Disclaimer: I do not own The Mentalist or any of the related characters. Any characters you recognise the names of are (C) Bruno Heller and Warner Bros. Any you don't are my own.

A/N: So, Chapter 2 guys, and earlier than I expected. I won't be able to update again for a while as I have important exams coming up that I really need to revise for. But I hope you all enjoy this chapter. Thanks to Janey, MentalistLover and MeggieGirl for reviewing the first chapter and to everyone who added this story to their favourites or story alert list. I appreciate it guys.

Chapter 2: Kimball

Teresa knelt next to the mattress murmuring soothing words to the battered teenage boy as she waited for Madeline and Virgil to return. He seemed so small and vulnerable, though if Madeline's story were true he was far stronger and more determined than he appeared. No matter how many times she heard the stories and saw the results she was amazed by what people, especially kids, could do to each other. This boy was one of many, a victim of teen-gang violence, albeit a determined victim who refused to back down without a fight of his own. She wondered absently if his parents knew he was out, if they were worried about their child. Most of the kids who ended up in the shelter didn't have the luxury of a worrying parent.

She heard her colleagues before she saw them. The rhythmic tap of shoes on the wooden floor alerted her to their approach. Turning her head she saw the two of them approaching with the first aid kit and icepacks in hand. As Teresa went to stand up and take an icepack from Madeline she felt a hand gripping her arm, willing her to stay. She stared the teen whose hand had grabbed her. He was surprisingly strong, especially for someone in his predicament, but it wasn't the strength of the grip that made her stare at him. It was the look in his eyes. Haunted. In pain. Fearful. She knelt back down next to him and took his hand in hers,

"It's okay, buddy." She said softly as she stroked her thumb over his hand, "I'm not going anywhere." His body seemed to relax at the words,

"My name's not buddy." He breathed. Teresa had the feeling that if he weren't so tired and weak he'd be vehemently protesting against her nickname of choice,

"No?" He shook his head, "What is your name then?" The boy went silent and turned his head away. She picked up on the message almost immediately, "Hey, it's okay." She reassured him softly, "We won't call the police or you parents if you don't want us to." Slowly he turned his head back to face her. Their eyes met and, for a moment, she opened all her emotions to him. You and I are the same. We're both hurting. She saw the flicker of recognition cross his eyes, the understanding that she wasn't going to make him do anything he didn't want to,

"Kimball." He murmured. She smiled at him, glad that he was opening up to her, even if it was only a little,

"Nice to meet you, Kimball. I'm Teresa."

Kimball let out a strangled half-whimper and tightened his grip on Teresa's hand as Virgil probed his ribs to check for any signs or serious injury. The sheer willpower and strength of this boy amazed her, any other child would have likely screamed out in pain. She had the first time anything like this had happened to her. After that it had become easier and easier to see it as normal, to feel like her skin and bones were made of steel and not the delicate, easily broken cells that they really were. She froze suddenly, her whole body stiffening in protest at the thought that had crept unwelcomed into her head. Teresa suppressed the urge to ask Kimball any questions and instead continued to stroke her thumb rhythmically over his hand in an attempt to soothe him. Right now they had to concentrate on helping him, not churning up unfavourable memories – there would be plenty of time for that later.

By the time Virgil and Madeline had finished checking him over and patching him up Kimball had begun to look a lot like a patchwork quilt. Bruises and cuts littered his small body, some covered with bandages whilst others were left to the open air, and his clothing was bloodied and torn. Teresa had the feeling that the blood wasn't all his, but she made no comment on the matter. It was too early to be probing the teen for answers on that subject,

"Are you hungry, Kimball?" Madeline asked him with a small smile. Kimball remained silent but gave her a short nod in response, his stomach gurgling quietly as if to emphasise his point,

"We have some soup left over from this morning." Virgil offered. Teresa resisted the urge to make a sarcastic remark about just how much soup they did have left from the older volunteer's earlier cooking session, "I'll go get you a bowl." He picked himself up off the floor and headed for the kitchen leaving the two female volunteers with the teenager, who hadn't spoken since he had told them his name. She wasn't sure why it was that Kimball remained quiet. It wasn't as if she hadn't seen this kind of behaviour before, far from it in fact, Teresa had seen many teenagers scared into silence, or even just refusing to speak to anyone they regarded as a stranger or a threat (or, indeed, both). But somehow that didn't seem to fit here. Perhaps Kimball was just a boy of few words. Whatever the case she was determined to get him to speak more. They would need him to if they were ever going to try and fix the damage that had been done.

