A/N: Oi. For some reason, this storyline grew from a cute, serendipitous little Halloween tale...into an explation of Terry's absence from D2, and Jesse's absence from D3. ::shakes head:: I'm addicted to epics.
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Inspirations: Someone accusing someone else of being a 'bog-eyed polecat' / An urban legend / Is the glass half full, or half empty? - phrase or outlook on life
****
"Giving, Part Four"
The six boys were arranged around the living room in piles of blankets and spread-out sleeping bags. Marcus was holding a flashlight beneath his chin, the beam of light throwing eerie shadows onto his face as he finished in an ominous tone,
"So, dude drives his girl home, r'memberin' the report 'bout the escaped murderer. When he got to the girl's house, he went aroun' the car to let his girlfriend out. And he found a hook, just like the hook the murderer was s'posta have 'stead of a hand, hanging on the handle!"
"Aww, that's not so scary," Josh put in. "It didn't really happen."
"Did so!" Marcus protested.
"If you think it isn't scary, Josh, how about /you/ tell a scary story?" Jesse suggested, glaring at the boy. His expression was unseen in the dark, as was the fact that he was leaning against Fulton with Fulton's arm draped over his shoulders.
Josh was replying, "All right, I will!" when the muted smash of something breaking upstairs interrupted him.
Terry's friends all looked to the stairs, and Sammy whispered, "Wha...what was that?"
"Oh, uhm..." Terry stammered, "My...my mom's a little clumsy. She pro...probably knocked down one of the...flowerpots."
A much louder sound, of something solid hitting a wall, refuted this excuse. Jesse corrected his brother bluntly,
"The parents are fighting."
Terry cringed and picked up the flashlight, shining it on his friends. They were staring at him. "Yeah..." he said softly, agreeing sadly, "They sound like they're fighting. Sorry you have to hear this, guys."
Apparently, neither Mr. nor Mrs. Hall cared whether the boys heard them. Mrs. Hall could be heard screaming something along the lines of 'You bog-eyed polecat! You slimy weasel! Dirty rat!' and throwing things while Mr. Hall cursed and stomped and shouted things more like,
"Don't you accuse me! This is your fault, you cold, ugly, stupid bitch!"
Terry kept mumbling, "I'm sorry, I'm really sorry," as his friends remained uncomfortably silent. The flashlight beam illuminated a triangular patch of carpet near Terry's hand, forgotten. Jesse suddenly felt Fulton's arm tighten around him, felt Fulton's lips press to his neck, to his cheek. And Fulton whispered,
"I'm sorry, Jess."
****
It was nearly one in the morning when silence fell on the Hall household again. Sammy, Josh, and Marcus had fallen asleep half an hour before, heads beneath their pillows in mimicry of Terry. Terry, though, was still awake, and Jesse could hear him crying very, very softly.
He was awake, as was Fulton. They sat close together in the kitchen, at the table, with a mismatched pair of clear plastic cups between them. Cold water beaded the sides of the cups, sliding down to form a ring of moisture at each base. He and Fulton sat beside each other, holding hands and not looking at each other.
"It was bad tonight." Jesse whispered.
"So this isn't normally what..."
Jesse laughed bitterly, "This is normal. The fighting...it's normal. But tonight was louder than usual, and it lasted longer than usual, too." He sighed, "I just...hoped...that they'd not...not /do/ this...not tonight."
They became quiet. A clock in the living room was heard ticking, in a manner that seemed far too loud.
Fulton leaned in and took hold of Jesse around the waist. "I love you," he whispered in a voice barely more than a breath, "I love you, Jesse."
"Is that enough?" Jesse wondered. "Is it really enough? They," and by the bitterness and anger in his tone, Fulton knew that Jesse was talking about his parents, "must have loved each other. Before. And now, they /hate/ each other."
Fulton sighed. "I won't tell you that it's going to be okay, because it might not be. Not between your parents, and not always between us. But we...we can try." He kissed Jesse's lips lightly. "They might have stopped trying to make it work, but I promise, /promise/ you...I won't. I won't ever stop loving you, and I won't even if you forget that I do."
"Damn," Jesse swore, but smiled, saying, "we're a coupla pessimists, aren't we?"
"The glass is not half full," Fulton intoned solemnly, "and the glass is not half empty. The glass is fucking broken, and we're stepping on the pieces, Jess."
"Hmm..." Jesse mused, "So that's why it hurts so much." His expression turned mischievious as he carded his fingers through Fulton's hair. "Kiss me an' make it better?" he suggested in a baby-voice.
