Disclaimer: I don't own Ten Inch Hero or the characters, blah, blah, blah, feeble attempt at legal CMA.

A/N: A reader PM'd me to ask why Joe/Sally work at the grill and not Tish/Piper. This story is set in 2003, 4 years before the movie (2007). If you know anything about restaurants of any kind, you know turnover is rapid. It's a stretch just having Jen and Priestly working there for 4 years by the time we hit canon, so I have OCs working there for now to keep this tale from being completely, ridiculously unrealistic.

We now return you to our regularly scheduled program….

Priestly had his head bent over something when Trucker returned to the dining room after giving Sally the TP. Trucker slid into the booth across from him, taking in the empty basket and the soda.

"Hey," Priestly said, closing what turned out to be a catalog for UCSC.

"Hey, yourself," Trucker replied. "Any trouble finding the place?"

Priestly rolled his eyes. "Are you kidding? I've been getting lost all day."

Trucker chuckled. "You'll get your bearings. Did you meet everybody?"

Priestly shook his head. "Not officially, no."

Trucker got the sense that Priestly got up and followed him only reluctantly, grabbing his trash and tucking the college catalog under one arm. One by one he introduced the crew to Priestly and explained a little bit about the grill, how things were set up and generally how they ran. "We're open 11 to 9 every day except Mondays. If you're scheduled to open, though, that means 10 because we've got food prep to do."

"What time did you leave today?" Priestly asked him offhandedly.

"Around eight." Trucker didn't miss Joe's eye rolling and smirk. He laughed. "Joe called the house this morning to make sure I was back and could open the shop. When I groaned at him, he told me he could open after all and told me to go surfing, so—"

"So then he went surfing and showed up an hour late and left us in the weeds!" Joe called out from the grill.

Trucker hung his head good naturedly. "Okay, okay…two free dinners," he called. Joe lifted the spatula in acceptance of the offer. Priestly looked at him, one eyebrow cocked. "He's an easy buyoff," Trucker joked.

Trucker continued on, pausing to introduce him to Jen. He explained she'd set up his internet website and the online ordering functionality, and now Trucker needed more staff because it turned out people really liked ordering ahead and just stopping in to pick up. Taking advantage of that bit of new technology was easier than figuring out how to move half of the kitchen so they could put in a drive through window along that wall, which ran parallel to the street.

Priestly slid the catalog toward her with a "thanks".

He then discovered that Sally had already met Priestly and moved on to other details before leaving Priestly in the booth again with a W4 and an instruction packet on the food handler's test location and times. "But hey," he said as an afterthought, "you don't have to do any of that right now. Just make sure you have it on Tuesday. And let me know soon what sort of hours you'd rather work…early shift, mid-shift, late shift."

Priestly nodded at him. "If you need me sooner, I can start sooner," he offered.

Trucker was torn. Was the kid offering because he wanted to start, wanted money? Or was he only offering because he thought Trucker was in a bind? He was, now that David was gone, but he didn't want to take away Priestly's acclimation time. "Well," Trucker finally conceded after some back and forth discussion, "maybe you could start earlier but you wouldn't have to work a full schedule yet if you didn't want to."

"Well, are we talking part time or full time shifts?"

Trucker shrugged. "Well, on the low end, we'd be talking 20 hours a week. On the high end, I could really use someone for 30 to 35 hours, but we could just put you on for 16 or 20 to start."

"I can do 30 a week," Priestly said. "That's, what…five days at six hours a day?"

Trucker nodded. "Mondays off, and unless someone gets sick or goes on vacation, everybody gets another day off in there somewhere…but it isn't the same day every week, usually."

"That's ok. But, I mean, if I decide to take a class or something, we can work around it, right?"

"Absolutely," Trucker agreed. He could see the wheels turning in Priestly's head.

"Then that's cool. Sign me up for thirty. There's still plenty of time left in the day to look around."

Trucker smiled. "Okay, then. But I'm not putting you on until day after tomorrow."

Priestly shrugged. "Whatever."

Priestly just watched things for a while, sitting in the booth. He filled in the W4 but said he'd have to get back to Trucker on the social security number and birth certificate copies. When things started to pick up again, he moved from the booth to stand and watch from over by the register. When he tried to pitch in, however, Trucker drew the line.

"You're not on until day after tomorrow. We're fine here. Go have some fun. Trust me, you'll be complaining by the weekend."

Priestly smirked at him, but he nodded and ducked out of the shop with a wave.

Priestly managed to find the right bus back to Trucker's place. Once there, he sat on the futon looking at his phone for a minute, and then he looked over at Trucker's laptop. He basically had two choices. Either jump on the 'net to find out how to get a copy of his birth certificate and a replacement social security card, or call home to tell his mother he was still alive and somehow in the course of the conversation, ask her to mail them to him.

