Warnings: AU, Child Abuse, Profanity. Eventual Warnings: Slash (Stone Cold Steve Austin/CM Punk), Smut, Age difference.

My parents never liked me very much. I was never sure why, but they just never seemed to care all that much about me. When I was younger, I thought it must be because my brother was the oldest so he was their favourite, or they wanted a daughter or something. I made up a thousand excuses for them, but none of them seemed to be quite right. I always thought they loved me, but they just didn't like me, and I thought that was okay. Parents love their kids, it's what they have to do, but as I got older I began to realise they not only didn't like me, they didn't love me either.

The first paragraph of Phil's journal is as gut wrenching to Steve as he thought it would be. The next several pages are a little catalogue of moments of Phil's very young years where his parents neglected, ignored or otherwise made it clear that Phil wasn't all that important to them. Pages and pages of words that make Steve feel sick to his stomach. Very young Phil sounded like a sweet child, always looking for ways to convince his parents that he was a good person, that there was a reason for them to like him even if they couldn't love him. By Phil's words, it sounds like he gave up trying to convince his parents to love him very quickly. There's a story about how little Phil had been left waiting for hours for his father to come pick him up after a Little League game, left for so long that in the end the couch had taken Phil back to an empty house. It'd turned out that his parents had taken his brother out to celebrate some good test result and forgotten their younger son entirely. These little tales of young Phil make Steve throat burn with bile, but he knows he has to keep reading. He put off reading this journal so long, until after the New Year had started. Every night he'd sat and stared at the journal, hoping that somehow, he'd manage to pick it up and start reading, but he could never manage it. So he'd started at midnight on January first, his New Year's resolution being to finish this thick little book.

The first time I met Scott, I was pretty convinced I'd hate him. He's a couple of months younger than me, and one of those typical overly sporty kids, all loud energy and no coordination, but we clicked. I don't know why, but from the first day we spoke we bonded, we became good friends. It was the day before his Bar Mitzvah that my dad hit me for the first time. I don't know what I did or didn't do to deserve it, but he smacked me. There was this huge bruise on my face, and I didn't know what to do. I remember standing there, staring at the empty beer cans on the floor not knowing what the hell I was supposed to do. My face was on fire, it hurt, but I couldn't cry because I was too shocked. I remember my dad just looked at me like he'd never seen me before, like he had no idea what to do either. My mom came in after a few seconds, and he told her to get him another beer. I left. I went to my room, and I sat on my bed and I didn't move for hours. No one came, no one cared. He never apologised, he just hit me more often. I didn't go to Scott's Bar Mitzvah, the bruise on my face was too big to go out in public with. He didn't talk to me all weekend. The next Monday at school, he made me come to his place so his mom could put some lotion on the bruise. They asked me a thousand questions, but I didn't have any answers, I didn't know anything, I still don't.

Steve drops the book, and takes a deep breath in through his nose, exhaling it slowly, trying to keep his temper in check, but it's futile. Rage is boiling in his gut; righteous fury fills his veins with fire. He has no idea how someone could hit Phil, no idea how someone could justify beating a child, any child, but one as sweet, and gentle as Phil, there's no way to ever make that reasonable. Somehow these awful people managed to create someone as good as Phil, and they seemed to have made it their life's mission to destroy the goodness in him. Steve stands, and clumps down stairs, leaving the journal on the bed, and starts making some coffee. Hershey pads into the kitchen, and looks at him.

"What is it?" He sounds wrong, and she slumps to the floor, looking at him with big sad brown eyes. Steve sighs and walks over to her, ruffling her fur. "C'mon, Wonder Dog, come up and keep your Pa company tonight." Her tail thumps once against the floor, and Steve snags the coffee pot, a cup and some cookies, dog and people, before making the trek back to his bedroom, Hershey on his heels.

I don't think I meant to get a boyfriend. I'd always known that girls weren't really my thing, as we got older Scott got more interested in boobies, but I never did. I'd go watch football practice, and the other guys were there to check out the cheerleaders, but I was there for a different reason. He was tall, muscular, strong, and when he spoke to me it was like I was important, even if it was only for a few seconds, even if it was just to joke that I should tryout, I felt like I was the centre of his World. I knew I was too young, I mean I was a fourteen-year-old kid, and he was married, he was a teacher, but I had the biggest crush on Coach Cena. He was this clean-cut, All-American guy. He looked like he'd just stepped straight out of a G.I. Joe comic, and I'd sit on the bleachers watching him, drawing the perfect lines of his body, knowing I was doing something horribly wrong. It was then that I met my boyfriend. He was everything Coach Cena was, but younger, and more... Well, everything Coach Cena wasn't. He was two years older than me, and the first thing he did was threaten to beat me up. I've been beaten up for years in the halls, and my dad, at that stage, had been using me as a punching bag for months, I wasn't afraid of violence. When he realised that, he changed, he looked at me completely differently. I don't think I was in love, but I felt something with him, I felt different, not relaxed or happy, but not the same as I usually did. The first time he kissed me was in a shitty little movie theatre. He'd taken me to see some old black and white horror movie for my birthday, that he gave zero fucks about but I wanted to see, and he sat there the whole time eating popcorn and drinking a soda. Half-way through he went to the toilet, and some guy came over to me, sat in the chair beside me, and when he came back, Randy sat down on my other side, and kissed me. It was my first kiss, and it'd been all about territorial pissing. The guy left, and Randy kept his arm around me for the rest of the movie. I didn't want to bring it up, but he did. After the movie he took me out to eat, and he told me he liked me, liked me-liked me, and I didn't know what to say. I just nodded, and when he asked me to be his boyfriend, I agreed. He was handsome and all that, but he didn't really do it for me, he wasn't really my type... He was too... I don't know, I wanted someone to look after me, and I knew Randy never would. I wanted a hero; I wanted someone to save me, and that would never be Randy. Despite just turning fifteen, I knew that this guy wasn't the one for me, and I knew I wasn't the one for him. Randy was a boy... I never wanted a boy, I might be gay, but I don't want a boy.

