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Finally finding a nice enough house (duplex, but still, it's a step above an apartment, isn't it?) in a neighborhood that's not known for having inch-long, used needles hid on every street corner (in this economy?) and close enough to the hospital that he’d be able to walk and not be dead on his feet before even starting his shift—but he could also just as easily take the subway or his car (which he bought after having lived in this quaint little home for three years, who'd've thunk!), Whizzer began to plant roots, and—as surprising as it would be to his sixteen-year-old self—he hasn't so much as considered moving in six, comfortable years. To boot, he'd even built up a routine to follow nearly every day.
Each morning, he’d go for a run around the neighborhood and the little park that was close enough by, returning home to eat, shower, and get changed into his scrubs, then leaving for the hospital, returning home at various points in the night—sometimes even in the early hours of the next morning—and passing out anywhere in between his couch and bed. His alarm would go off at five AM again the next morning, and he would rise—no matter how little sleep he’d gotten the night before—starting the cycle over.
Whizzer liked the routine, it gave him stability. Sometimes, it was hard for him to leave the house each morning, but it kept him grounded and healthy, and he always felt better afterwards.
Even though the man hadn’t moved in six years, he barely knew his neighbors. For one, the unit directly to his left was vacant, which was nice. Still, if you asked him, the only people he really needed to be on a first-name basis with were his landlord, and the couple occupying the unit actually sharing the duplex with him—Cordelia and Charlotte. And, to Whizzer's credit, he did actually know them; Charlotte worked in the same hospital as him, so she’d had him over for dinner a handful of times—and then joked with him the next day about her girlfriend's disastrous adventures into certain cuisines. But, other than them, Whizzer didn’t know the names of anyone else on his block, and he couldn’t care less if they knew his. So, when a bland, middle-aged man moved into the empty house on his left, Whizzer didn’t bother acknowledging him and continued his routine without a single dent, purposefully ignoring the man if he came to his door when Whizzer was home, and simply not being there the other half of the time.
Each morning was hardly any different due to the arrival of a new neighbor; afternoons only changed when, on Fridays, if Whizzer came home early enough, he would leave his car and see a woman dropping off a child, probably ten or eleven, and returning to pick him up on Sundays. One Sunday, the boy had caught Whizzer’s eye, to which Whizzer had offered a joking salute before walking into his home, but not so soon after that he didn’t catch the boy’s gentle smile.
Whizzer hardly took days off, so during the days he did get off, he usually stayed inside all day except for his run at the beginning of his day.
Conveniently, one of said days had been a Saturday, and his alarm didn’t go off, leaving Whizzer to wake up in a frenzy four hours late, cursing and stumbling through his house as he tossed some running clothes on, praying that he wouldn’t run into anyone and be forced to converse. He stumbled out into the (still morning) air, squinting at the sunlight, stretching a little, before turning and taking off, offering a small wave at a mildly stunned Cordelia sitting on her front porch. Whizzer ran for an hour longer than he normally did, almost getting lost before deciding to turn around.
Slowing to a walk once he hit his street, Whizzer pulled out an earbud and glared at the outline of a child in the grass in front of his steps, tossing a ball at some weird net that was bouncing it back.
A-plus parenting, he thought to himself as he slowly approached his house. Whizzer stopped on his short driveway, crossing his arms over his chest and watched the kid throw sloppily, wincing. After studying his awful form for what felt like an eternity, he had to step in.
“Oh my God, please, just stop,” he finally said, waving his hands as he stepped onto the grass, the kid’s eyes wide.
Whizzer tucked his earbuds into his pocket, edging up to the net and eyeing it.
“It bounces the ball back so I can work on my form even though my dad doesn’t like baseball,” the kid explained from where he stood, watching Whizzer.
The man hummed. “Can you move it out of the way while I go inside for a bit?” he finally asked, and the boy nodded sharply, quick to respond to Whizzer’s request.
He headed back into his own home, dropping his phone on his counter and instead picking up his glove and some sunglasses, returning outside as quickly as he could. When he walked back out onto the sidewalk, the boy was sitting there, picking at the weaving on his glove. Whizzer walked over to him and stuck out a hand, helping him up.
“I don’t believe I’ve introduced myself. I’m Whizzer, and I live there." He gestured behind the boy at his unit.
The boy smiled, shaking his hand just a little too firmly. “I’m Jason. My parents aren’t together and my dad lives here, so I spend the weekends here.”
Whizzer nodded, affection already crawling up into the corners of his eyes. “How old are you, kid?”
“I’m ten.” Jason puffed his chest out slightly, affirming Whizzer's guess from earlier.
Whizzer chuckled lightly. “So, since your dad doesn’t like baseball, he bought you a… net, and told you to teach yourself?”
