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Bender bites back a cocky smirk as the library door shuts behind him. Vernon’s positively fuming now, silently urging him on with every amount of his crumpled authority he can gather. Vernon vaguely reminds him of a rooster— chest puffed, the wide-set walk of someone with spurs too big for their feet, beet-red face that by now must be purple based on the way he never seems to take a deep enough breath— the image is absurd enough to warrant a laugh and the beginning of a snide comment before a sharp yank of his collar nearly sends him to the ground. Bender shakes it off, mildly surprised at the contact. He watches the paneled glass of Vernon's office disappear from his peripheral with a growing sense of confusion. Weren't they going to “talk”? Surely Dick isn't dense enough to forget where his own office is.
But, as they continue down the hall only to stop in front of a storage closet, Bender’s slapstick defiance melts into something more heavy, a feeling that settles uneasily in his stomach like a puddle of grease. Vernon seems dead set on it though, so Bender begrudgingly complies and allows himself to be herded into a glorified bathroom stall.
The air is almost immediately stuffy. Bender tests the rigidity of some dusty boxes before deeming them solid enough to hold his weight. He sprawls out on the back stock of what looks to be history textbooks, leaning his head against a row of equally-ancient filing cabinets. Vernon shuts the door behind him, oddly calm compared to his behavior in the hall. The unease crawls further into Bender's gut, rooting its tendrils in his stomach and beginning the slow rise to his sternum.
Though brief, the silence is deafening. Vernon’s looking at him now, and despite everything, Bender can't force himself to meet that impossibly furious gaze. He hugs his knee to his chest in a way that he hopes is casual and stares longingly at the shiny silver handle of the only exit to this room.
This feels different from Vernon’s typical scoldings. So unbelievably foreign, yet his mind tells him it's too familiar to ignore.
“That's the last time. Bender. That's the last time you ever make me look bad in front of those kids, do you hear me?” Vernon starts with his typical spiel, one Bender has practically memorized from the amount of times he's been forced to sit through it. This is about the fifth “last time” this week. He starts to wonder if Dick knows what “last” means, or if he's too afraid to admit that he doesn't.
With no outward response to go off of, Principal Vernon continues, “I make thirty one thousand dollars a year and I've got a home, and I'm not about to throw it away on some punk like you.”
Bender holds back a snort, fighting desperately to keep his apologetic puppy eyes from faltering. He's really trying to lay it on thick this time, like it'll do any good.
Vernon raises an accusatory finger, stepping closer. “But someday, man— someday, when you're outta here and you've forgotten all about this place, and they've forgotten all about you, and you're wrapped up in your own pathetic life, I'm gonna be there.”
Bender turns his head, finally looking up at the hellish monster he's been locked in a room with. The unease churns suddenly in his stomach. He swallows thickly, trying to keep his nerves from spilling out and getting himself in even more trouble.
Vernon’s lips twitch upward for a moment, feeding off of the reaction he's been waiting for this whole time.
“That's right. And I'm gonna kick the living shit out of you, man,” he spits, jabbing his finger toward the kid with each word, “I'm gonna knock your dick in the dirt.”
Bender opens his mouth, tongue like sandpaper as he juts his chin out in the only act of rebellion he can muster. “You threatening me?”
What had been intended as a cocky response instead came out much quieter, subdued and filled with more genuine fear than he liked to admit.
This was a different game. He knew how to play his cards right, but the situation was so unbelievably far from what he was used to that he found himself staring blankly at his hand and waiting for the dealer to call.
“What are you gonna do about it?” Came Vernon’s dangerously even reply.
For once, Bender doesn't know.
“You think anybody's gonna believe you?”
A step closer.
“You think anybody is gonna take your word over mine?”
Another step. Bender shrinks back despite himself.
“I'm a man of respect around here. They love me around here, I'm a swell guy,” He takes a step back and Bender starts breathing again, “You're a lying sack of shit and everybody knows it.”
He allows himself a fraction of an inhale through his nose. For barely a second, the air changes from stuffy, dusty textbooks and decaying records to the overwhelming musk of bourbon and cigar smoke. However fleeting, it's enough to make his lungs squeeze uncomfortably in his chest. He can't do anything. Scream, run, knock Dick's lights out, whatever. He wants to, desperately, but it's like his limbs are made of concrete. White-hot anger lashes at the enamel of his teeth, trying its best to claw its way through clenched molars to no avail. He's stuck. Unfathomably stuck.
Vernon's waiting for a response. Bender knows he's looking for something. He scrambles to form a reply, but his mind is swimming and the walls are slowly creaking inward. It takes just about all he has to keep his head up.
Inaction was the wrong choice. Bender's vision blurs slightly as Vernon pulls at the lapels of his suit. He struggles out of his jacket, taunting, “Oh you're a real big tough guy. Hey, hey. C'mon, get up."
Bender makes no move to obey, clutching his pant leg with white knuckles. He wants nothing more than to sink into these boxes and disappear.
Vernon tosses his jacket to the side, pushing up the sleeves of his black button-down. “Get on your feet pal,” he yells, and Bender winces slightly, ”Let's find out how tough you are— I wanna know, right now, how tough you are. C'mon, I'll give you the first punch. Let's go.”