Phil's first boyfriend. Steve sighs, sips at his coffee again. The first thing this journal revealed to Steve was that Phil's parents didn't love him, then that his father beat him, and now that Phil's gay. He's not sure how to handle this. When he gets home should he stop touching Phil all together, should he make the lines clearer, should he stress he's straight, should he stop assuming that just because Phil's gay he's going to try and hit on Steve? Phil is part of Steve's family now, he's not going to treat him any differently, and he's not going to think on the memory that keeps fighting for his attention, his cheek tingling with the whisper of Phil's lips.

I wasn't sure at first how my parents found out, but I knew something was wrong when I got home one night near Halloween. They were sitting, waiting for me in the living room, their faces blank, and I knew something was wrong. My mom didn't say a word. She just stood and smacked me as hard as she could, then went upstairs. My dad just stared at him, looked at me like I was something he'd just scraped off his shoe. I remember I wanted to run, but I didn't know where to go, I didn't know what to do, what to say, so I stood there, shaking.

"A faggot." I remember the way he said that word, like it was the most disgusting thing ever, like I was the most disgusting thing ever. He didn't say anything else to me, just grabbed my head and slammed it off the wall. I woke up in the basement, naked and cold. There was a chain on my ankle, and it was so heavy. I remember how heavy it was, how cold it was. I remember thinking I was going to die of the cold down there in that basement. I remember thinking I was going to die before I was sixteen, before Christmas even, and there's nothing I could do about it.

Steve slams the book shut, and closes his eyes. He can't keep reading this, he can't. Hershey looks over at him, and he strokes her back once.

"Our Punkster, Hersh... Our poor little Punkster... They hurt him, Baby Girl... No wonder he's so scared, no wonder he's so fucking timid... They fucking chained him up in the basement." There are bitter tears stinging Steve's eyes, and his fists feel itchy. He glares at the book in his lap. He knows he has to keep reading, but he knows there's nothing good left. The brief moments of happiness, the stories with Scott, and the not sisters, they're over. The homestretch of this journal is going to be difficult to read for Steve. Difficult to accept has having happened to a child as sweet and delicate as Phil. The next few pages are filled with beatings. Phil's father was merciless; he beat Phil for hours, left him chained up, naked, with nothing but a bucket, and occasionally some scraps from the dinner table. These pages are hard to read, but the need to know is driving Steve now. The need understand what happened to Phil is all that's motivating him to keep turning the pages, until he comes to place where there's a page missing, ripped out of the book. The page after it is scored out into nothing but a thick black mess, with a few strange marks on it, the paper crinkled slightly, like water had fallen on it and wasn't wiped away quickly enough. In Steve's mind he can see Phil crying as he wrote whatever was on this page, and the thought makes Steve want to weep too. Nothing like any of this is something that should happen to anyone, especially not to Phil. When he's home Steve resolves to wrap Phil up, and hold him close, to tell him that he's loved, that he's precious, that he's safe. If Steve can help it, nothing is ever going to happen to Phil again. He doesn't realise he is crying till Hershey licks his face, and Steve turns to her, and cries against her fur. He's not exactly sure why he's crying, but now that he's started, the tears won't stop. There's still so many pages left in this journal, and he's not sure he can face the darkness that's in them, but this was his Christmas present, Phil's life was a gift, and Steve won't, can't, refuse it.

There was a man with my dad. The first time he just sat on a chair and watching my dad beat me. I couldn't see his face. I couldn't see much of anything, one of my eyes was swollen shut, and there as a bright light in my face, but I knew there was someone else there, I could feel them looking at me. He didn't say anything, didn't do anything that I could see, he just sat and watched me get beaten. When I woke up again, the basement was cold and dark, but there was a blanket over me. A part of me thought it had to have been the man who left it, I was so grateful for it, grateful to that man. The next time my dad came down, the man was with him, and he came over to me. He had a balaclava on his head, I couldn't see his face, but I could see the rest of him. He was a fat little man dressed in sweat pants and some old sweatshirt. He touched my face, and I remember how I wanted to be sick when he touched me. His fingers were cold, and clammy, and my dad was staring at him as he touched me.