Whizzer held out his hand, and Jason handed him the ball with a shrug before walking back to bring a bit of distance between them.
“Yeah, sorta. I’m on a team, I just don’t have anyone to play with on the weekends, unless we have practice or a game,” Jason explained.
“Well, you’re in luck—the one thing my dad and I could agree about was baseball, so I’d like to say I’m not too shabby.” Whizzer offered him a smile, which the boy returned brightly.
They played catch for another hour, exchanging easy conversation as Jason’s form improved rapidly, the young boy beginning to pack more power behind every throw. When they stopped because Jason thought his dad should be up soon, Whizzer felt light and happy. He bounced up onto the balls of his feet as he told the boy that he was welcome to come over anytime—but not forgetting to warn him that he may not be home.
When he got back inside, he was greeted with a text from Cordelia complimenting him on actually talking to someone. Whizzer rolled his eyes and responded quickly, hopped into the shower, and spent the rest of his day catching up on sleep as planned.
He didn't meet Jason’s mysterious father until months later, late into the fall.
Whizzer had taken two days off to calm down and anchor himself again, and though he spent his Tuesday inside, watching movies, he eased himself back into his routine on Wednesday, getting out to go on his run around seven instead of five.
When he stepped out of his house, he was immediately grateful for his decision to put on a jacket and longer pants, watching his breath puff into little clouds in front of his face for a moment before taking off, letting his mind wander as his feet smacked against the pavement.
By the time he was jogging back towards his street, his eyes caught on a figure raking leaves on Jason’s dad’s lawn, much too early in the week and much too tall to be the ten-year-old. Whizzer slowed to a walk, catching his breath and planning out a conversation with the man in his head, looking at him but hardly watching. He kept walking, and when he finally stepped onto his street, he only made it three steps before he watched the man slip and fall backwards, landing awkwardly on his foot.
He stopped walking, staring at the man in disbelief for a moment, before snapping back into focus and running up to him. As Whizzer got closer, he could hear the other man swearing gently under his breath while he gripped at his ankle. Whizzer made his way toward him on light feet.
“I saw you wipe out from down there, you good?” He knelt down, meeting the man’s eyes.
“Yeah, yeah I’ll be fine. I just gotta get inside,” the man grumbled, trying to push himself up.
Whizzer stands and pulls him with him. “Here, I’ll help you in and take a look at that.”
Draping the man’s arm over his shoulder, Whizzer guided him up the steps slowly. Once inside, the man flopped heavily onto his couch, hissing when his ankle bounced against the base. He lifted his foot onto a coffee table and pulled his shoe off, and Whizzer watched from the door, grimacing as he caught sight of the already-swelling ankle.
“Holy shit, dude, I’m pretty sure that’s broken,” he said, inching forward and crouching on the ground beside the table, reaching forward to inspect it.
The man glowered, smacking his hand away. “I don’t need your help.”
Whizzer rolled his eyes. “I’m a nurse, dickwad, and there’s no way you’ll be able to do anything on this for God knows how long if we don’t get you a hospital.”
The man rolled his jaw, avoiding Whizzer’s gaze. The younger man looked back down at his ankle, prodding at it gently, watching as the other winced and jerked it back in response. After a few moments, Whizzer stood.
“Yeah, you definitely broke it," he announced, beginning to maneuver his way into the kitchen. "And now, I’m gonna go get you ice, and we’re gonna drive down to the hospital so you don’t make it any worse.”
“You don’t have to be such a prick about it,” he mumbled from the couch, and Whizzer rolled his eyes yet again.
“Says the asshat who refused help from a trained professional probably just to look manly,” he bit back.
Whizzer sighed and held out one hand, gripping the bag of frozen corn he’d found in the other. He handed the man the bag of corn, who took it, slightly perplexed. Whizzer hooked his arms under his legs, hoisting him up into bridal position, and he yelled out, almost dropping the ice.
“Oh, calm down. I’m not making you walk on that,” Whizzer huffed.
The man’s chest heaved in his shock for a moment, but he closed his eyes for a second, holding the ice to his ankle once he opened them, and they left his house together (mostly, save for the broken ankle) painlessly.
Once they were inside Whizzer’s car, and he was pulling out of his garage, the man spoke up again. “Thank you. For helping me. You didn’t have to.”
Whizzer shot him a sideways glance. “Actually, I did. It’s sorta my job.”
The man cracked a lopsided smile. “Yeah, but still. You're off the clock—you could’ve just watched me suffer from afar, it's not like you would've been fired.”
The younger man shrugged, not taking his eyes from the road. A small smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.
“Well, if we’re taking it like that, then it was my pleasure to have been of service, Mr…” he trailed off, waiting for a name to fill the open end of his sentence, and glanced at his passenger expectantly.
“Marvin. The name’s Marvin.”