Mama Bear by Emachinescat

A Trollhunters Fan-Fiction

Summary: After Jim's fight with Draal, his mom sees his bruises, and Mama Bear is unleashed. Post-Win, Lose, or Draal.

A/N: This fic was inspired by what Barbara said in 1x13 about Jim coming home from school covered in bruises. As is my way, I took the idea and ran with it. Originally written for Whumptober 2021 Day 3: "Who Did This to You?"

Enjoy!

Barbara Lake had always considered herself incredibly lucky that her son turned out as well as he did. It wasn't her own doing, she was sure of that – she always did the best she could, but being a single mom meant she'd had to work extra shifts to support her small family and never felt like she was there enough.

No, Jim was just a really good kid.

Not many moms could boast that their sixteen-year-old son could cook better than they could, let alone that they made gourmet lunches and dinners (and breakfasts, on most weekends), not just willingly, but happily. And not many moms could brag that their sixteen-year-old son did the dishes or kept the house clean or put aside his own wants and dreams to take care of his overworked mother. Who got up early to leave flowers on their bedside table after a long night at work, or who tucked them in after they fell asleep on top of the covers, still in their scrubs, because they'd been too exhausted to do anything else.

Barbara tried not to brag too much about Jim. She knew that he did have a social life of his own, and as far as she could tell, he was fairly well liked at school and she didn't want to embarrass him if any of his friends found out just how much he doted on his mother. But sometimes she couldn't help it, and she'd find herself rambling to her beautician or the nurses at the hospital or sometimes even a long-suffering patient about how her son was one-of-a-kind. He didn't get into trouble at school, didn't fight, didn't skip school, and almost never missed curfew.

Until one day, he did.

It wasn't even like it was a gradual change. There was no slow fade. She didn't watch him slowly descend into bad grades or late nights or midnight calls about museum break-ins. There were no signs. He went to bed one day, the same as ever, and then suddenly he was getting into trouble at school, getting into fist fights, missing curfew, breaking into museums in the dead of night. Not only that but his grades – which had always been slightly higher than average – had plummeted, and he'd developed dark circles under his eyes like he never slept and sometimes he moved around like he was an eighty-year-old man and though his good nature and kind heart remained, it seemed strained at times. He still did sweet things for her, but not as often.

At first, she'd thought he was burning the proverbial candle at both ends and his lack of sleep was taking a toll on his mental and physical health. As a doctor, she'd seen firsthand what lack of sleep could do to a person. Their entire personality would change, or fizzle out, and their judgment would be severely impaired.

But then she'd seen the bruises and her sleep-loss theory flew out of the window.

Two weeks ago

Barbara thought boundaries and independence were a valuable part of a child's development, so she always knocked before she entered Jim's room. Of course, if he were gone, she wouldn't bother.

On this particular day – one of her rare days off – she was sure he wasn't home. She hadn't heard him come in, hadn't seen his bike propped up against the side of the house or in the garage. The container of store-bought chocolate chip cookies (she had neither the time nor skill to bake them herself) she'd left out for him hadn't been touched. For all appearances, Jim hadn't gotten home from school yet.

And so, she didn't knock as she approached his bedroom door with a laundry basket propped on her hip. Jim always did his own laundry, but she'd seen how tired and overworked he'd been lately and wanted to ease his burden however she could.

The sight that greeted her when she nudged open the door and flipped on the light was one that would stick with her, tattooed onto her mind's eye, for the rest of her life.

Jim was asleep on top of his unmade bed. It looked like he'd gotten halfway undressed and then decided to forgo comfort for sleep, and lay on his stomach in only his jeans. One shoe was on, the other halfway under the bed. But what arrested her attention so violently was the great rainbow of bruises arching across his back and stretched around his side, disappearing beneath his stomach where he lay on the bed.

She couldn't help herself. A horrified shriek escaped her, and Jim sprung up so quickly it made her head spin. The panicked look in his eyes did not escape her notice, nor did the way he made a desperate reach for his pocket, like he was trying to grab something – trying to defend himself? When he saw who was in his room, and that they were alone, and that there was no danger, the raw fear faded, though a hint of panic remained.

