7 – Takin' Off This Pain

I've got a cold beer in my right hand

In my left I got my weddin' band

I've been wearin' it 'round now for way too long

And I'm more than ready to see it gone

And I'm the only one who can set myself free

So I'm takin' off this pain you put on me

It had taken quite a lot of convincing, but finally Travis had assented and let Wes handle the actual wording of their report. It was the least Wes felt he should do after all the hand holding Travis had been giving him since the Night of the Cactus Juice.

Wes laughed. Night of the Cactus Juice. It had been Travis' idea to call it that, like they had lived their own horror movie that night. If it had been left up to him, he'd have called it something closer to the truth. Something like The Night Wes Mitchell kissed a Boy and Liked It. Or The Auspicious Evening Wes Mitchell Sealed His Eternal Doom.

He shook his head and tried to focus on the report that was due in the morning. Travis had insisted on writing a rough draft for his half of the report and Wes had promised he'd do his best to keep true to Travis' notes. Mr. Rejas couldn't hold it against him if he edited Travis' lackadaisical grammar style though, could he? All he'd have to do was show him the handwritten synopsis Marks had handed him that morning, bleeding red ink, to prove his point, but he'd deal with that if it came to it.

A loud banging coming from the front door caused Wes to start. Clicking the save icon, he left his desk to find out who was demanding attention. He always kept the doors locked and it was a minute before he was staring at the odd, suited man on the doorstep.

"Myron Mitchell." It wasn't a question.

"No, sir. I'm his son, can I help you?"

The stiff man nodded once. "Yes. Sign this."

He handed over a clipboard with a piece of paper attached. Wes scanned it, unsure if he should sign it or not. "What's this for?"

He sniffed, and said, "Just record of who the package was left with in case there are any… issues… later on."

Wes looked the man over from beneath his lowered lashes. The guy was uptight and condescending and he didn't like him one bit. People like this never brought good news, and the name of what could only be a law firm – Sawyer, Duke, and Costas – didn't bode well for his father's mood later tonight. However, he was relatively certain he didn't have much choice at the moment but to sign. Taking the proffered pen, he signed, printed, and dated the sheet. In return, he was handed a thick manila envelope addressed to his father.

"See that Mr. Mitchell gets that, would you, son?"

I'm not your son, he wanted to snipe, but he resisted the Travis-like urge to be rude. "Of course, sir."

The runner from the law firm gave another sharp nod before turning and walking away. Wes turned the package over and over in his hands, thinking. What could it be, he wondered idly. Shrugging his curiosity away, he closed the door and left the package on his father's desk, placing it alongside the day's mail delivery.

Returning to his room, he buried himself in his report, package all but forgotten.

His relationship with Travis Marks had altered quite a bit since that night he'd had his breakdown. As much as he'd like to believe to the contrary, they'd grown quite close over the last two weeks. Travis never let a day go by without contacting Wes in some way. Good morning texts, teasing at lunch, instant messaging after dinner, or a good night tweet. He hated to admit it, but he was becoming quite fond of having Travis around, even peripherally.

It also helped keep his mind off the fact that his mother still hadn't returned from her trip to see her sister. Yesterday had been the three week mark since her departure and Wes was beginning to worry. She'd never been gone for more than a day or two, and even then, she called him twice a day to make sure he'd been behaving himself and not antagonizing his father. He hadn't heard a word from her since the night before she left. It scared him.

A witch's cackling drew his attention back to his computer screen. He'd finished up the last of the report half an hour ago and was contemplating dinner for one – again – when the AIM screen popped up. Why it had cackled at him, he wasn't sure, but he guessed that it had Travis written all over it.

blacklinelothario: Hey buttercup, how's my boy tonight?

brainybuttercup: Good. Just finished the final edit on our report, printed it and put it in its folder, as directed.

brainybuttercup: Now thinking about food.

blacklinelothario: Parents not home?

brainybuttercup: No. Mother is still out of town, Father seems to only come home long enough to shower and change and leave again.

blacklinelothario: That's good though, right? He can't hurt you if he's not home.

True, Wes thought. But it wasn't quite the point either.

brainybuttercup: Right. But I'm worried about my mother. She's never, ever been gone this long. And she's definitely not gone so long without calling.

blacklinelothario: Don't worry about her so much. If she's with family, she's fine.

blacklinelothario: I could eat, yanno. Want me to come pick you up?

Now there was a delectable offer. Travis had made a similar proposition a few nights ago and, instead of the promised cheeseburger, he'd found himself flat on his back in the park with Marks' tongue down his throat. Vastly more satisfying, if you asked Wes. Kissing a beautiful man under the moonlight…

He was deciding how to form his response when he heard his name being bellowed from the living room. Oh no, he worried. The sound of his father's voice this early in the evening wasn't a good sign.

brainybuttercup: Trav, I can't – my father just arrived home and I don't think he's very happy. I'll talk to you tomorrow.

"WESLEY, god damnit, answer me!"

blacklinelothario: If you need me, call me. Please.

brainybuttercup: I will. I have to go. Now.