"You're sure you wanna do this?" My dad asked him, and the man nodded, then punched me in the stomach. My dad left, the man stayed. I don't know how long he beat on me, but when he was done beating me, he pulled his cock out, and jerked off into my hair. He left after that, and I was sick in the bucket. Time passed strangely in the basement, I never knew if it was day or night, I never knew if anyone was worried about me, I never knew what was happening, what my parents had told people, had told the school. I was alone apart from when my dad came to empty the bucket, or to leave scraps for me, or when the man came. My dad never hit me again, it was always the man. He'd come beat on me, then beat himself off and come in my hair. It happened more times than I could ever remember, more times than I want to remember.

"Faggot, wash the shit off." It was the first time anyone had said anything to me in so long. For so long I was almost convinced I was deaf, I'd talk to myself just to make sure I could still hear, could still talk. I'd ramble for hours just because there was nothing else to do in the dark but shiver and ache. I'd tell myself stories. Stories where beautiful princesses were rescued by handsome princes, stories with happy endings, stories without basements, and pain and no one called anyone else faggot. It's strange but that's the worst. I'd heard it from bullies for so long, but for my own dad to call me it hurt so much more. That day he'd brought me a tub of water and a cloth, and I washed as much of the dried blood and cum off as I could. He had to replace the water three times before I was clean, then he went away, and the man came down to me. He had his cock out and in his hand. I knew what was going to happen, I knew he was going to fuck me, and I knew that once he did I'd lose something of myself. I told myself that I could survive this basement, I could survive everything so long as I got to keep my body, so long as no one violates me, I'll be okay, and the man was going to take that from me. Then there were noises, footsteps on the stairs, shouting, bright lights, a clean blanket wrapped around me, and I had no idea what was happening.

The Police.

It'd taken them months to find me, to finally realise that the story my parents told about me running away was false, that I was there the whole time. I went to hospital, and my sisters would come and visit me, they'd sit and hold my hand, and I couldn't talk to them. I didn't know what to say. I felt like I did that first time my dad hit me, impotent, useless, lost. Scott came most often though, and he'd stare at me, stare like he was trying to work out where he went wrong. He didn't talk, and I didn't talk. He'd stare at me, and I'd stare at the wall beside his head because I couldn't look at him. For weeks that's all we did, until one day he came into the room, and hugged me. I don't think I've ever cried as much or as hard as I did that day. He's the only other person who knows exactly what happened to me, and I made him promise not to tell. He wants to, but I won't let him for fucking stupid reasons... I know it's so fucking stupid, but I love my parents. I know what they did was wrong, but I wasn't what they wanted. They got stuck with me. They didn't ask for me any more than I asked for them. They're not bad people; they just made a bad decision in keeping me. My mom should have aborted me. I understand that, it's okay. They didn't deserve to be stuck with me, and I'm sorry they did.

Steve stares at the words on that page, stares at the complete and utter bullshit Phil had written, and he dives off the bed, lurching for the bathroom, and vomiting in the toilet. How could Phil believe his parents aren't bad people, they were going to let the fat child abuser rape their son, they beat their son, they locked him in a basement, and all of that because he was gay, all of that because Phil wasn't what they wanted. Steve's always thought that Phil was too good to be his parents' child, but now he knows Phil's too good, too precious, too dear for them to have anything to do with him. Steve flushes the toilet and stands, going back to the bedroom, back to the book. There's one last page in it, one last page to read, and he hopes it's something happier.

Steve,

I don't know if you've read the journal... I don't know if I want you to have read it, because once you do you'll give it to Jim, and he'll read it, and he'll know everything. When I came here, I was scared. Every man could be the one in the balaclava, every man I was terrified of, but you didn't frighten me, and you've been far kinder to me than you've had to. You've not only given me a place to hide till things calm down in Chicago, you've given me a place where I feel safe. I don't remember feeling that way before, and I'm grateful to you Steve. You didn't have to do anything for me, and you've done everything... I don't think I can ever repay you, I don't think I can ever explain how much you welcoming me into your home, trusting me, being patient with me, helping me, caring for me means to me. Thank you Steve, thank you so much. In these few months, you've done more for me than you'll ever know.

I'm sorry this wasn't much of a Christmas present. I hope you liked the cookies though.

Phil x

P.S. Please, if you did read this... don't hate me too.

"Jim, It's Steve." He's picked up the phone and has called Jim's number before he's even looked at the time. Five a.m. He'd sat up all night reading Phil's journal, and now he's feeling full of antsy energy. He's wired. What he really wants is to find the pieces of shit who somehow managed to create something as perfect as Phil, and kill them. They've no right to be called Phil's parents, no right to Phil's love.

"Steve? What the hell?" Jim sounds tired and confused, but Steve doesn't care, his hands are trembling, his head feels full of unrealised violence, and he wants to beat those creatures bloody.