Fulton grinned in response. "Gonna take a lot of kisses."
"Oh, /good./"
END PART FOUR
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Inspirations: Someone accusing someone else of being a 'bog-eyed polecat' / An urban legend / Is the glass half full, or half empty? - phrase or outlook on life
****
"Giving, Part Four"
The six boys were arranged around the living room in piles of blankets and spread-out sleeping bags. Marcus was holding a flashlight beneath his chin, the beam of light throwing eerie shadows onto his face as he finished in an ominous tone,
"So, dude drives his girl home, r'memberin' the report 'bout the escaped murderer. When he got to the girl's house, he went aroun' the car to let his girlfriend out. And he found a hook, just like the hook the murderer was s'posta have 'stead of a hand, hanging on the handle!"
"Aww, that's not so scary," Josh put in. "It didn't really happen."
"Did so!" Marcus protested.
"If you think it isn't scary, Josh, how about /you/ tell a scary story?" Jesse suggested, glaring at the boy. His expression was unseen in the dark, as was the fact that he was leaning against Fulton with Fulton's arm draped over his shoulders.
Josh was replying, "All right, I will!" when the muted smash of something breaking upstairs interrupted him.
Terry's friends all looked to the stairs, and Sammy whispered, "Wha...what was that?"
"Oh, uhm..." Terry stammered, "My...my mom's a little clumsy. She pro...probably knocked down one of the...flowerpots."
A much louder sound, of something solid hitting a wall, refuted this excuse. Jesse corrected his brother bluntly,
"The parents are fighting."
Terry cringed and picked up the flashlight, shining it on his friends. They were staring at him. "Yeah..." he said softly, agreeing sadly, "They sound like they're fighting. Sorry you have to hear this, guys."
Apparently, neither Mr. nor Mrs. Hall cared whether the boys heard them. Mrs. Hall could be heard screaming something along the lines of 'You bog-eyed polecat! You slimy weasel! Dirty rat!' and throwing things while Mr. Hall cursed and stomped and shouted things more like,
"Don't you accuse me! This is your fault, you cold, ugly, stupid bitch!"
Terry kept mumbling, "I'm sorry, I'm really sorry," as his friends remained uncomfortably silent. The flashlight beam illuminated a triangular patch of carpet near Terry's hand, forgotten. Jesse suddenly felt Fulton's arm tighten around him, felt Fulton's lips press to his neck, to his cheek. And Fulton whispered,
"I'm sorry, Jess."
****
It was nearly one in the morning when silence fell on the Hall household again. Sammy, Josh, and Marcus had fallen asleep half an hour before, heads beneath their pillows in mimicry of Terry. Terry, though, was still awake, and Jesse could hear him crying very, very softly.
He was awake, as was Fulton. They sat close together in the kitchen, at the table, with a mismatched pair of clear plastic cups between them. Cold water beaded the sides of the cups, sliding down to form a ring of moisture at each base. He and Fulton sat beside each other, holding hands and not looking at each other.
"It was bad tonight." Jesse whispered.
"So this isn't normally what..."
Jesse laughed bitterly, "This is normal. The fighting...it's normal. But tonight was louder than usual, and it lasted longer than usual, too." He sighed, "I just...hoped...that they'd not...not /do/ this...not tonight."
They became quiet. A clock in the living room was heard ticking, in a manner that seemed far too loud.
Fulton leaned in and took hold of Jesse around the waist. "I love you," he whispered in a voice barely more than a breath, "I love you, Jesse."
"Is that enough?" Jesse wondered. "Is it really enough? They," and by the bitterness and anger in his tone, Fulton knew that Jesse was talking about his parents, "must have loved each other. Before. And now, they /hate/ each other."
Fulton sighed. "I won't tell you that it's going to be okay, because it might not be. Not between your parents, and not always between us. But we...we can try." He kissed Jesse's lips lightly. "They might have stopped trying to make it work, but I promise, /promise/ you...I won't. I won't ever stop loving you, and I won't even if you forget that I do."
"Damn," Jesse swore, but smiled, saying, "we're a coupla pessimists, aren't we?"
"The glass is not half full," Fulton intoned solemnly, "and the glass is not half empty. The glass is fucking broken, and we're stepping on the pieces, Jess."
"Hmm..." Jesse mused, "So that's why it hurts so much." His expression turned mischievious as he carded his fingers through Fulton's hair. "Kiss me an' make it better?" he suggested in a baby-voice.
Fulton grinned in response. "Gonna take a lot of kisses."
"Oh, /good./"
END PART FOUR