Bender isn't in a school storage closet anymore. His body is, sure. But his head is somewhere else. Double vision makes it difficult to make out what's really in front of him. Sleazy, salon-dyed black hair morphs into close-cropped gray. Wrinkles furrow where there weren't any before. Suddenly, he's nine again, standing in the living room doorway and staring down a man nearly three times his size, sweaty fists tight against his scrawny sides.
Vern— Dad moves closer, hands on his knees as he gives Bender an uncharacteristically wide smile. Habit forces him to look over his old man’s shoulder instead of at his face. The faded snake tattoo along his neck moves when his mouth opens, and his raspy, smoke-damaged voice overwhelms Bender.
“C'mon, right here. Just take the first shot.”
He feels his shaking hand ball up even tighter.
“Please. I'm begging you. Take a shot right here— c'mon!” His dad’s scarred finger comes up to point at his face, right between the eyes.
He winds his skinny arm up, breathing heavy.
“Just take one shot, that's all I need. Just one swing.”
The vision slips from his mind like water down the drain. The last thing he sees is the ash-stained carpet as his head snaps backward, rough knuckles colliding with his shallow cheek.
It takes a Herculean amount of effort to pull himself back to reality. Vernon is uncomfortably close, eyes shut in anticipation.
Bender sits there, unmoving.
The silence stretches on.
Vernon opens his eyes, disappointment evident on his face. He stands up.
Nothing. Then, a flash of movement.
Bender flinches like he's been shot, blinking rapidly as Vernon’s fist retreats from where it had stopped mere inches from his face.
“That's what I thought.”
Bender's heart is hammering inside his chest now. He's sure, in these close quarters, that the hummingbird-esque tha-thump-tha-thump-tha-thump is loud enough for both of them to hear it.
Vernon huffs a laugh, but there's no amusement behind it. He leans in once more, muttering venomously, “You're a gutless turd.”
Bender can do nothing but stare fearfully at Vernon's pinched brows and pray to God that his breath is coming out in even puffs.
Everything feels as if it's at the end of a very long, very narrow tunnel. He watches as Principal Vernon snatches his jacket and leaves, keeping his eyes on that damned silver handle as it slowly turns back. He's dimly aware of the rattle of keys and the solid thunk of the lock turning.
The air is thick. He takes a shallow, shaky breath and lets his head fall back against the filing cabinets, staring at the fluorescent light above. Every inhale is tainted with the faint essence of smoke.
Logically, there's nothing there. He knows where he is. He hasn't moved. But, as the confined space of the room slowly becomes more and more unbearable, and the hum of electricity running through the bulbs gets louder and louder, reality melts back into dingy carpet and bruised knuckles.
Bender slides his trembling hands along his scalp, grabbing fistfuls of hair by the roots. His chest burns as his heart maintains its maniacal beating, thumping solidly enough against his ribs to hurt. It's too warm in here. He clumsily shrugs out of his jacket, struggling to relieve the unbearable weight pressing him against the unforgiving metal behind him.
Tears prick at the corner of his eyes as he continues to take shallow, uneven breaths, darting around wildly to try and pinpoint the reason for the sudden lack of breathable air.
He's so fucking paranoid. The door is locked. It's locked but he swears that the handle is turning ever so slightly.
He's in his room, now. There's a chair under the door— he's already halfway out the window. The knob is turning, turning, stopping, and the whole door rattles. He jumps before he sees it splinter open.
The bruises healed. The doorframe didn't.
What? He's not at home. He's at school. Why does he keep doing that?
His head hurts.
He grips the front of his shirt, fingers squeezing and releasing in a discordant rhythm. There's nothing to run from, but God does he feel the need to. It's too cramped in this closet and so damn hot he feels like he might pass out.
If his heart would quit trying to leap out of his goddamn chest, maybe he could think straight.
“F-fucking pussy,” he mutters to himself, fighting the rising wave of dread that threatens to toss him over the edge, “Get o-over it.”
He finds that looking up helps. The walls shift back to their normal places.
And the tears he furiously blinks back are able to stay in his eyes instead of streaming down his face in hot, ugly rivulets.
Bender forces himself to take a full breath despite the burn in his lungs screaming for him to stop. Inhale, hold, exhale. Calming breaths, or whatever sissy shit it was that he read off of one of the counselor’s “motivational” posters. He's slightly embarrassed to admit that it works on him. Closing his eyes, he tries to settle his heartbeat to a more manageable level. In, out. In, out. He's fine. He's always been fine.
His splitting headache subsides to a dull throb, brought on more by staring up at a bright light than… whatever he just went through.
Bender spends a few more moments with his eyes closed while his mind returns to earth. He gives his fingers a few reassuring squeezes against his palms, feeling the leather of his gloves creak under his chewed-off nails.
He’s back to reality. And he's staying here. For now.
When he opens his eyes, he blinks to adjust to the brightness flooding his vision before settling on the ceiling tiles above. A smile curls the ends of his lips upward as an idea slowly works through the muddled mess of his thoughts and presents itself in the forefront of his mind.
He won't be caged.
No. He can't be caged.
If he's still shaking when he slides off of his storage box perch, he doesn't acknowledge it. He blames the tremble in his hands on an influx of adrenaline as he stacks items on top of each other, precariously balancing the assortment of junk he finds in a way that he hopes will support him.
His senses seem to return to normal as he delicately climbs his makeshift ladder and presses the pads of his fingers against a ceiling panel. It gives way, and he stares up into the darkness above with an impish grin.
Bender's back, baby.