Johnny and Darren; Ritchie

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Johnny gets a very unexpected phone call.


Johnny wasn't in the habit of screening his calls, whether because of natural carelessness or geniality or some unspoken faith that almost anybody that would have his number on the school-issued cell phone was at least worth talking to. This time was no exception. The teenage, curled up with his book on his roommate's bed so as to enjoy the warm summer air breathed in from the open window, dug his phone out of his pocket as it began to ring and opened it without so much as a glance at the screen. His tone was easy and relaxed, if a bit distracted, as he answered, "Hello?"

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone, then a familiar voice. "Johnny, hey." Another pause, then, unnecessarily, "It's Darren. How have you been?"

The silence on the other end of the line was strange and Johnny began to repeat the word again just as the voice sounded and cut him off. Johnny, hey. The teenager felt his chest tighten. It had been months, but it would take far longer for a son to forget his father's voice. He sat up slowly, thin muscles suddenly tense and awkward, and set the paperback down upon the bed with a hard thud. "I know," he managed after a very necessary pause of his own, the time needed to swallow and find his voice again, "...What do you want?"

"I thought I should check up on you. It's been a while. How are your classes going?" Every word was a stiff pleasantry, an obligation to be taken care of, even if it had to be done by rote and over Johnny's objections.

"Check up on...? It's been five months!" Johnny shot back, shock and sudden anger making his voice loud, but hurt forcing it to crack. His shoulders slumped. This didn't seem real. The man had cut off contact only days after his arrival at Xavier's and now he was just calling him up out of the blue for mundane small talk?

A quiet sigh traveled down the connection. "Look, Johnny...I know things aren't great between us right now, but I'd like to change that. I know I haven't been the world's greatest father either." Each word was picked with such uncertain care that the pauses between nearly reduced the admission to broken nonsense. "All I can say is that I'd like another chance at being a part of your life, if you'll let me."

The slow progression of the words may have made their meaning more difficult to follow, but there was nothing in them that wouldn't have drawn the same incomprehension from the teenager now gripping his phone with such an unsteady hand it almost slid free of his fingers. Johnny wanted to protest, to remind the man of the fact that he hadn't even driven the fifty miles to Xavier's to see him after he'd been kidnapped and of all the things he'd had shipped to the school just to escape the inconvenience of having to think about him. He wanted to remind him of the last eight years. But it wouldn't come. "...You serious?" he croaked quietly.

"As a heart-attack." The attempted levity was quickly smothered by the disbelieving silence on the line. "Johnny, I promise, I am absolutely serious about this. It's not a whim or guilt, it's just...I am your father and it's time...it's time I stopped pretending that's something I didn't ask for. I'd like you to come home."

The words and reassurances were all so overwhelmingly foreign that they seemed almost ethereal, but the last sentence was concrete and struck Johnny with enough force to leave him reeling. "Come home?" he repeated back, the sinking sensation that left him feeling almost nauseous audible in his voice despite a small effort to suppress it. The notion of returning to New York City for good was almost intolerable. The notion of leaving Jean-Paul and Victor and Doreen and...everyone was. "Darren, I'm not...I mean...I'm learning a lot here..."

"I didn't mean...sorry, I guess that was a lot at one time. We can talk about it. But...how about just a visit to start?" There was a painful, almost frightened hope in the man's voice. "And...I'd like it if you'd start calling me 'dad'."

Too much. It was all too much and it left Johnny feeling worn and uncertain as Darren continued in that foreign tone. "Yeah," he relented slowly, "If you want." It was too close to the end of summer to put much together now. Maybe by the time another break came around he would have an excuse or maybe Darren would have put this bizarre interest in him on shelf. Maybe -- I'd like it if you'd start calling me 'dad'.

The teenager couldn't remember the last time he had called the man by anything but his name. "...Okay." He tried to find the will to say the word, the name, but he couldn't and the spot it should have occupied hung awkwardly between them.

"Um..." Darren cleared his throat. "So, how are classes going?"

Despite every thought and weighted memory in his head, the boy smiled just a little. Even before his mother had died, the man could never keep track of anything. The expression ebbed slowly. "I'll tell you when they start...dad."

---

A deal is struck in a New York City rec center.


"You want it or not?" the young man in the discolored hoodie insisted again. Even if this wasn't the good stuff, the pure stuff, this guy didn't know the difference and he was getting impatient with waiting and baiting a battered ego in an attempt to make the sale. "I ain't got all day. You want it, give me the cash, you don't, get your ass dragged back and forth across the mat again next week. So make a choice."

Ritchie frowned at older boy from across the rec center bathroom, keeping his back braced against the door to prevent anyone else from sticking his nose in at a bad time. Carver really didn't look any different from last year; still a doughy, pasty little shit who couldn't do one lap around the gym without going red in the face and wheezing like he was going to die. Unsurprisingly, Ritchie hated the lardass having any power here, but that didn't change the fact that it was senior year -- the very last year for the wrestling team to make state, at least so far as he was concerned. He needed an edge.

"Yeah, fine." Ritchie dug for his wallet, taking a moment to wipe his sweaty hand on the lining of his pocket as he did. He didn't like that he had to do this. He knew that his dad wouldn't have approved, but it was his last chance -- next year, it would be college, a new start, probably even a new dad if things kept on between Mom and this Darren guy. Ritchie scowled as he handed Carver his money. "That enough?"

"Good man," Carver replied immediately, lips parting around faintly tarnished teeth as he grinned at his customer. He reached to take the bills, counting them with purpose before replying again. As much as Ritchie hated him having the power, he loved it even more. Last year's social hierarchy could kiss his pasty ass. He seemed satisfied and tucked the money into his pants pocket before tossing a small paper bag over to the jock. "Pleasure doing business with you. Keep coming to me, we'll have you on the Wheaties box in no time, jockstrap."

The hooded boy moved to make his escape, but Ritchie kept his station against the door, straightening himself up a bit so that he loomed over his newfound supplier. "Fucking funny, doughboy," he growled. Fuck this dipshit if he thought he was just going to laugh at him and walk out of there. "Just remember, the only reason I'm talking to you and not drowning in you in a toilet is because you've got something I want. So if this shit doesn't perform as advertised, you're going to be eating your teeth."

Carver shrunk beneath this newly sparked aggression, all illusions of power rushing out of him with the color in his face. He held up his hands and smiled again, showing too much gum for the expression to look anything but plastic. "Hey, hey, calm down, Ritch....I was just kidding. Stuff works. Swear to God."

"It better." Ritchie finally stood aside and let Carver scramble out the door, waiting a few minutes longer before slipping out himself.