"Mom!" he squawked, crossing his arms across his chest like that would be enough to hide the dizzying array of green, purple, yellow, and black that blanketed his chest. She noticed with surprise the lean muscles of his arms. Jim had always been fit, but never strong. He'd never said anything about a gym and he'd never been serious about sports, but she filed this information away for later and focused on the problem at hand.

Her stomach twisted as her doctor's eyes traveled slowly, deliberately down her son's bare torso. The bruises were worse on his stomach and chest, something she hadn't thought possible, and she realized with horror that some of them were days, maybe weeks, older than others. This – whatever this was – was not an isolated incident.

Rage like she'd never felt before, like the protective energy of all mothers who had come before her collected into one finely-honed sword, pierced her soul as she came to the only conclusion that made any logical sense: Someone had done this to her son.

When she spoke, she barely recognized her own voice, cold as the furthest depth of the ocean, shaking with unmitigated fury.

"Who did this to you?"

Jim's answer didn't surprise her, but she also didn't believe it for a second. "No one. It… was an accident." She watched, lips crammed together in an impossibly thin line, teeth grinding against one another, her hands trembling with a righteous anger she had no outlet for, as Jim slowly reached out for the shirt he'd left in a heap at the end of the bed, the other arm still wrapped protectively around his torso. She didn't stop him. She would absolutely be examining his injuries fully before the evening was done, but for now, she'd seen enough. The sight of her son's bruised flesh would burn in her memory forever, more clearly than when she saw it right in front of her.

Skittishly, like a cat caught sniffing around back alley garbage cans, he snatched up the shirt and swiftly pulled it over his head. He couldn't hide the flinch as he raised his arms to pull the fabric over his head. As he did so, she got the full view of his torso, and the wild, impossible thought flitted through her mind that it almost looked like some giant hand had wrapped around his body and squeezed. The image, however nonsensical, sent waves of nausea crashing through her. Her anger swelled again, and the crest of it burst forth, no longer containable, and the only person she could release it on was the one who was actively lying to her.

"James Lake, Jr. – do you think I'm an idiot?!"

Jim froze, his hands stilling completely as he adjusted the neck of his tee. He had never heard his mother direct such cold fury at anyone, let alone himself. "W-what? Of course not, Mom. I just–"

"You expect me to believe that you accidentally hurt yourself this badly? That you woke up one morning and you were covered in bruises? Jim, I'm a doctor. I see people come in for less than this. I wouldn't be surprised if you have fractured ribs." Now the anger was giving way to panic. "And don't think that I haven't noticed that some bruises are newer than others. This isn't something that just 'happened' and it's not an accident. So tell me. Who – the – hell – did this to my son?"

A small, ridiculous surge of satisfaction bubbled up inside of her as she watched Jim's mouth fall open. He'd never heard his mother utter a word stronger than darn before. She'd always been very careful about the language she used in front of him. But his condition released something feral inside of her, and it was honestly a bit of a shock that nothing stronger came out.

She watched his face, saw the conflict in his eyes, knew with even more surety that he was hiding something big from her and trying to decide if he was going to answer truthfully. Well, tough luck. He wasn't leaving his bedroom until he answered her question.

He must have seen this in her eyes, for after a moment, he dropped his gaze. Heavily, he sat down on the foot of his bed and stared down at his hands. "Mom, I… can't. I just can't. I'm sorry."

At this, the fear took center stage again, and Barbara fell to her knees in front of her son, cupping his face in her hands. The tears she'd been holding back with such determination threatened to fall at the way he unconsciously leaned into her touch. His eyes closed briefly, and for a moment he was a child again, sniffling from a scraped knee and being comforted by his mother. That moment ended all too quickly, because his scraped knee was actually a bruised and battered torso, and he wasn't a child anymore, and he was in trouble.

"Jim. Whatever is going on, I promise, I won't be angry. But someone is hurting you. You can't deny that. What is happening to my son?" She tried not to speculate – dared not speculate – but so many possibilities chased themselves through her head, each one worse than the last. Bullies? Abusive teacher? Drugs?

He sat for a moment, a slumped, defeated statue with too much weight on his young shoulders – Young Atlas, Walter's voice echoed in her mind. She saw the exact moment when he made his decision. He squared his shoulders, set his jaw, and met her eyes once more. Something brewed within those beautiful blue depths, but what it was she couldn't say. Was it regret? Guilt? Fear?