"I read his book, Jim... I fucking read what they did to him... What's in that folder you gave me?" Steve snarls, taking up the manila folder and flicking through it, pausing on the medical reports, the long list of injuries Phil had when he was taken out of the basement. "Did they ra-"

"There was no evidence of anal penetration." Jim says calmly, and Steve closes his eyes, trying to summon up the image of his wife to calm him, but she won't come, instead all he can see is how frail Phil is in the medical exam photos, how there are so many bruises on his pale skin, how his long lank hair hangs in his eyes. At Jim's words, something in Steve's chest unravels. No evidence of anal penetration having it confirmed by Jim makes it somehow better, Phil had said he wasn't raped, but having it confirmed is a weight from Steve's shoulders. There have been sexually abused kids at the Ranch before, and it'd been hard to think of them the same as the other kids. He's always felt like he might terrify them. He was always uncomfortable around them, and he doesn't want to be uncomfortable with Phil. He doesn't want anything to change with Phil, their relationship might not be perfect, but it's good, it's growing, developing. Phil's more relaxed around Steve, and he doesn't want to make Phil uncomfortable by being uncomfortable himself. "Steve? You there? Steve!"

"I'm here, Jim... I'm here..." Steve doesn't feel like he's there though, he feels like his heart, his mind is somewhere else, he wants to be gutting those animals who did that to Phil, he wants to render them limb from limb, and then smother Phil in the love and care he needs. "Did... Counselling? Did someone talk to him... Help him?"

"He was in the hospital for months... By the Police reports, he was missing for about two months, they found him just before Christmas." Jim sighs, and Steve closes his eyes. The hat, the hoodie, Steve's willing to bet those were the presents Phil's friends gave him last Christmas. "After that he went from medical to psychological care."

"There's no psych evaluation in this here folder, Jim... How is he?" Steve's voice is rough, the longer the information in Phil's journal is in his head, the more he can feel rage building in him. He wants Phil's parents dead, he wants who ever that fat man was dead after being force-fed his own genitalia. He wants, needs, there to be retribution for Phil's suffering. Two months might not seem long to some people, but it's more than long enough, two seconds would have been too long.

"Steve... They released him, they had doctors working with him as best they could, but he's not talkative... At least not about what mattered, that's why I sent him down to you. I knew you'd get him to open up, and now we have his story in his own words." Jim sighs, and Steve stares at the journal on the bed.

"A statement." Steve says coldly, feeling something bitter in his gut. Jim had sent Phil to him solely to get something out of him, and not for Phil's benefit but for the Police.

"Evidence... They want to put that scum away for a long time, but Phil's still their kid... He still loves them. You have that book... Talk to him, Steve. Get him to give an official statement, so they get the punishment they deserve... Steve, I've seen photos... More photos than are in that folder, and it's just... Phil's a good kid, a damn good kid, and he deserved better." There's a fury in Jim's voice, and Steve can feel it inside himself.

"I'm trying, Jim... I'm trying." Steve mumbles, and closes his eyes. He is trying; he's trying to give Phil what he needs. He's not sure that he's succeeding, but he's trying, and Phil is relaxing, he's getting better, stronger, more the person he should be.

"When he's home, back on the Ranch, talk to him, try to get him to make a statement." Jim sighs, and Steve closes his eyes. He's not looking forward to talking to Phil about this, not looking forward to having to get him to talk about what happened to him, but it has to be done.

"I will." Steve says his goodbyes to Jim, and glances at Hershey. "C'mon, let's go for a run." He can't sleep with Phil's horrors in his head, but he's tired. All night awake reading had tried his body, but not his mind, running will exhaust him so he has no choice but to sleep.

The next few days Steve feels antsy, like he can't settle, so he cleans the house, takes down the Christmas decorations, fusses about on the Ranch, busies himself so that his mind doesn't fixate on that journal. He'd read the folder, and every word in it was so clinical, so detached, the cold hard facts as recorded by people with no idea how precious Phil is, with every word Phil's journal burned in Steve's mind informing those coolly clinical facts. He'd gone back and read the journal again, so many times he'd read it over, and had fixated on the happy stories of Scott and Phil's sisters, the moments of joy in the bleak misery of growing up the way Phil did. Phil's words won't leave him alone, there are so many little phrases that make Steve want to destroy the people who convinced Phil they're true, so many phrases that Steve wants to show are false to Phil.

The day of Phil's return home, sees his flight delayed, and Steve isn't sure what to do but wait in the little airport. He stands, he sits, he wanders around, drinks over priced coffee, walks Hershey outside, and as it gets later and later, he decides to book a room in a nearby motel. It'll be far too late to drive back home by the time Phil's finally home.

Finally, the board announces that Phil's landed, and Steve ambles over to the gate, his stomach filled with a strange wriggling sensation. He's excited, but so very nervous to see Phil again, he's almost afraid that now he knows the truth, he's going to scare Phil away by acting differently, or wrong somehow.

"Hello." Phil's voice comes from behind Steve, and he turns to stare at him for a few seconds before hugging him tightly. Phil tenses up almost immediately, but relaxes far quicker than Steve had expected. It'd been a stupid moment of impulse, but seeing Phil alive and well had overwhelmed any common sense, in Steve mind all he could see was battered, abused Phil, but that's not the Phil in his arms.

"Welcome home, Punkster." Steve squeezes him tightly, and then holds Phil out at arm's length. He looks different. The long dull brown hair is gone, and in its place is a cropped shock of bleached blond. He's gotten taller almost as tall as Steve, but just as thin as ever. "Did they feed you at all?" Steve laughs, and Phil ducks his head, rubbing a hand over his buzz cut hair.