He thought again about the way he'd left...silently, in the pre-dawn light. How he thought about leaving a quick note for his mother. She was caught in the middle, guilty only of standing back while his father shoved his beliefs down his throat, never listening to anything he wanted, anything he thought about, anything he was. Never noticing that because of him or in spite of him, Priestly knew right from wrong. Or at least he thought he had until his father's blind eye to Bennett's actions made him question everything he thought he knew. So he thought maybe she deserved his silence.

Priestly flopped back against the futon's cushion, remembering what a bitch it had been to fold without Trucker's help. But he hadn't wanted to leave it unfolded, either. It seemed like he should keep quiet and leave as little evidence of himself behind as possible, disrupt Trucker's life as little as possible and get into a place of his own as quickly as possible.

He thought about it from every angle. Call, don't call. Rise above his anger and show a little mercy, or not. He knew his mother would be worried, and he knew she loved him. It was the realization that punishing her for being subservient seemed no different than demanding subservient behavior that had him dialing.

"Hello?"

He nearly choked at the sound of her voice. He paused so long she asked again.

"Hello?"

Still, he couldn't get the words out. His jaw clenched of its own accord.

"Boaz?" The hopeful note in her voice hit him almost as hard as Bennett's fist in his guts.

"Mom," he said softly.

"Boaz, where are you?" her voice broke. "Are you alright?"

"Priestly," he replied. "I go by Priestly now."

She repeated it back to him, and he blinked rapidly at the foreign sound. He almost wanted to take it back, but he didn't. "Priestly…honey, are you alright? I found some bloody towels on the floor of your closet."

Anger rose up and overtook the lump in his throat. "Yeah," he said, his voice hard, "that's because Bennett stopped by the house to beat the hell out of me for getting him arrested."

Her silence on the other end made him go cold. He knew without asking, without her saying. She didn't believe him, either.

"Well," he said quietly but with no less venom, "I'm ok, so goodbye."

"Bo—″

He pushed the disconnect button on his phone and started to throw it across the room. The only thing that stopped him was seeing the Endless Summer poster and remembering Trucker's kindness. Smashing in his walls or breaking a window would hardly be a good way to say thanks.

The phone rang in his hand, startling him. Looking down at the display, he recognized his home phone number. Fucking caller ID! He turned off the phone and left it on the futon, easing into the desk chair and flipping open Trucker's laptop. Guess he'd have to send away for his own documents. He clamped down on his jaw hard, effectively stopping the faint first sting of tears.

Soon the days began to blur together.

Priestly and Trucker fell into a routine both at Trucker's place and at the grill. Priestly preferred to work the later part of the day, starting his shift at around three-thirty and working until close. Just like the opening shift meant coming in an hour early for food prep, the closing shift meant staying thirty minutes later for clean up. He didn't see as much of Joe or Sally, because they were openers. But since they were full time employees, they were in the shop only until six each evening, leaving Priestly, Jen, and Trucker to close.

Priestly liked Sally, but he couldn't honestly say the same about Joe. For that reason, he preferred the part of the day after they both went home. He and Joe didn't seem to hit it off. For the most part, they respected each other and were civil, but Priestly noticed Joe looked at him much the same way as so many people had that first day in Santa Cruz. Like he was some sort of imbecile or asshole with his Mohawk and his loud shirts. Sort of his father all over again, but without religion and without smacking him around.

Joe, much like Priestly, had strong opinions. And now that Priestly wasn't constantly being quieted by his father's strong discipline, he more than once found himself at the wrong end of Joe's sharp tongue. Priestly was by no means perfect and not necessarily right or wrong about anything, but he at least listened to Joe and tried to respect his views even if he didn't agree with them. To Priestly, every topic was debatable, and Priestly didn't mind if things got a little intense. But Priestly stuck to the topic at hand, offering his argument or opinion without dragging irrelevant issues into the fray, whereas Joe didn't know how to handle intense without going on attack and waging full on war. He frequently belittled Priestly and his thoughts and sentiments, making things personal until Jen inevitably tried to change whatever subject they were on.

At Trucker's place, Priestly kept the guest room neat, cleaned up after himself and did his own laundry. He often cooked them dinner if they didn't just have subs at the shop. Though Trucker never seemed to mind his presence in the house, he tried to spend a good amount of time out on his own to give Trucker some privacy. He picked up the weekly events paper, Good Times, and started hanging around some different clubs, places like Moe's Alley and The Catalyst, depending on his mood.

He saved almost every penny of his paychecks, using his share of the tip jar proceeds, which was actually pretty decent money, as his pocket money. Since he favored thrift stores and flea markets and wasn't opposed to checking out yard sales, he didn't spend much. He continued to add more clothes to his small wardrobe. At the end of March, he started looking at studio apartments and rooms for rent. He didn't exactly hide it, but he didn't outright tell Trucker about it, either. He didn't want Trucker to think he wasn't grateful or anything. It was the complete opposite, in fact. He wanted to give Trucker his space back. It wasn't like Trucker had planned to take in some fucked up guy that tried to drown himself.

