I don't own the Breakfast Club

A/N: Thank you for the reviews thus far! I wanted to point out that there is a trigger warning in the first section of the chapter.

Enjoy!

The closer that John approached his home, the more uneasy he began to feel. The light was on and there were noises coming from within. He would be walking inside a battlefield between his old man and his mother. John ducked under the windows and walked around the house to where his bedroom was located. He looked up and saw that the window to his bedroom was left open.

Thank God John thought. He took a couple of steps back and threw the painted canvas inside the window as if easily glided in. He then threw his trench coat, which only made it halfway into the window. John stretched his arms above his head and jumped to grab onto the windowsill. He used the wall of the house to support himself as he crawled inside the window where he landed on the floor with a thud.

He swore under his breath at how loud he fell but his father's yelling was enough to hide the noise. What's the old man going on about again? John thought as he rolled his eyes. He didn't hear his mother fighting back. It's like she had given up on arguing.

"Where is that worthless little—" he heard his father grumbling under his breath.

John looked at his door, expecting his father to kick it down any second and barrel inside.

"Detention! For eight freaking Saturdays!" his father yelled.

Damn you, Dick John thought. The only way his father would have found out about this was if the school called the house, which in this case, they had. At this point, these eight detentions were the least of John's worries. No matter what John said to his father, he would lose his mind over the littlest things.

The doorknob began to wriggle and John flinched back. "Open the door Johnny! I know you're in there!" his father yelled.

Ain't no way old man John thought, keeping himself ready in case something happened. After a while, the doorknob stopped moving and footsteps moved away from the door. John knelt in front of the keyhole and looked outside to see if he could get a better look at what was happening. He could see his father's image getting smaller as he walked down the hallway. He stopped and turned around. Before John knew it, his father ran towards the door.

BANG!

The force of the door crashing against his face causing John to fall backward on the floor. He clutched on his nose but before he could react, he felt a hand grabbing him by the back of his shirt and flinging him against the wall.

"Eight detentions?!" his father bellowed and slapped him across the face. John flinched more at the aroma of alcohol that reeked from his father's breath than he did at the slap. "What are you doing? Skipping classes?" As if his father ever cared about John's education. This was probably an excuse for him to use John as a punching bag. "Speak!"

John's head made contact with the wall and he fell on the floor. Pain shot up at the area where his father had punched him and he hoped that this was the last of it. How wrong he had been. He his body being pulled up once more and his body hitting the wall. Anger rushed through his veins but he couldn't bring himself to attack his father. If he did, what if his father retaliated in a worse manner? What if he used John's defense against him?

His father's hand gripped onto John's neck and slowly, as if he was enjoying every second of it, squeezed John's throat. John tried to remain calm but this was getting to be to much. It was like his father wanted to do it…and he didn't care if the alcohol impaired his mind. In a panic, John reached into the pocket of his pants and pulled out his switchblade. He bought the small knife between him and his father, causing the other to release the hold that he had on his throat.

In this household, John would never revert to using this weapon even against his parents. At that moment, this object served as his protection. "Stay away from me," John hoarsely said to his father.

His father froze and looked at the sharp object between them. He let out a light laugh. "You really think you can stab me with that?" he taunted him, "I'd like to see you try."

I bet you would John thought and he made no attempt to lower the weapon. John doesn't move his eyes away from his father and he slowly backs out of his bedroom. His breath quickens with each step that his father takes.

A noise came from the kitchen and John quickly turned his head to see what it was before looking back at his father. "Hey," his mother's voice came from the kitchen, "your turkey potpie is ready!"

"Shut up—!" his father yelled at his mother, as if she was interrupting an important father-and-son conversation.

John made a break for it. He ran towards the door and didn't look over his shoulder when his father yelled at him. He ran down the street as quickly as his legs could carry him and he didn't dare look back to see if he was being followed. For all John knew, he needed to get the hell out of there before it was too late.