"Yeah... They fed me." He smiles, and looks down at the floor, an odd little frown on his face. He clearly hadn't expected Steve to hug him, hadn't expected to be welcomed home. Don't hate me that little line from Phil's journal has been stuck on loop in Steve's mind, and he can't even fathom being able to hate him, Phil's intrinsically unhateable. If he convinces Phil of nothing but the fact that Steve doesn't and could never hate him, Steve will be happy.

"Miracle-Gro by the look of things." Steve laughs, and takes Phil's bag. "You've gotten even taller... You're gonna have to start eating more cookies. We gotta get some meat on you." Steve starts walking, and Phil jogs to catch-up.

"I'm sorry I'm so late." He mutters, and Steve snorts, glancing over at him.

"Did you delay the plane?" He asks, and Phil shakes his head. "Summon the snow?" Another quick shake and a soft no. "Then you've nothing to apologise for. C'mon, there's someone who's going to be just as happy as I am that your home." Steve knows he placed undue emphasis on home, but he wants Phil to understand that he's home. The Ranch is home for Phil, for as long he needs it. If Phil still needs Steve when Jim comes to take him back to Illinois, Steve isn't letting him go, if Phil needs him, Steve will be there for him.

"Hershey?" Phil sounds completely and utterly overjoyed at the prospect of seeing the dog, and Steve smirks.

"No... The Owl." Phil turns to him at that, a mildly putout but still happy smile on his face. "Of course it's Hershey. I'm sure she knew today was when you were supposed to be home, had me up at the crack of dawn so she did. She's missed you, Punkster... Your bed is gonna smell of dog, I couldn't get her off it long enough to wash the linen, I'm sorry." Steve laughs, and the smile on Phil's face softens, his eyes bright and happy.

"I'm missed her too..." He takes a deep breath and stops walking, looking at Steve with determination in his eyes. "I missed you both very much. I missed..." His determination falters, and Steve smiles slightly, his hand resting on Phil's shoulder. Phil's own hand rests on top of Steve's, and he closes his eyes. "I missed my chickens, I missed the Owl, I missed the sun, I missed making cookies, I missed falling asleep to the radio and Hershey snoring, I missed fishing, I missed home... I missed you." The words come tumbling out of Phil's mouth, and Steve steps closer to him, letting Phil hug him tightly, his face pressed against Steve's shirt. It's one of those moments where Steve would usually wish his wife were there for, that she was the one gently patting backs, and stroking close-cropped hair, but as he stands there holding Phil, he doesn't think of her once.

Once they get out of the airport, Phil practically tears over to the pick-up, knocking on the window. When Steve ambles up, Hershey is frantically scrabbling at the window trying to get out of the truck and to Phil. He carefully opens the door, and she launches herself at Phil, knocking him to the ground, licking his face manically, and whining in happiness.

"Told you she missed you." Steve leans against the truck, and watches the reunion. Phil rubbing at Hershey's sides, Hershey herself, from nose to tail, waggling happily.

"I missed you too little lady, missed you so much. Yes, yes, I'm happy to see you too. Now can I get up? We're never going to get anywhere if you don't let me up, Hershey... No? Fine, fine..." Phil laughs, and Steve shakes his head. He can see this might take a while. Eventually Hershey seems content that Phil is back with her, that he's not going anywhere, and she lets him stand, whimpering when he moves to get into the passenger's side door.

"I think you're in the back, Punkster." Steve chuckles, and Phil clambers into the back of the truck, barely getting his seatbelt tied before Hershey is on him again, licking his face once more. "It's a good thing she's allowed to stay in this motel room with us."

"Motel?" Phil sounds confused, and Steve nods.

"It's too late to be driving all the way back home. We're staying the night in the big city... We can get you some new stuff for school, and head home tomorrow... I need to get you a Christmas present after all." Steve turns to Phil with a smile, and Phil hides his face against Hershey's fur.

"I don't need a present, Steve." He mutters, and Steve just laughs. Whether Phil likes it or not, tomorrow he's getting spoiled.

The reception at the motel were apologetic, but there'd been an assumption that when Steve booked a room for two he meant two people, not two beds, and there's not anything they can do about it now, so they'll have to make do with one bed, two people and a dog.

"You take the bed, Punkster." Steve says once he's changed stripped down to his boxers and t-shirt. Phil's been carefully not looking at Steve, and there's a part of him that terrified that Phil thinks this was a set up to abuse him. Yet, he doesn't seem afraid, or really anything other than mildly blushy, which is kind of confusing Steve, but putting his mind at ease. He thinks Phil's assumed that Steve hasn't read the journal, and that's honestly a relief. It means Steve has some time to try and reconcile the words in that book with the kid in front of him.

"No, I'm smaller... I'll fit just fine on the couch." Phil tells the wall behind Steve's head, and Hershey glances up from the spot she claimed in the middle of the bed. Steve considers it, and with the way Hershey's lying, it's basically divided in two anyway.

