Chapter Text
Joe may have made a mistake.
He realizes this about ten minutes after it’s done, and he is alone in the gym. It’s a slow day, because Mondays always are, so it’s just him and Marty there- or it was, anyway. And he didn’t really think twice.
He could have called someone. Phones exist, and ain’t that novel? Would have been a great thing to remember when he was using one, just now, to take a call from the ladies down at Saint Agnes.
Matty’s in trouble for some reason or another. Got in a fight, and they need somebody to go pick him up.
Which. Well. The nuns weren’t happy about it, but they don’t have a case, right? Because this ain’t the first time. Matty’s a bit of a hellion with the other kids. Been to the principal’s office more than once because he decided to fling his pudding cup at little Henry.
Apparently, his aim is spot-on. Joe didn’t get the details back then, because it was Jack’s problem, and the rest of them were free to hoot and holler and snicker about the prospect of getting smacked with a cup of pudding. Now, they’ve got to be responsible about it, and tell him he really can’t do that. Gotta solve your problems with nice little words, like a big man, or else just take what other people throw at you.
The second one’s not an option for Matty. Not on their watch. So the first one it is.
While he’s sitting there listening to a couple of paying customers whack the bags, he thinks about what he should have done, instead of what he did do. He should have called Vick, who’s real good at apologizing and smoothing things over. Or he should have called Robbie, who, at the very least, would appease them by telling Matty he’s in the wrong on this one. Hell, he could have gone himself, but he panicked. Doesn’t like trying to talk to people nice when they’re getting catty with him. Telling people that they’re wrong is reserved for the moments that they are very wrong, when he can fling the niceties out the window without anyone blaming him for it.
What he has done, instead of doing any of these reasonable things, is he let Marty say “I got it,” and then run out the door.
And now he gets to hunker down and deal with those consequences, and-
And then the front door opens, and like a saving grace that’s fifteen minutes late to the slaughter, Robbie walks in with his coat slung over his arm.
“Hey, Joe,” he says, oblivious to the incoming ballistic missiles of whatever Marty’s doing down at the school, “how’s it hangin’?”
Joe blinks at him. He can’t shrug, because that ain’t honest, but he can’t damn well shake his head, because then he’s got some explaining to do, and he hasn’t really found the words yet.
So he just blinks. And Robbie narrows his hazel eyes at him like a cat, all suspicious.
“What’samatta.” He says it all in one word. “What’d you do?”
Joe clears his throat, and owns up to his mistakes.
“Nuns called,” he says, voice filling out the whole room, no matter how low he tries to keep it. “Marty’s at the school.”
Robbie knows he’s not getting more than that. Joe locks eyes with him and watches the calculations go by. Watches the suspicion melt away and slowly get replaced by a horrified look.
Like he’s just told him he accidentally lit the oval office on fire with his pants around his ankles and his tattoo out on camera.
“You sent Marty? ” he says, about two octaves higher than his usual timbre. “You let Marty go talk to the school. Joe. Joe, look at me.”
Joe takes his eyes off the floor and looks at him.
“What have you done.”
Joe shrugs.
“It’s done,” he says simply.