Wandering the streets now that the sun was setting was not doing John any favors. The night had served to John as a time of peace and solitude but not in the state that he was in. He limped as he tried to get himself familiar on the street that he was in, but it looked like nothing that he could remember. He thought about dropping by Brian's house, since that was one of the homes that he had been to, but that was out of the question. If his parents took one look at him, they'd likely call the police.

He felt the cool moisture of blood running down the injury from his nose. He ran the back of his hand and looked at the red smudge against his fingers. He wouldn't be surprised if his nose was already busted from the impact of the door. A shiver ran down his spine as the temperature began to drop and he pulled his denim jacket tightly around his shoulders. Where the hell am I going to go? he thought as he looked around him once more.

Suddenly, he stopped when he heard footsteps behind him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the switchblade and immediately whipped around with the weapon pointed.

A scream escaped from Susan as she jumped back and stared at him. "John?" she squinted to get a better look at him through the streetlights.

John let out a sigh and put his switchblade back into his pocket. "Goddamn Picasso," he said, "you trying to give me a scare. What are doing out here?"

"I was at the park and didn't realize how late it got," Susan explained, "I had to head home for din—" she stopped as she looked at the wound on John's head, "John, you're hurt."

John dismissed her comments. "It's nothing I can't handle."

Susan took a step closer to him. "John, what happened?" she asked him.

"It's nothing," John repeated, his patience starting to wear thin.

"Look at you!" Susan exclaimed, "you're hurt."

"And you're blind," John fired back, "I'm still standing on my two feet. You know what? Just go back to your drawings and mind your own business!"

Susan's eyebrows furrowed when he said that, but she wasn't going to let him go so easily. She ran up to him and took a hold of his arm. "John, let me help you."

John flinched at her touch and immediately pulled back in defense, not liking that one bit. "Keep your hands off me!" he shouted at her. The look on her face was enough to make John take a step back. She looked more concerned for him than she did frightened. "What are you going to do, huh? I don't need your charity!"

Susan took a deep breath as she looked at John. "No but you need a friend," she said to him.

John stared at Susan when she said that. It sounded genuine and supportive. "And how the hell are you going to help someone like me?" John asked her, "wouldn't want your Uncle Dearest to see you with me, now would you?"

Those two really had it out for one another, but Susan was not going to interfere in that. "Don't worry," Susan said, "it's just me and my grandmother." She approached John and this time, she took a gentle hold of his arm, "come on. Let's get you patched up."

The walk to Susan's home was quicker than John realized. He was grateful for that because the limp in his foot was starting to hurt. Susan opened the door to the house and walked in, with John reluctantly following behind her. "Grandma," she called out, "I'm home. I have a friend with me."

Dorothy Vernon came out from the kitchen and looked up at Susan and the unexpected guest. "Goodness!" she exclaimed as she looked at John's state, "Susan, where did you find this boy?!"

"You've met John before, Grandma," Susan tells her, "he bought me home after my meeting with Brian, remember? He needs some help."

"Well don't just stand there, young lady, get the first aid kit and bring him to the living room. I'll patch him up," her grandmother said.

Susan smiled as she looked at John. "My grandmother used to be a nurse. You're in good hands."

Upon the invitation, John settled himself in the living room couch. He looked around the living room and noticed how well kept it was, unlike his home. For an elderly woman, she sure knew how to keep the house clean. Everything was clean, polished, and in its place. It gave this warm and welcoming atmosphere, the kind that John wasn't used to. His attention was caught when he heard the light chirps of a canary as it happily hopped from one perch to the other. John leaned forward to get a better look at the yellow-feathered bird. It seemed to be happy being kept in that cage. Why wouldn't he feel happy if he had a loving family?

After a while, Dorothy approached John and sat on the seat opposite of him. "Now let's see what we're dealing with here," she said as she had John turn his head towards her. "Ooh," she sympathetically said, "you poor boy what have you been through?"

Regardless of the wrinkles on her hands, her touch was gentle. "You have no idea," John answered her question and tried to play if off as if he had hurt his head by accident.

"Thank your lucky stars you didn't have a concussion," she commented and reached into the first aid kit.

John flinched when the swab of alcohol was swiped against his injury.

"Now stop moving. The more you move, the less precision I have and the longer it takes," Dorothy sighed and shook her head.

John pushed through the alcohol sting. After what felt like a long time, Dorothy finally finished dressing the wound. "There," she said with a warm smile towards John. "Keep that for a while and you'll be as good as new."

Susan stopped by the entrance of the living room and looked at John. "Feeling better?" she asked him.

"Like crap," John answered.

Dorothy gasped. "Now you may be our guest, but I won't have that language in my house. Susan, set the table for our guest."

What? John's head shot up and he looked at Dorothy. "No, no, I can't possibly—"

"You'll stay and that is final," Dorothy said as she gave John a stern look, which was potent enough to have anyone do as she says.

Susan chuckled. "Careful John, she just gave you 'the look.'" She quickly retreated to the dining room and began to set the table.

"Seriously, this is too much," John commented.

"Nonsense," Dorothy dismissively said, "you need your strength and my roast with roasted potatoes will do the trick. Now go wash up."

Just that simple sentence sounded heavenly…and it was a lot better than what he had at home or the usual burger and fries order. This old woman, man she took no nonsense, yet she was kind and warm to John unlike some people he knew. He was about to make a comment about the familiar relationship that Dorothy had with their vice principal but decided that it was best to stay on this woman's good side.

After everyone had washed up for dinner, John sits on the seat across from Susan as her grandmother sits at the head of the table. The aroma of the home cooked meal is enough to make his mouth water, but that wasn't an excuse for not having decent table manners. He watched as Susan and her grandmother scooped the food onto their plates.

"Don't be shy, dear, help yourself," Dorothy smiled. "Have as much as you want but leave room for some dessert."

"What did you make this time?" Susan asked her.

"Cherry pie," Dorothy said to her. "I hope that's fine with you, John."

John had no complaints about that. Just as long as it wasn't a turkey potpie.

"Can I have some too?" Susan asked her, knowing that her grandmother was strict about the 'no dessert for a week' after she had gotten detention.

"We do have a guest and I am feeling a bit generous today," Dorothy said to Susan. "But just for today. You also have next week after this second detention."

Susan couldn't help but laugh as she looked at John. "Word travels fast, doesn't it?"

"That it does," John said with a nod of his head. Tomorrow was the least of his worries. He just needed to find somewhere to stay until then.

After their dinner and dessert was over, John stood up to his feet and was about to leave. "I don't know what to say but…this has been too much. Really."

"Have you got a place to stay?" Dorothy asked him.

No John wanted to say. "I'll crash at a friend's house," John told her. "I'm sure they wouldn't mind me staying over for a day." Or two…or three…or whenever his father decides to forget about him and leave him along for a couple of days.

"We do have a spare guest bedroom if you would like to stay," Dorothy said, "I can have it ready for you."

There was no way in hell he was going to sleep at this house. The last thing he needed was to make himself comfortable at a home to these people that were related to Richard Vernon. "It's fine," John said to her, "I can take care of this myself. Thanks for the dinner."

Susan stood up from her seat. "I'll walk you out." As the two of them approached the doorway, Susan looked at John. "Are you sure you don't want to stay?"

"I don't want to overstay my welcome," John said to her. "You and…" he stopped talking and swallowed before continuing. "You and your grandmother have done more than enough for me."

John couldn't believe the vulnerability that he felt. He could act as if this meant nothing to him. That he was being treated in a charitable fashion because they were doing it 'out of the goodness of their hearts' and later talk about it with their friends over coffee and tea. However, John felt that it wasn't like that.

Susan gave John a nod of her head. "Be careful out there, John."

That smirk took over his lips as he looked at Susan. "I always am, Picasso. I'll see you tomorrow in detention. Make sure you bring that sketchpad. I need more of your drawings."

Anything to pass that eight hours, she was going to put it to good use regardless of the detention rules. "You got it, Bender," she said to John as she watched him walk down the street with an air of confidence.

Whether it was real or if he was faking it, Susan could only hope that he would be fine for the remainder of the night.