A/N: Idea and Title taken from the TV show "The shield"
A/N : Lyrics in bold are an Alternate version of song "The Angle" From the band "The core"
"Lead me to the angle of your fight,
Let me see from there,
Lead me to the angle and I'll try,
To see your world from here"
Flash back...
Like always, he glad he's seen him. Dressed to the nines as usual. He had to stop himself from smiling in appreciation. To think he was about to call him "Tromboner" when he saw the bruise on his face. Who did it? He asks. He wants to find them. But as soon as Eric starts to explain he starts tearing up. He feels like shit, watching him crumble like this. Without thinking, he pulls his slim frame in towards him, and kisses him on the forehead.
"I'm not gonna let anyone touch you again" Adam promises.
"Fuck it's not like you to make dramatic promises...that you can't keep!" Eric smiles a little sniffing through his tears.
"I mean it" He pulls apart from him gently, and kisses him on the cheek. He frowns when he thinks he sees Madam. Is his dad walking Madam? Isn't that his dad's jacket? He gently grabs Eric's hand and starts walking him home. Maybe the guilt about the kiss was making him embarrassingly paranoid. Well way back when, he did smoke a lot of weed...
The present day...
He opens his front door and takes his shoes off. Half an hour before curfew. He'd done well. He was going to go upstairs switch on TV and countdown the minutes until Eric called. Who was he kidding really, the second he'd dumped his jacket on the floor, he would scan for Eric's number. He noted that it felt good. Good to feel giddy and skittish and stupid. Good to feel calm and comfortable within his own skin for the first night of his life.
His stomach rumbled. He rubbed it and made his way to the kitchen. He should have stopped off and had dinner with Eric's family. They seemed to like his stunt at the play. They seemed to like his declaration of hand holding. Could they really like him? He turned on the kitchen light and paused when the figure shut the cutlery drawer.
"Dad?"
"Hmmmm..." His father said smiling weakly.
"I can go upstairs..."
"Why?" His dad ponders.
Adam looks at the floor and shrugs in response.
"This is your home. Stay out. Out and proud" Michael groff says, joking without smiling.
Adam is feeling weak, he goes to the living room. Where the fuck is his mum?
Why is she no-where to be seen. He dumps himself on the sofa and starts watching TV. The "Movies for Men" channel. non-stop guns, mafia and tits. He doesn't know what he is watching, some Starsky and Hutch knock-off. Bad actors with horrifying wigs from the eighties. He's shut the door, so hopefully he'll be left alone. Dad's never really wanted to hear him anyway. He wants to see him, and craft him, and mould him, and judge him.
But he's never really wanted to hear him.
Which now comes as quite a relief, as Adam doesn't yet have the words to say...
Two sharp knocks cloud his thoughts and his dad pokes his head shyly through the door. For once, he is ready for the sharp looks the insults and the dry scathing speech of how Adam has fucked up yet again. He grits his teeth and waits for it.
"I've been where you are, you know" Michael whispers, with a heavy sigh.
"Really?" Adam prods.
"Sure. May I come in?" His father asked, morphing his facial muscles into a small smile that is beginning to freak his son out.