"You take that side, I'll take this one." Steve points to the bed, and Phil finally looks at him. "Go on, get to sleep. You look tired." Steve grins, and Phil slinks into bed, looking tiny as he lies curled into a little ball. Steve gets into the other side and falls asleep quickly. At some stage during the night he's woken up briefly by the feeling of someone clinging to his arm, he's too asleep to register anything but the familiarity of it. His wife had always slept wrapped around his arm, so all he does is kiss her head, and fall back asleep, his mind not registering the buzzed short hair instead of her long soft strands.

"C'mon, rise and shine." Phil's voice wakes Steve up, and he sits up groggily, blinking around, spotting Phil holding a cup of instant coffee, looking dressed and clean. "They don't do breakfasts, and this coffee is shit." Steve smirks at Phil, and a pale blush creeps over his cheeks. Phil doesn't swear often in front of him, and it always makes him look like a kid when he does, even his ears turn red in embarrassment.

"Gimme a minute." Steve groans, and Phil turns back to his cell phone. It's not something Phil plays with very often, and Steve sits watching his thumb moving rapidly out of interest. Right then Phil looks so much like the teenager he is, his attention caught by the small piece of technology.

"Who's feeding my chickens when you're here?" He asks suddenly, and Steve groans, rubbing his eyes. He's surprised Phil is thinking of his chickens, but then again Phil is very fond of those birds. He's very fond of so many things, and Steve's once more unable to reconcile sweet Phil with the monsters who bore him.

"The Owl. She wanted to do something nice for you getting home." Steve laughs at the look of shook that comes over Phil's face. "What? She missed her little student... Well, not so little, I guess. You've shot up, Punkster." Steve grins at the slight reddening of Phil's cheeks. "I like the new hair. I forgot to say last night." Steve smiles, and Phil laughs nervously, rubbing a hand over his short hair.

"I figured it'd be too hot for long hair after Winter." He laughs again, and Steve nods, grabbing yesterday's clothes and pulling them back on. "You don't think it's too... I mean... Does it..." Phil trails off, his ears bright red.

"It's different, but it suits you, Punkster." Steve laughs, and something like relief washes over Phil's face. It does suit him, it makes him look older, makes his eyes stand out more, and Phil's eyes are already a prominent feature, but now they're unavoidable.

"Scott thinks I look like Eminem." Phil mutters, draining his coffee, and Steve shrugs. He thinks Phil looks like Phil, but that might be because Steve's not entirely sure who or what an Eminem is, a rapper possibly.

"You all set?" Steve asks once he's dressed, and Phil nods to his bag in the corner. "Where's Hershey?" The dog makes a sleepy grumble from the bed, and Steve laughs at her.

"I think all the excitement of yesterday tired her out." Phil stands, and grabs his bag, heading for the door. "We're going now... Bye, Hershey." Before Phil's finished saying her name, Hershey is off the bed, and standing in front of him. "You might need to keep an eye on her on Monday... I won't get to school if she's like this then."

"I'm sure she'll settle down once she's got you at home." Steve grabs the keys for the truck, and follows Phil and Hershey out of the motel, over to where the pickup is parked. "Right, food first, then we're getting you something for Christmas... New clothes, something Summer appropriate."

"I have Summer clothes." Phil mutters, and Steve snorts not answering Phil's plaintive protestations. Instead getting in the truck, and waiting for Phil to get himself settled in the passenger's seat.

"Still buying you clothes, no more arguing, it's decided. You want anything else?" Steve laughs, and Phil seems to give up, staring straight ahead of him, a little smile on his face.

Once they're back home, nothing overly interesting happens for the rest of the weekend. The Owl had left some easily reheated food, and a little note attached to a Christmas present for Phil. A little note that had him grinning, and laughing. The present turning out to be some kind of paint that Phil had gotten surprisingly excited about, paint that he'd chattered about all throughout dinner. Sunday they'd spent being lazy and tired. The trip to the city hadn't been overly exciting, but Steve isn't fond of driving further than into town, and shopping, even if it had been efficient and fun was exhausting, a lazy Sunday spent in the living room catching up on their shows had been perfect as far he was concerned.

The week progresses just as it had been before Christmas. He and Phil have a routine, and it seems to be working just fine for both of them. It's all very comfortable and easy. It's almost enough to make Steve forget the words in the journal Phil gave him for Christmas, but he can't. Sometimes he'll sit and stare at Phil, trying to reconcile the battered, too thin child in the photos from the second manila folder with young man sitting opposite him at the kitchen table, surrounded by his homework. A stack of books rivalled solely by the stack of letters Steve's replying to.

"Did you not reply to a single letter when I was away?" Phil doesn't look up from his books, and Steve laughs. Saturdays have their traditions too, and writing is the most painful, but at the same time enjoyable, one.

"One or two, but it was kind of lonely sitting here by myself." Steve laughs, taking a cookie from the plate, today's batch are a rather nice white chocolate and raspberry, which Phil has been inhaling. It's pretty clear that this is his favourite kind, and Steve agrees that they're pretty good.

"Wasn't Hershey with you?" Hershey is there now; curled up in her bed, but when Phil was away she'd spent most of her time either asleep on Phil's bed, or curled up outside of his closed door. Steve had been very uninteresting to her in the face of her mourning the lack of Phil.

