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Atticus was a smart man, no doubt about it. He knew that society was a cruel thing, that it was a force to be reckoned with. He knew better than to look at a man the way a couple would look at each other, the way he used to look at Jean.
He was perceptive, observing the way Scout squirmed under the eyes of Alexandra or how Jem twiddled his thumbs whenever the subject of high school football came up. Those two were easy to read, having their own little mannerisms that developed under his nose.
So when Arthur Radley frantically knocks on his door with an unconscious Jem in his arms, he wonders what details he’s missed.
The man is panting, his cheeks flushed red and chest rising every second to catch his own breath.
“Mr. Radley?” Atticus searches for any sign, any answers, that may reveal themselves on Radley’s face. Instead, he just finds frantic emotions. He almost gasps when he sees Jem knocked out, a bruise blooming on his face. It was purple, almost black. “What in God’s name happened?”
Arthur doesn’t say anything, continuing to try and catch his breath. His hands are red and cut. Atticus doesn’t waste a second more and lets him in, taking Jem from him to lay him down in his bed.
Scout comes a second later, her ham costume nowhere to be seen. It’s clear that she ran all the way over to the house. Her cheeks are pink and the sheen of newly formed sweat covers her face.
Atticus immediately picks her up, hugging her small body like she was going to end up the same way as Jem. When he asks her what happened, she doesn’t give him anything but “I don’t know”s, her voice cracking. He doesn’t push it any further.
Instead, he rushes over to where Alexandra was calling for Dr. Reynolds. He takes the receiver from her hands, rattling the hook with enough pressure that could snap it right off. He doesn’t notice his short breaths until he begins to speak.
“Eula May, get me the sheriff, please,” he says, restraining himself from shouting into the receiver. She complies, connecting the call over to Tate.
Atticus musters all he can to remain calm. He isn’t shaking or crying, no, but he can’t help the racing thoughts and fear that settles in the back of his mind. Someone’s after his children and he wasn’t there to protect them. How can he call himself a father if he can’t even prevent such things from-
“Heck Tate speakin’. Who’s this?”
“Heck. Atticus Finch. Someone’s been after my children,” Atticus says, seeing Scout try to suppress a flinch in the corner of his eye. He gives Heck everything he knows, almost begging him to come quick. Heck gets the memo without any other questions and hangs up his receiver.
The rest is a blur. Dr. Reynolds came into the house, telling them all that Jem was going to alright and that it’s just a few bruises and a broken arm. After a mention of an x-ray, he leaves right as Tate comes stomping at the front porch, his heavy boots making the old wood creak under them. Tate was slack-jawed to say the least, looking at Atticus as if he were trying to find the right words to say.
“What is it, Heck?” Atticus asked.
Tate looked him in the eyes before matter-of-factly telling him that Bob Ewell’s dead, that a knife lodged in his chest.
A surge of panic rushed through Atticus’ veins. Jem wouldn’t do such a thing. He’s a good boy. Why would he even have a knife? Did he really..?
Atticus’ attention focused again on Scout’s retelling of the event, trying to grip onto every word she said and find some explanation. He was appreciative of Heck’s gentleness with his daughter, not pushing her to say anything and listening attentively.
When Scout mentions someone else besides Bob Ewell in the fight, Heck asked, eyes widening slightly. “Who was it?”
“Why there he is, Mr. Tate, he can tell you his name.” Atticus barely raised his eyebrow in question before Scout pointed a figure in the corner of the room that he hadn’t noticed before in the commotion. He was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and a passive face.
He smiled slightly at Scout before making eye contact with the frozen lawyer. He looked shy, his face going a bit pink.
“Hey, Boo.”
They were outside.
After what seemed like an hour long lecture from Heck and getting confirmation from him and Scout that Ewell did fall on his own knife, Atticus stepped forward. Heck had left and Scout had gone back inside, probably to look after her brother.
He took another step. Seconds passed as the two men stared at each other, both seemingly searching for something on the other’s face.
“Thank you for my children, Arthur,” Atticus finally says. He pauses for a moment before sitting down next to him on the porch. “Why’d.. Why’d you do it?”
Radley looks at him, eyes barely widening yet still shocked. His eyes stray away from their initial contact and other smiles to no one in particular.
“Your children needed help, Mr. Finch,” he said, as if it were common sense. “I couldn’t just stand around and watch Ewell get away with ‘em..”
Atticus nodded, stealing glances of the man’s side profile. He was admittedly very handsome. Even the majority of Maycomb, men and women alike, agree that Arthur “Boo” Radley was the opposite of an eye sore.
“Could you walk me home?” Atticus almost didn’t catch the quiet mumble. When he turned his head, Radley was already looking at him. One could describe it as timidly, even.
Atticus smiled. “Of course, Mr. Radley.”
He stood up, offering his hand to the pale man. Radley took it. Atticus didn’t think to pull away from his touch, letting Radley hold his hand as they walked down the street.
“Atticus.” He turned to look at Arthur. His eyes looked soft and honey-like. Atticus' never felt this way for anyone other than his late wife, let alone for a man. His thoughts were jumbled and messy, unable to feel shame anymore. After Tom and Ewell’s attempt at his children, loving a man felt like nothing.
“Arthur?”
“If it’s not a bother to you,” Radley rubbed his nape with his free hand, “Could you visit me sometime?”
The question caught Atticus off guard, although his face remained neutral and stoic. He nodded and squeezed his hand, hoping that his bold gesture wouldn’t scare the already isolated man away. To his amusement, he felt him squeeze back.
“Of course.”
Radley smiled, a light blush painting his ears. The streetlights made his face look brighter than it typical was, making the color shine through.
“You’re a wonderful man, Atticus,” Radley said, looking down to the ground. Their once intertwined hands were now pulled apart and laid by their sides. “Lovely.”
A light kiss on the lips wasn’t what Atticus expected, but it wasn’t unwelcome. Atticus pulled him in by the waist, letting their chests carefully touch. He felt Radley smile against his lips.
They rested their foreheads on each other, catching their breaths. Radley’s once lightly flushed face was now a pretty red that made Atticus’ face heat up to match.
“I’ll see you tomorrow then?”
Atticus smiled, smoothing out Radley’s wrinkled shirt. He planted a kiss on Arthur’s cheek and caressed his bottom lip with his thumb. “Of course.”
Arthur blushed and nodded, pulling away. The warmth of his body left Atticus’ presence, making him feel cold and empty. He walked up the stairs of his front porch and entered his eerie house once again.
Though, Atticus knew not to be afraid of Arthur isolating himself once again. He would see him the next day. Then the next. And the next.
Soon, Arthur became a regular at the Finch household, being welcomed in by a ecstatic Scout and happy Jem. Alexandra would eventually accept him into the home, shedding her “streak” attitude just this once to let Arthur into her heart. Calpurnia would grow fond of him, too, speaking with him everyday that they create a sort of friendship.
Soon after, Arthur would begin to stay overnight in Atticus’ bedroom. The once cold bed was now accompanied by two as it was originally used for.
And when Jem and Scout see the slight graze of Atticus’ hand over Arthur’s, or the two men whispering to each other on the couch, they don’t say a word.