Priestly was finishing his break, sucking the last of the liquid from his paper cup of soda, circling any rental ad that looked promising when a shadow fell over the table. He glanced up guiltily, expecting Trucker. His heart shot into his throat as he looked into his own eyes, only older. He shot to his feet so fast, bumped the table so hard his empty plate and the silverware on it rattled.

"Dad…" he said helplessly, glancing past him to Trucker, who just gave him a curious look.

"B—"

"Let's talk outside," Priestly cut him off, unable to reconcile the sight of his father standing in Beach City Grill. So that his father couldn't argue, Priestly shoved past the front door and strode rapidly around the corner until he passed the big plate glass windows and stood well back near the dumpsters.

Looking at his father, Priestly was astonished to realize how old the man looked. How tired. He felt the first prickling of something like guilt as he wondered whether it was he who'd caused such aging. He didn't remember his father looking like this, like just a man. But maybe he'd only been kinder in his assessment before. He didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. He just stared at his father and wondered how he'd found him, how he'd known to come to the grill.

"Boaz, what have you done to yourself?" His father finally said, apparently noticing his combat boots, military pants, and his shirt which, ironically enough, read: Jesus is coming. Look busy.

"Priestly," he corrected automatically.

"Boaz," his father repeated harshly.

"Priestly," he said again, softly. But he was no less harsh.

"I'm not calling you that," his father replied with a derisive sneer. His eyes made Priestly want to look away. Hard. Angry. Cold. Demanding.

"You will if you want me to answer," he said, surprised at the calmness in his voice. No quiver. No tremble.

"What do you want me to say?" his father asked. No 'how are you?'. No 'are you alright?'. The guy flew how many miles just to ask what Priestly wanted?

Where do I start? Priestly thought sarcastically. Aloud he asked, "Why are you here?"

"I'm here because your mother cries her eyes out worrying about you because you won't answer your phone and just talk to her. You want to be angry with me, fine. You want to dress yourself up like some sort of punk idiot, you go right ahead. But you better stop taking your anger at me out on her."

Priestly folded his arms across his chest. "Is that it? You flew all the way here to tell me to call Mom?"

"Don't be snide with me, B—″

"Priestly," he corrected flatly. "Let me ask you something. Did you ever stop to think about Holly? Did you bother to go next door and ask her what happened?"

His father's face hardened. "Son," he began, his voice rising, "listen. You—"

"No, you listen. You listen, Dad," Priestly's own voice rose hoarsely as he thrust an accusing finger toward his father. "Did you ever for one second stop to ask yourself what if? What if Priestly's right? What if Holly wasn't the first? What if there are more of them? How many kids has Bennett fucked with, Dad? Have you asked? Do you care?" Priestly took a step closer to him. "Those people depend on you to lead them, to lead the church, to do what's right. They don't come to church to see their kids abused. And what about their faith? Huh? You ever consider what it will do to their faith in God?" Ask me, he added silently. I'll tell you a thing or two.

"Enough!" his father shouted. "I've heard just about enough. Do you have any idea what you've done to Dale Bennett? The man is a public disgrace. He's turned to liquor, he's so devastated by these accusations, he—″

"What I've done? Me?" Priestly shook his head in amazement. "What I did was stop a fucking predator. That's what I did. I saw what I saw," he said, remembering Trucker's words and throwing them at his father. "You don't mistake a man's hand up a little girl's dress," Priestly's voice caught. He blinked back tears. "So the only real question is why the fuck won't you believe your own son over a son of a bitch child molester? And the only answer I can think of is that if you ignore it, you're condoning it, and that makes you just as fucking guilty."

Priestly felt his head snap back as his father's fist crashed into his mouth. He stumbled backward into the building and lost his footing. Clutching his mouth, he righted himself only to get hit again, this time in the nose. This time, he stayed down, leaning against the wall. He saw Trucker move forward from out of nowhere, placing a palm against his father's chest.

"I think you need to listen to what your son is telling you," Trucker was saying, "and I think you need to do it somewhere besides here."

"This is none of your business," his father answered, stepping into Trucker's hand.

"You're making it my business. You keep your hands off my employees and you get your feet off my property or you're going to have to call your friend the deacon to bail you out."

Priestly eased to his feet, swearing as blood dripped down his palm from either his nose or his busted lip. Or maybe both. His father's eyes were full of rage as he turned away, his strides short and fast. He looked down at his feet, clenching his jaw as Trucker's arm came gently around his shoulder.

"C'mon, let's get you a towel…"

Priestly wasn't sure which one of them was shaking. He just let Trucker steer him to the back door of the grill and to the utility sink in the corner, grateful when he said nothing. Trucker just handed him a clean bar towel, gave his shoulder a squeeze, and went back out front to help Jen with the latest wave of customers.