Work Text:
ap·ple
/ˈap(ə)l/
Slang
1. An apple is an assist. When a player helps set up a goal, they’ve earned an apple. A way to contribute to the team’s success.
1.
Tiny fingers yank on Wayne's hair.
"Hot dog!" Eddie cries, and his legs squeeze around Wayne's neck as he points with one chubby finger, Wayne coughin' and splutterin' as his nephew damn near chokes him, and turns to see a small line of people waitin' next to them, a lonesome pimply-faced teenager loading hot dogs into buns.
Wayne pulls on Eddie's pudgy arm, making the toddler lean in close. "Maybe if you ask your ma and pa real nice, they'll let me buy ya one."
A dimpled smile breaks across his nephew's chubby cheeks, his dark curls already grown down past his ears. He turns, and those curls bounce, and Wayne holds the three year old on his shoulders a little tighter.
"Mommy!" Ed's got lungs for such a small thing, and Wayne winces as gravity begins to fight his nephew's perch on his shoulders, the toddler leaning over to grab at his mother's hair.
She jolts as he yanks on her, and his sister-in-law laughs as Eddie's little hand pulls her close. "Can I pwease," Eddie says, enunciating every syllable, those puppy-dog eyes growing wide, "halve a hot dog?"
Sometimes Wayne don't know how they do it. How Lizzie and Al don't give into Eddie's every whim because if it were up to Wayne?
He'd be run out of house and home for the way he'd spoil him.
But Lizzie only laughs, easing Eddie's fingers from her hair. "How about if you sit real well for the first half, we'll get you one during the second?"
It's the wrong thing to say. Eddie's eyes grow wide, and his bottom lip begins to wobble, a pout stretching his mouth and Wayne knows they've only got moments before his nephew raises all hell.
Wayne bounces, which always makes his back hurt, his spine twinging along the long-healed war wound, but it makes Eddie rock in that way he likes, and it startles the little thing enough to break that scowl from his face.
"We'll be good," Wayne promises, "won't we, Eds?"
The toddler blinks, his welling eyes clearing. His frown is still there, dimpling his forehead, but he looks consoled now, knowing Wayne's there with him. "Otay," he mumbles, and his fists return to Wayne's hair.
Al returns, carrin' two tall cups of amber liquid, and Wayne don't say a word. Don't say a word when his brother gets up twenty minutes later to get another round and he don't say a thing when he gets a third.
Wayne switches spots with his nephew when Al starts shoutin' vulgarity at the ref. Separates him from Al so all Ed hears is the cheering of the crowd, and Wayne lets Eddie have sips of his coke, and holds the toddler up so he can see over everyone's heads.
Eddie squeals when players collide, when the buzzer sounds, when the lights around them flash, his tiny palms smacking against Wayne's forehead and his feet kicking against his chest, delighted by the chaos around him.
Wayne holds his nephew tight. Keeps his gaze on the rink, even as Al's face gets redder, and his brow beads sweat, and he picks a fight with the guy who accidentally poured popcorn on his shoes, Wayne keeps Eddie's eyes on the ice, safe.
2.
Wayne's gonna kill his brother. That, or he's gonna to let him rot in that damn jail cell he called from because it don't matter that Al is hurting, that he lost his wife because Ed--Eddie lost his mom.
He pulls up to the school. His nephew's alone on the front steps, his backpack so large it swallows 'im, and Eddie jumps up when he stops, sprintin' across the front lawn of the elementary school, that backpack smacking him against the back of his knees.
He launches into Wayne's front seat, slammin' the door behind him. The kid crosses his arms, scowlin' deep into the lines of his round face, and that just--
Wayne just can't let that be the day Eddie has. Not if there's a single thing he can do t' change it. To protect him from it.
"Sorry 'm late." He pulls away from the school, n' goes with the first lie that he can think of. "Didn't get your daddy's voicemail 'til I got home a half hour ago." He glances to Eddie, whose shoulders have relaxed a little. "He's outta town." And he hates lying to this boy. Hates that it falls so easily from his lips, hates that he does it because of someone so undeserving of Ed's love, but he hates his nephew's frown more. "Work trip."
He feels Eddie's gaze shift to him, those dark eyes seein' far more than they ever should.
"I'm makin' it up to you," Wayne goes on, clearing his throat. It's been their tried and true since Ed was three, since he took him to that first game n' 'sides, he got paid today. He can swing it. "The Racers're playin' the Cougars tonight." He dares a glance at his nephew, takin' his eyes from the road to see Eddie's wide, hopeful gaze. "You wanna go?" He lifts his hand from the wheel to nudge the kid with an elbow. "If ya don't mind the nosebleeds."
Eddie's hands drop from their crossed position on his chest. A smile twitches at the corners of his lips. "Mark Messier's gonna kick ass," he mutters, his frown soft, begrudgingly happy, and Wayne don't have the heart to reprimand him on his language.
The Racers ain't any good, but it's a fact Ed's oblivious to as he shoves the foam finger onto his hand, as Wayne buys him a coke and a hot dog that he presses against his chest on the way to their seats, gettin' his foam finger covered in ketchup and mustard, and Ed's too big t' hold, now, too big for Wayne t' hold him on his shoulders, too big, soon, to believe Wayne's lies, but as the game starts, Ed's eyes still light up the same way he did when Wayne first took him out. He still cheers with his mouth full, still roars along with the crowd when the Racers score their only goal of the night, still lets Wayne ruffle his hair when the final buzzer sounds, 5-1, still leaves with a smile on his face and ketchup stains on his shirt, happy.
3.
Wayne never thought he'd be any good at this. He was happy handlin' Ed for a weekend, for a day trip, for a night, but this?
This was what Wayne had never prepared for, not even when Lizzie died.
Ed picks at his cereal. The name-brand one Wayne picked up from the store on his way home from work that morning, with the orange juice Wayne didn't even water down. Ed's probably too old for that trick now, though.
"Not hungry?" Wayne asks, over his eggs. Never could get behind sugar in the morning.
His nephew's gaze drifts up to meet his own. Dark circles hang under his eyes. Lip's bitten raw.
Cause Wayne failed t' protect him from any of it.
Eddie shrugs. Drags his spoon through the milk, gaze dropping to watch the puffy cereal melt. His head is held in one hand, fingers brushin' against shorn hair, hair shorter than Wayne's ever seen him wear it.
Wayne's never had a lot. Even when he was Ed's age. It was him n' Al against the world, until Al decided he was part of the world he was fightin' against, until Al decided Ed was worth losin' in that fight.
A wager Wayne would never make, no matter how great the odds.
Ed drags a finger through the condensation on his glass, and Wayne fingers the tickets in his pocket.
Four of 'em. 'Cause Ed still might not talk all that much, but the things he does say?
Wayne tries like hell to remember.
He drums his fingers on the table. "Got any birthday plans?"
Again his nephew shrugs, his slump growing more pronounced as he curls over his lukewarm bowl of cereal.
Wayne hums, considerin' his nephew's response. "Probably good," he reasons, still drumming his fingers, "since we got tickets t' see the Hawks."
He wishes it could've been the Oilers. Wishes he could've set Ed up to see Messier again after Indiana blew their chances at their one and only pro team, wishes he could've put some use to the jersey hangin' proud in his closet, but Edmonton is far. Too far, even for the lengths Wayne was willin' to go.
He hopes it's enough t' give Ed the birthday he deserves.
Eddie drops his spoon. Looks up with something other than sadness in his dark eyes. "Really?" He says it all tentative. Says it hopeful like he's half expectin' Wayne to pull the rug out from underneath 'im, like he still doesn't fully trust this new life they've started together.
"You n' those new friends o' yours." He says, and pulls those slips of paper out of his pocket.
It's not enough, he knows. Not enough 'cause this boy deserves the world, deserves it all, but he's stuck with Wayne. Wayne just hopes he can shield him from the worst of it, now.
Eddie stares down at the tickets. Flashes of emotions Wayne can't read flitting across his young face before there's the squeak of a chair and suddenly Wayne has a lap full of gangly preteen, all elbows and knees, Eddie's face resting against his shoulder.
"Thank you." Is mumbled against his flannel, skinny arms squeezing him, and Wayne feels something tickle the back of his throat.
He coughs. Clears his throat, and wraps his arms around his nephew. "Now go get dressed," he mutters, squeezin' tighter, "we got a long drive."
4.
Wayne had bought 'em as a graduation present. Bought 'em when he was filled with so much pride that his boy was graduating that he never much let himself think he wouldn't. Never let himself think on what would happen if Ed didn't get his grades up. Had simply believed Eddie would.
Ed's more 'n sore about it. Spent last night curled up under covers too hot for May, hidin' from the world.
Wayne knows it's bad when his boy hides from him, too.
It's been a long time since Ed's been like that, with him.
Now Ed's listening to his music again, louder'n anything Wayne's ever been able to tolerate, and he's stuck at the dining table, thumbing the tickets.
Edmonton Oilers v Philadelphia Flyers
Ed's got that poster of Messier in his closet that Wayne don't ask a whole lot of questions about, knowin' there's more t' it than the admiration he shone with not a decade before.
His boy will tell him when it's time.
But now is a talk Wayne doesn't know how to have. He wonders if all parents feel this. This horrible, weighty lack of, or if biology ever takes the reins.
But Wayne nips that thought in the bud pretty quick. Knows biology never did Al any good with his son. Knows his own lack of has always done a whole lot more.
So he stands. Walks to Ed's door. Knocks.
It's no surprise there's no answer. Music's loud enough he'd have to shout to be heard, and Wayne, carefully, cracks open Ed's door.
He's still all bunched up underneath too-thick covers, the bottoms of his feet just pokin' out the ends.
"Ed," he calls, but whatever song he's got playin' is still too loud, and Wayne's gotta cross the room and shake his boy's calf before he's jerking upright, hair a nest and eyes red and puffy, blinking against the dim light of the room like it's blindin' him. He crumples when he sees Wayne. Just folds right in on himself before leaning over to pull the power cord, cuttin' the music.
His boy pulls his legs up against his chest. Curls his arms tight and protective across his knees.
Wayne sits down on the bed.
Eddie doesn't meet his gaze.
"'M proud of you." Wayne starts. "Y'know that, right?"
But all Ed does is snort. Roll his swollen eyes. Scoff like Wayne's blowin' smoke up his ass. "Yeah," Eddie mutters, voice thick, "okay." He says it all loud, mocking and sharp, and Wayne likes to think it takes a lot to anger him. Takes a lot for his buttons to be pressed, but for anyone to question his love for Eddie, even by Eddie himself?
It's enough to rile him.
"You think I'm lyin'?" Eddie red gaze returns, a sharp downturn to one side of his mouth. "O'course, 'm proud of you." He squeezes Ed's calf. Makes sure his boy is payin' attention. Slows his voice so Ed hears every word. "You remember how you told me?" He raises his brows, but Eddie just gazes at him, lips bitten raw. "You told me: Wayne, I gotta re-take senior year." Wayne smiles, just thinking back on the memory. "Quittin' never even crossed your mind." He lets that sit. Lets that sink in, hopes it does somethin' to soothe what Wayne can't bandage. "You've always been like that," he goes on, "no matter how many times the world pushes you down, you stand right back up." Wayne pulls himself closer on the bed, seeing hoy boy's lip wobble. "How could I not be proud of that?"
Eddie sniffs, wet and harsh, tears tricklin' their way down his cheeks. "I flunked, Wayne." The words are still sharp, all the edges pointed to himself, now. "What kind of fuckin' idiot flunks out of high school?" His boy wipes his sleeve across his raw nose. "What kind of idiot does that make me?"
Wayne kisses his teeth. Fierce defensiveness taking hold. Cause he's never let anyone talk about his boy like that.
"You know you're the first person in this family to know more'n English?"
"Wayne, Elvish does not--"
"--first one t'read like you?" Wayne gestures to Eddie's bookshelf, overflowing with more books than Wayne's ever read in his life. "First one to stick high school through t'senior year?" Wayne himself left a sixteen. Told the Army recruiter he was two years older than he was, and was shipped off across the world before the school year had let out. "First one t'get an A? T'teach yourself engine repair?" He sticks his thumb towards where Eddie's van rests. "I couldn't've fixed that thing." Wayne leans forward. "You ain't an idiot, kid."
Eddie cups his hands over his face. Rubs his eyes. "I'll have be there a whole 'nother year," Eddie whispers, and Wayne pulls his boy against his side. Rests him there, until Ed's shaky breaths turn even.
"Might got somethin' to make swallowin' that a lil' easier." He ventures, and he knows it don't fix everythin', maybe not even a single thing, but he hopes, as he lays those tickets in Ed's open hand, it might make it all a little brighter.
"The Stanley Cup?" Ed's voice is a hush, and Wayne shrugs.
"Somethin' like that." He had to pick a couple--several--many--extra shifts up at the plant, but Wayne's not counting. He'd do it a thousand times over.
Eddie's lip wobbles again before he's throwing his arms around Wayne's neck, climbing into his lap. "Thank you," Eddie mumbles, his nose wedging against Wayne's neck. "For...everything." He sniffs, and Wayne curls his arms around him, rubbing his back.
He blinks. Clears his throat. "Now I gotta figure out how t'show myself up when you cross that stage," he grumbles, and Eddie huffs a distressed, wet laugh, "a meet n' greet with Mark Messier?"
Eddie groans out a laugh, sniffs again, and pulls out of his hold. He's smilin' now, at least, puffy-eyed and red-faced, but smiling, and Wayne ruffles his frizzy hair.
"I haven't like Messier since I was like, eight." Eddie grumbles, and Wayne doesn't say anything.
He'll give him his Messier jersey later.
5.
Wayne's never much cared for hospitals. After Vietnam, he didn't much care for anythin' the government had its claws in, but Wayne can admit, now, how grateful he is.
Because Ed's alive. Torn up and chewed up and spat back out again, but alive.
He was able to stand yesterday. A feat that had him white-knuckling the hospital-issued walker, but one that nurses say give them hope.
Wayne finds he could use a little more of that, after everything.
There's more of it in Ed's room, as somehow his boy's got more friends after his manhunt than before. The same one's always, Jeff and Gareth and the one Wayne can never remember the name of, but there's little ones, too, ones from that board game he plays, and Wayne swears these high school kids get younger'n younger every year.
There's a girl and a boy that Wayne has never seen apart from one another and a curly-haired girl and a surly looking boy and another with hair so long Wayne watches as Ed marvel at it.
They all come and go. