VM fic: Four Things Weevil Fears (PG-13)
Title: Five Four Things Weevil Fears
Author: Shealynn88
Characters: Weevil, slight V/Weevil
Warnings: angst. LOTS of it.
A/N: written for pyroblaze. Sorry this took so long, sorry I'm still one short. Enjoy!
i.
The Fitzpatricks are worth worrying about, but he wouldn't say he's afraid of them. Just cautious. He's not stupid, no matter what people think.
But when Veronica's arms tighten around his waist at the first sight of smoke, he's afraid.
She scrambles off as he pulls over, and he takes care of the bike before he moves to the edge, far from the clustered '09ers.
If this was the Fitzpatricks…if they somehow did this, it's his fault. He was supposed to be watching Cervando, making sure the kid was safe from his own big mouth. The thought that he might have failed makes him sick.
Then he glances over at the shrieking rich kids, at Duncan Kane who's holding Veronica close, and fear overwhelms him. If she'd died…if it had been his fault…
He moves down the bluff out of sight before he loses his lunch in the scrubby undergrowth.
ii.
The fists don't scare him. Not even when he feels ribs crack. No, what scares him is that they're throwing him back to the bottom, where everyone is unimportant. Easy to ignore, shove aside, walk by.
But Weevil's not going back to that without a fight. He'll kill the first person who tries to make him a nobody.
iii.
Over the past few years, Weevil has broken bones, crashed his bike and been beaten bloody more times than he can count. But there is nothing like the sterile smell of the hospital to make him feel like a little kid again-helpless and small and desperately afraid.
He peers around the door frame into the open room and his grandmother beckons him weakly. "Eli," she breathes, smiling.
He closes his eyes for a second and then walks to her bedside to take her hand.
"Grandma."
iv.
He's known for a long time that he wouldn't live a long and happy life. It's never been in the cards for him-not since his father went to jail and his mother skipped town. He's never been afraid of it.
Until now. He's getting weaker every second, his blood seeping out of the knife wound and pooling on the cracked concrete of some nameless street. He knows he's dying and that's okay. It's not like he's got anything left, anyhow.
But he's afraid that, if there's a funeral, no one will come. If there's an obituary in the paper, no one will recognize his name.
He's afraid that, for all his endless fighting, he hasn't made a damn bit of difference to anyone.
Author: Shealynn88
Characters: Weevil, slight V/Weevil
Warnings: angst. LOTS of it.
A/N: written for pyroblaze. Sorry this took so long, sorry I'm still one short. Enjoy!
i.
The Fitzpatricks are worth worrying about, but he wouldn't say he's afraid of them. Just cautious. He's not stupid, no matter what people think.
But when Veronica's arms tighten around his waist at the first sight of smoke, he's afraid.
She scrambles off as he pulls over, and he takes care of the bike before he moves to the edge, far from the clustered '09ers.
If this was the Fitzpatricks…if they somehow did this, it's his fault. He was supposed to be watching Cervando, making sure the kid was safe from his own big mouth. The thought that he might have failed makes him sick.
Then he glances over at the shrieking rich kids, at Duncan Kane who's holding Veronica close, and fear overwhelms him. If she'd died…if it had been his fault…
He moves down the bluff out of sight before he loses his lunch in the scrubby undergrowth.
ii.
The fists don't scare him. Not even when he feels ribs crack. No, what scares him is that they're throwing him back to the bottom, where everyone is unimportant. Easy to ignore, shove aside, walk by.
But Weevil's not going back to that without a fight. He'll kill the first person who tries to make him a nobody.
iii.
Over the past few years, Weevil has broken bones, crashed his bike and been beaten bloody more times than he can count. But there is nothing like the sterile smell of the hospital to make him feel like a little kid again-helpless and small and desperately afraid.
He peers around the door frame into the open room and his grandmother beckons him weakly. "Eli," she breathes, smiling.
He closes his eyes for a second and then walks to her bedside to take her hand.
"Grandma."
iv.
He's known for a long time that he wouldn't live a long and happy life. It's never been in the cards for him-not since his father went to jail and his mother skipped town. He's never been afraid of it.
Until now. He's getting weaker every second, his blood seeping out of the knife wound and pooling on the cracked concrete of some nameless street. He knows he's dying and that's okay. It's not like he's got anything left, anyhow.
But he's afraid that, if there's a funeral, no one will come. If there's an obituary in the paper, no one will recognize his name.
He's afraid that, for all his endless fighting, he hasn't made a damn bit of difference to anyone.