Despite his bruised jaw Kimball had no trouble devouring the soup provided for him, and Virgil found himself making another trip to the kitchen for seconds,

"Have you got somewhere to stay?" Teresa questioned gently as Virgil took his empty bowl to wash up. Kimball shook his head. The teenager had still said little beyond his name and a quiet 'Thank you' when presented with his meal. Teresa wasn't sure whether to be worried or just thankful that he had spoken at all. She thought about it for a moment, realising that her concern was misplaced. Some of the children she met hadn't spoken until their sixth or seventh day at the shelter; others had become altogether mute and only related their experiences to the volunteers through writing or drawing. She herself had been something of a selective mute in her early teens. Besides that Kimball's jaw was pretty badly bruised, speaking wasn't going to be an easy or pleasant task, "You can stay here if you like, Kimball. Just pick a mattress and I'll get you a blanket and cushion, okay?" The boy nodded,

"Here." He replied shortly, patting his right hand on the mattress he was sat on. Madeline put a hand on Teresa's arm,

"I'll go get him a blanket and cushion, Teresa." She told her colleague as she got up and headed for the wardrobe where they kept all their spare sheets, blankets and cushions,

"Thanks, Madeline." Teresa replied gratefully as she and Kimball were left alone again.

"Mind if I sit down, Kimball?" She asked, motioning to the mattress on which he was sat. He shook his head. No. Teresa smiled and took a seat next to the teen, wrapping her arms around her knees as she contemplated how to approach talking to him. He watched her intently, his eyes travelling to where her arms hugged her legs. He gave her a questioning look, "Holding my legs like this used to make me feel safe when I was younger." Teresa explained, seeing an opening, a way of starting their conversation, "I think I was thirteen when I first started sitting like this."

"Why?" Kimball asked. The question threw her a little, though it could refer to any part of her previous statements she knew what it was the teen was asking her. Why did you start sitting like that? She tightened her hold on her legs, craving the feeling of safety it brought,

"Someone beat me." She replied, surprising herself with just how calmly the words came out, "I was scared, so I curled up and I held my legs like this and I realised that it made me feel safer." Though he said nothing Teresa could see by his face that Kimball understood, at least in part,

"Who?" She flinched at the question. Her past had never been a good topic with her, even when that past had been her present. She had never been good at talking things through, but right now she knew that it was the only way to get Kimball to feel more comfortable about opening up to her,

"Someone I knew." She replied, hoping that the vague answer would satisfy the teen's curiosity. She let out a sigh of relief as he nodded in understanding and fell silent.

For a while the silence lingered as if the weight of her admission had scared away all voices. Eventually, feeling uneasy at the lack of sound, Teresa spoke,

"So, you don't like hospitals?" She asked the teenager sat next to her. He shook his head, but even without the gesture she could tell that he didn't at all. The very mention of the word had him hunching up and stiffening, "I don't blame you. I never liked them either."

"None of us like them." It was the longest utterance Kimball had made since telling her his name,

"Your family?" Teresa questioned, somewhat confused by his response. He shook his head again,

"The gang." He replied. Suddenly everything made sense. The gang violence, the fighting back, the pure strength and willpower, his hatred of hospitals. It all slotted into place. Kimball was a gang member.

So, did you guess that it was Kimball? Who do you reckon is going to turn up next?

If you spot any mistakes let me know. Reviews and crits are welcomed with open arms, I'd love to know what you think.

Afroza-IX