"It really was an accident," he finally said, voice slow and measured.

"Jim, really–!"

"I'm telling the truth, Mom!" he insisted so fervently that she was tempted to believe him. Almost.

"Do you hear how ridiculous you sound?" she demanded. "What kind of 'accident'–"

"A Vespa one," Jim blurted, and his eyes flickered down to his hands in shame. "I… a friend gave me a ride on his Vespa. I was on the back and got thrown off and rolled halfway down the embankment before a tree caught me right in the ribs."

Fresh panic wormed its way into Barbara's mind at Jim's confession. As horrible as it was, part of her desperately wanted to believe him. If he had been in a vehicle accident, then no one had been deliberately hurting her child. It was just his own irresponsibility and stupidity.

"When did this happen?"

A beat. Then, sheepishly, "... yesterday."

But – "What about the older bruises, Jim? Did you get into two Vespa accidents?"

"Paintball," Jim answered without missing a beat. "We had a whole thing a few months back. Guys versus girls. And I got hit. A lot."

Barbara recalled clearly the size and location of the older bruises that had peeked out from underneath the fresh, reaching ones. They could have easily been from punches or kicks, but it was feasible that the bruises could have come from being shot at close-range by a paintball gun.

Deep down, something still nagged at her. But Jim's explanation was a siren's call and she was so tired of swimming.

"Do you promise me you're telling the truth?" The gaze she fixed on him one would have withered a succulent.

Without hesitation, Jim answered, his voice clear, strong, and insistent. "Yes."

Relief flooded through her, and she squashed the last remaining doubts, perhaps a bit too eagerly. "In that case, you are grounded."

Jim's eyes widened. "What, really? You promised you wouldn't be angry!?"

"I'm not angry, I'm disappointed. Let's see, you know how I feel about both paintball and those Vespas and yet you went behind my back and nearly got yourself killed. You've been lying to me, Jim, keeping secrets. Is this why you've not been sleeping? Why you've been so distant?" It didn't explain why he'd been getting into more trouble than usual, but right now she would take what she could get.

The slightest of hesitations. "Yeah."

She considered, eyes burning into him, for a long moment, then she sighed, the sound of every evil thing escaping Pandora's box, and she clapped her hands together briskly. "Okay, come on."

Jim cocked his head to the side. "Where are we going?"

"The hospital."

Jim groaned. "Mom, I'm okay. I'm just bruised."

"I'm not taking any chances, mister. You could have fractured ribs. You should have been rushed to the hospital as soon as the accident happened. Who is this friend, anyway? Why didn't he take you to the E.R.?"

Jim scratched the side of his neck. "You wouldn't know him," he evaded, and Barbara made a promise to herself to revisit this point later. "And we were afraid we'd get into trouble…"

"Well, you did, kiddo. Now, get up. We're going to the hospital, you're getting x-rays, and then we're getting ice cream."

Jim blinked up at her. She wondered if he realized his arm was curled protectively around his ribs as he slowly eased himself off the bed. "Ice cream? I thought I was grounded."

"You're hurt, Jim, and I'm your mother. I'm not a monster." A soft smile pulled at the corners of Jim's mouth at her words, and not wanting him to get too comfortable, she added, "You are grounded, though. Absolutely. You're not going anywhere after school for at least two weeks. And depending on the x-rays, you might not be leaving your bed for a while, either."

"Mooom."

"Don't you 'mom' me. Now, put your other shoe on. Let's hussle. I want you looked at as soon as possible."

What she didn't see as she turned to leave the room was the heavy curtain of guilt being drawn over Jim's face.

Later, she'd drive him home with a diagnosis of two cracked ribs and deep bruising across 80 percent of his torso and a bottle of muscle relaxers for the pain. They'd get ice cream and he would mope about bed rest and she would try to cheer him up (but not too much; he was still grounded, after all). But behind the pain of his injuries lurked a deeper, fiercer ache that no balm could soothe, no medication could ease.

With every lie, he could feel the chasm widen between him and his mother, and it hurt more than a few broken ribs and bruises ever could.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed - I'd love to hear your thoughts! :)

~Emachinescat ^..^