"She was too busy worrying about her friend." Steve chuckles, and Phil looks up at him, then over to Hershey. "She missed you... We both missed you, but only she slept on your bed." Steve laughs, and Phil's ears turn red.

"I wouldn't have minded..." He mutters, and Steve stands, going to make more coffee.

"Do we have any plans for tomorrow?" Steve asks, and Phil shakes his head, but there's a look on his face, a look that says there's something he wants to do. "What is it?" Steve sits back down, setting the new pot of coffee on the table.

"The Owl gave me some homework. She wants me to try out the oils she gave me for Christmas. I need to have a canvas ready for a week Tuesday. I think, if you don't need me that is, I'm gonna have a look around the Ranch, see if there's anything that inspires me tomorrow." Phil smiles slightly and Steve shakes his head.

"Not much to do up here. It's the wrong time of year. I might head out hunting... See if I can't find something for you to experiment with for dinner." Steve laughs, and Phil looks considering.

"Rabbit? I found this really interesting recipe for rabbit... If you can get me a couple of those, and skin them..." Phil trails off, and Steve nods, rabbit will be pretty easy to get a hold of, there's plenty of the damn things.

"I'll see what I can do, Punkster."

All in all, it's a quiet weekend, Phil does spend the rest of it scouting and sketching, asking Steve his opinion on which sketch would make the best painting. Without thought, Steve chooses one sketch of the big old tree his wife had loved, the tree she's buried under, and Phil had agreed that it was a good one to paint. It should be painful, Steve knows it should be, but it was worth making that choice to see Phil smile. Phil has a good smile, and Steve is always happy to see it.

Over the week Phil paints, after school, when he gets back to the Ranch, he goes straight to work on his canvas. Dinner was little but left over rabbit pie for a few days. Steve had brought back far more of them than Phil had been expecting, and apparently, whilst he'd been away he'd learnt some pastry techniques. The pie's crust had been light and crisp, the filling gamey and rich, eating fresh from the oven or even a few days old had been more than welcomed by Steve. It's all very nice, it's all very familiar, but Steve knows he needs to address the journal. He can't keep on with the strange charade of normality, not with the visions of abused Phil behind his eyelids when he goes to bed at night.

"I've been putting it off, Punkster... But I think..." That Saturday Steve sets the journal down between the plate of cookies, plain old delicious choc-chip, and the coffee pot. Phil looks up at him, his eyes as wide as Steve's ever seen them. Wide and terrified.

"Did... Did you read it?" Phil whispers, and Steve nods, watching those far too big, far too wide eyes close, Phil's eyebrows furrowing. "When?" He croaks, curling in on himself, and Steve takes a sip of his coffee, trying to quell the rage in his gut. He's not angry with Phil, he's angry with why Phil's curled up, angry that the scum who abused him still have so much power over him.

"Before you came home." Phil looks up quickly at that comment, his eyes filled with shock. "What? You think I just read it now?" Steve laughs, but it's a bitter dark sound. "I read it before you came home, Punkster." Steve stresses the word home, and Phil glances away from him. There's something strangely watery in Phil's eyes, and Steve isn't sure what to say to him.

"I..." He sighs, squaring his shoulders, but not looking at Steve. "I didn't think you'd read it... I thought... I thought you didn't want to know." The tone of Phil's voice makes it clear that he's not sure if he thinks that Steve not wanting to know would have been good or bad. In all honesty, Steve isn't sure if it would be good or bad either. Not wanting to be told by a book, means that he might want Phil to tell him, but then again it might mean that he doesn't care about Phil in the least, and the latter is so far from the truth. Steve cares; he cares so much about Phil, so much more than Phil seems to realise.

"I wanted to know. I had to know, but... I wanted to ask you when the time seemed right, and it never did." Steve sighs, and it feels horribly awkward. The only conversations that have even come close to this level of awkward have been with girls Steve wanted to break up with, or ask out on a date. "I'd have rather heard it from you, but I read the journal, Punkster." Steve stands, and crouches down by Phil, looking up at his face. "You're safe here." He promises, and Phil doesn't say anything, he just sits on his chair staring at his hands. Steve awkwardly stands, and pats Phil's shoulder, before heading back to his seat.

"Steve?" Phil's voice is quick and sudden, and Steve turns to find himself with an armful of trembling Phil. It doesn't sound like he's crying, just shaking like a leaf. Steve holds him tight, holds him close, holds him for as long he needs to be held.

"Jim wants you to talk to the Police." Steve says after Phil's trembling has stopped. He shakes his head, and Steve squeezes him once. "Punkster." He isn't sure what to say to get Phil to agree to this, and the way those tremors creep back in, Steve isn't sure getting Phil to agree is possible. "Think about it, okay? Please, just think about it."

"I can't..." Phil whispers, and Steve sighs, keeping his arms around Phil. "Do you... Is there... Did I leave anything out? It's okay... You can ask me anything you want." Phil sounds so small, so faraway despite being in Steve's arms. He squeezes Phil tightly, stroking his back, feeling something like Phil snuggling against him.

"Is there anything you want to add?" Steve asks, he's not sure he could handle more, there are things he'd want to ask, but in the face of the horrors Steve been trying so hard to not think about his questions seem ridiculous. There's nothing Phil can add to the tale, not for Steve anyway, he's sure the cops will have plenty of questions for him.

