see it."

Robert pursed his lips and looked at the floor. "He cares, Tommy. He cares how you feel, how you do in life. He cares about your future."

"We never do anything. We never talk. He's never there."

"I didn't say he was perfect. Far from it. But believe me, if he didn't care about you, you'd be a lot worse off."

"How so?" Tommy asked defiantly.

"Your grades would suck, you'd be failing school - if you even bothered to go. You'd be drunk and landing in jail. Killing yourself before you reach 20." Robert didn't know how to explain life from this side of adulthood. Then he said, "I know your dad hasn't been the greatest, but he tries, and he is there for you when you need him. He had a hard time of it when your mother died."

"Yeah, well he forgot there were two of us in that boat," Tommy said bitterly.

"I think maybe you forget that," Robert shot back. "Malcolm took it on himself to raise you by himself. And you know how stubborn he is about asking for help."

"He asked for help?"

That startled a chuckle out of Robert. "Of course he didn't. But he and I talk about raising our boys. You know, sometimes I think if the two of you could just sit down and talk..."

"I talk, he yells. And lectures."

Robert sighed. "I'll talk to him."

"About what?"asked Tommy with a tinge of panic.

"About being a better listener. Can you at least give your old man a chance?"

The answer as a long time coming.

"I guess."

==#==

Tommy followed Mr. Queen downstairs. He kept his eyes on his feet. He didn't notice Oliver was there until they got down to the level of the foyer.

Mr. Queen said, "Ollie, why don't you walk Tommy to the car while I have a word with Malcolm?"

Tommy glanced at his dad. He saw the bruise. Shit! I'm in a shit-ton of trouble! He hurried out after Oliver, and the two teens trudged towards the BMW.

Ollie didn't say anything.

Tommy was too caught up in his own worries to notice right away. But it wasn't like his friend to keep his mouth shut. "What'd my dad say to you?" he asked in sudden trepidation.

"Nothin'."

Good, then Ollie didn't know what Tommy had done. Tommy hardly believed it himself; it seemed like something from a half-forgotten nightmare.

This is fucked up. I... I fucked up. For once, Tommy was in trouble, and he owned that it was completely his fault. He had to face it. He swallowed.

"Well, hey, I gotta go," he said when his father came out the door. "I'll see ya."

"Seeya, man."

Tommy got in the car, waited with clenched fists for his father to get in and start it up. The elder Merlyn said nothing, showed no emotion. Was his father going to say something? He usually waited until they were well under way, no chance of his son bailing out of the car, Tommy thought with black humor.

He decided to man up and make the first move. "Dad..." He tried to swallow, his mouth suddenly gone dry. "Dad, I'm sorry. I was drunk and... It was stupid, and... I'm really sorry. I didn't mean it."

His words ran out, dried to dust. His father drove on in silence. Tommy wondered what else he could say, but finally, Malcolm answered him.

"I know," was all he said.

Tommy sank into his seat, feeling cold.

==X==