His bedroom door was thrown open before he could respond. Myron Mitchell filled the doorway, anger and hatred rolling off him in waves. "Why. The. Fuck. Didn't. You. Answer. Me?"

"I'm – I'm sorry, father, I was…" He motioned vaguely to the computer.

He realized his mistake as soon as he'd made it. Wes hadn't been able to get his laptop closed before his father had entered, Travis' IM still open on the screen. I'll be there in a hot minute, all you have to do is say the word, baby. Good god. Baby. Why did Travis always have to use so many endearments?

"You were just what, exactly, Wesley?"

blacklinelothario: Baby? Wes? You still there?

Myron stalked towards Wes, meaty hands balled into furious fists. Glancing at the screen, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. With a rough shove, he pushed Wes from behind the desk. He leaned in for a closer look at just what his son was engaging in during his free time.

Wes looked up from where he'd fallen, watched as his father's lips pressed together in a tight line. His nostrils flared, his fingers clenched, unclenched, and re-clenched in a never ending cycle. All the signs of imminent rage were there, waiting, brewing.

Travis Marks, you've done it now. You're going to have a whole lot to kiss better this time. The notion of the older boy caressing away all his hurt and pain, tending his bruises and scrapes, was the only thing keeping him steady, containing the threat of tears. He knew that tonight, he was going to receive one hell of a beating. And all because of that one word. Baby.

"Baby?" Myron growled, turning from the computer to his son. "Who is this punk that he dares to call you baby?" He strode towards Wes, towering over the boy's cowering form on the floor. "I thought we'd fixed this problem after the last time? No? Well then, I suppose I'm going to have to teach you yet another lesson, you worthless little pansy. And since your mother isn't home to stop me this time, I'll be able to fully express my displeasure at your continual disobedience."

He unbuckled his belt, pulling the thick leather from the loops of his dress slacks. Myron studied it for a moment and then threw it onto the desk. "No, I think I'll use my hands tonight. Makes it more personal you see, and maybe, just maybe you might get it this time." He looked down at the boy on the floor, at the tears streaking his pale face, blue eyes wide in anticipation of what was to come. "I'm so excited, Wesley, to have this moment to teach you a hard truth and do you know why? It's because your mother isn't home to interrupt and thankfully, she won't be home again, ever."

What? Panic rose in Wes' throat, terrified of what his father might really mean.

"Oh, I see the confusion on your face. You didn't know, did you? Your precious mommy didn't tell you that she was leaving you behind, did she? No, of course she didn't because she knew her wretched little girly boy would cry and beg her to take him along." Myron paced, giant hands wringing. "You see, Wesley, she didn't want either of us it seems. That package you signed for? They're divorce papers. Your mother has flown the coop and run back home to her mommy and isn't ever coming back. Not for me and certainly not for you. From now on, it's just you… and me."

Normally, in the moments before a beating, Wes' father would rage at him, screaming and spitting, wielding angry words like a weapon. Working up to the main event. But tonight was different. An eerie calm had settled over Myron Mitchell after the revelation of his wife's betrayal and that frightened Wes to the core.

My god, he's going to kill me.

Travis paced the length of his room. Wes hadn't responded to his IM's, but he figured he couldn't, not once his father had come home. But when Wes didn't respond to his texts, he began to worry. He always found a way to let Travis know he was okay – even if it was just a smiley face texted on the sly. This was unlike him.

"Travis, baby, please stop pacing."

He looked up to find his current foster mother frowning at him from the doorway. "Sorry Maria – Mama." Travis tried to sit, but couldn't help the fidgeting.

She came into the room and sat beside him on the bed. Taking his hand, she gave him an up close once over. "Are you okay? There's something bothering you, I can tell." She'd always been good at that, it was one of the things that made her good at what she did. Both as a nurse and a foster parent. She actually cared and that was rare. "Talk to me."

He looked everywhere but at her for a few moments, taking the time to gather his thoughts. "You remember me telling you about Wes, right?"

"The adorable little blonde you've got the thing for? Yes."

Travis felt the blush steal up his neck at her words. He did have a thing for blondie, but to hear the words out in the open like that, well, it was too much. "Yeah, him," he confessed. "I'm worried about him. He won't answer my texts and he always does."

"Could he be busy? Sleeping? I hate playing devil's advocate, but I can't let you run off half-cocked and start trouble, either." She gave him a stern look. "If there is one thing you're good at, Travis, it's causing drama."

He shook his head slowly. "Could be, but Mama, his dad came home while we were talking… he was angry and…" Travis couldn't find the words.

"His dad, he's not a nice man, I'm guessing?"

He was half relieved that she was so intuitive, but the look on her face at the realization hurt him. All he could do was shake his head.

"Do you have his home number?" Travis nodded. "Have you tried it?"

"Yeah, no answer there, either. Mama, I'm scared. His dad is nasty."

"Well," she said, standing and bracing her hands on her round hips, "that leaves us only one option as concerned citizens."

Travis looked up hopefully. "We're going to check on him?"

"Damn right we're going to check on him. No one messes with my children or their friends."

This was but one of many, many reasons why Travis loved that woman so much.

It took entirely too much time to drive those few miles to Wes' home. During the six minute drive, he fidgeted, buckled and unbuckled his seatbelt and changed the radio station eighteen times.

"Travis. Stop it."

"I'm sorry. I…"

"I know, honey, but I need you to focus and tell me which house is his."

Travis looked up surprised at how they'd gotten here without him realizing it. "That one, the beige one. Number 1372." He pointed at the building in question, just to make sure she understood.

Maria pulled into the drive and shut off the car. "It looks like no one is home."

Travis shook his head. "Wes has to be here. His father's been ignoring him since his mother left on a trip, there's no way he'd take Wes with him anywhere. I swear it, Mama."

She nodded and let herself out of the small Toyota. "Okay then, go knock."

Travis raced to the front door, knocking loudly. "Wes? Wes, you in there?" He pounded again, frantic. "WES!"

Frustrated at the lack of response, he jiggled the door knob, finding it locked. He gave it a sound jerk before releasing the knob to search his pants pocket. With a wicked cackle he found what he was looking for. He gave the pick a cursory glance before going to work on the lock.

"Travis Elton Marks, just what do you think you're doing?"

He'd scandalized his foster mother, apparently. "Picking the lock," he commented without looking up.

"You said you'd given that up," she accused.

Busted. "Uh, I have?" He gave her a fleeting look over his shoulder before focusing back on the barrier keeping him from Wes. "But can we fight about this later? I figure breaking and entering is worth the jail time in this case."

She showed her agreement by not responding and letting him work. It took four minutes longer than it should have, but Travis was out of practice. He had given up the petty burglary that had gotten him booted out of his last foster home after all. Mostly. The lock gave up and Travis whooped in glee, ignoring the dour look his foster mother shot him. Opening the door, he rushed inside.

"Wes!" Travis heard a groan coming from his left. He rushed down the hall and stopped dead in his tracks.

"Oh my god," he heard his foster mother gasp from behind him, then the sound of a phone being dialed.

Travis knew Wes was in trouble if his foster mother – a nurse – was that taken aback. But it didn't take a nurse to see he was in bad shape. The half of his face that Travis could see was covered in blood. His bottom lip was split and bleeding, his eye red and swollen – it'd be black and ugly before long. Spatters of blood speckled his beautiful blonde hair, giving it a creepy sort of reddish highlight. Both arms, bruised and scraped, wrapped tightly around his midsection.

"An ambulance is on the way." Maria's voice brought him back into reality. He nodded but couldn't take his eyes off Wes. "Go, wait for them at the front, I'll do what I can to help him until they get here."

Numb, Travis did as he was told.

Travis watched in silence as the paramedics loaded Wes into the ambulance. They'd given him about fourteen seconds to tell him good-bye before they wheeled him off, but it was enough. Just barely enough time to see that Wes was alive and kicking. He'd gotten a flicker of blue eyes and the lamest attempt at a smile he'd ever seen, but it gave him hope. Hope that Wes was going to make it through this somehow. "Hang in there, buttercup, you're going to be okay."

"If you say so," he managed. Or close to it.

He did say so. It was his mission to make sure that he was okay eventually. They took Wes away and Travis was left standing. A touch on his shoulder reminded him that he wasn't alone. Turning, he found his foster mother with her arms outstretched, offering him the comfort he so badly needed.

"He'll be okay, baby. He's in good hands now."

Travis nodded into her shoulder, unable to do more than silently agree.

Light stung his eyes. Voices battered his ears, too much noise for his brain to process.

"Wesley," he heard over and over. "Can you blink your eyes, Wesley?"

He blinked. Or he thought he did. He must've blinked because the request stopped. A tall, shadowed figure moved into his line of sight. Sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Wesley? I'm Officer Monroe. I know you're not feeling too hot right now, so I'll keep this short, okay? After speaking with your friends…" he checked his notepad before continuing, "Maria Escalante and Travis Marks, we've picked up your father and are holding him downtown. Can you tell us how to get in touch with your mother?"

He thought he shook his head 'no', but he couldn't be certain. Wes felt like he was floating just above his battered body, not quite connected to it any longer. The errant realization that pain killers were not nearly as much fun as hallucinogenic cactus juice flitted through his brain, bringing the idea of a smile to his face.

"I was afraid of that. You can confirm that her name is Marilyn Mitchell?" The semblance of a nod was enough. "Okay, thank you. I'll look into finding a number for her…"

"Dora," he wheezed.

"I'm sorry?" Officer Monroe leaned closer. "Dora?"

Wes gave a slight nod. "Dora… Winston. My… my aunt. She's there… in Connecticut."

That made more sense. "Thank you, young man. You're a tough kid and I think you're going to be okay." The officer gave his hand a squeeze before standing.

Leaving him alone. Again.