"No..." Phil whispers again, and Steve presses a very small kiss to Phil's head. It was possibly a stupid idea, but Phil doesn't flinch, doesn't tense, doesn't reject the gesture in any way.

"There's one thing I wanna ask Phil." Steve steps back, resting his hands on Phil's shoulders. "Do you need to see someone? A therapist? Are you getting better?" Phil looks confused by Steve question, his mouth silently shaping the word better. "Better... All I want is for you to be better, Punkster. I want you to be the person you should be. I want you to smile, to laugh, to be free."

"I spent a long time in therapy, Steve." Phil smiles, a soft happy little smile. "I'm getting better... Freer every day." He steps away from Steve, and takes his seat once more, going back to his homework.

"You'll think about it, won't you? I know they're your parents, but-"

"I've a lot of homework to do Steve." Phil interrupts him, and Steve supposes the matter is closed for now.

The rest of the weekend passes by strangely, there's a heaviness to their conversations, and a sickness bubbling in Steve's gut. He's spends all week trying to think up a way to convince Phil to go to the Police, a way to convince him that the words he'd written in that journal are bullshit. They're not bad people, Phil's parents are the worst, most terrible pieces of shit to walk the Earth, but he has no idea what to say, how to show Phil the truth. Since that conversation on Saturday, Phil has been off. Not off in his more sullen silent moods, but off in the sense of a strange enforced cheerfulness. It's far more troubling than the silence. At least the silence isn't as false as Phil trying to sound like himself, and failing miserably.

He needs to resolve this, he needs to get Phil to be himself rather than badly acting himself, and he needs to do it quickly; it's the last Saturday of the month, and Jim's coming over for dinner. He's going to want to talk about getting Phil to go to the cops, and whilst Steve's been putting off having to ask Phil to talk to the Police again. He knows Jim's going to want an answer, so he decides the first fishing trip of the New Year is going to have to be the time to bring it up once more. He thinks that's probably the root of all of this false cheer from Phil, and he hopes that this trip will give them the breakthrough they need.

The journey to the lake is filled with more strange easy chatter, and once they're on the boat, a silence comes over them, one that Steve's loathed to break but he knows he has to.

"Punkster..." He says awkwardly, and Phil turns to him, a wary look in his eyes, that fake smile he's been wearing all week finally gone. "I need you to talk to the Police." Steve goes right for the jugular, hoping that it'll prompt a quick answer in the affirmative.

"No." Phil says softly, and Steve sighs, keeping his eyes focused on the water, he can't say he's surprised, disappointed maybe, but not surprised. He can hear Phil fidgeting, and Steve touches his shoulder gently once, expecting, but not getting a flinch from Phil. "They're my parents... They need to be there for my brother... I can't... Steve, I can't put them in jail."

"They're going there anyway." Steve's voice is cold, and he can only hope that Phil doesn't think the ice in Steve's tone is aimed at him. "They abused you, the State is prosecuting. Your statement would make sure they go away for as long as they deserve, but them not having it isn't going to stop them from sending your parents to jail." Steve snarls parents, those scum have no right to claim any relation to Phil, they deserve to rot in prison.

"What?" Phil's voice is tiny, and Steve turns to him, not sure what he'd expected to see, but a white as snow, silently weeping Phil wasn't it. "Why?"

"They abused you, Punkster." Steve's staring at Phil, at the slow trails of tears running down his face, his rigid posture, his fingers curled loosely around his fishing rod. "You're a child, the State... You're... They're going to prison because no one has the right to treat another person like that." Steve isn't sure if that was anything like the right thing to say, but it's all he has. Phil doesn't move, doesn't stop crying, he just sits there staring at the water. "You're not putting them in jail... The State is because you matter. You're important, not just to your sisters, not just to Scott, not just to Hershey... Not just to me, but to the State. You're-" Steve's cut off by Phil's arms wrapping around his waist, his head pressing against Steve's chest as he cries, deep sobs shaking Phil's body. It shouldn't feel like a relief, but to have Phil finally cry, to have him finally come to Steve for comfort, it's strangely like a weight has been lifted from Steve's shoulders.

"I'll do it, I'll talk to them." He gasps between wails, and Steve without thought kisses the top of Phil's head, his hands moving over his back trying to soothe him.

"It's okay... Shh... I got you." Steve whispers, stroking Phil's back gently. "I got you... Shh... You're safe... Shh, shh, shh, it's okay. I got you." In his head, Steve's adding another little part to the soft litany of words he's whispering into Phil's hair. I got you, and I won't you let go, I won't let you get hurt, not again.

Many thanks to the ladies and gentlemen who reviewed:

AshJoivillette, Rebellecherry, Guest, littleone1389, Shiki94, plebs, Brokenspell77 and Guest.

Thank you once more for your patience with this fic. I got a little distracted by Xmas Carols, but normal business has resumed. I hope the journal hasn't offended or put any of you off... It's a subject I know more about than I'm comfortable with, and I know that for some people this is probably going to be a hard chapter to read.

If you find something that's off, please let me know!

I'm more than interested in your thoughts... So please review!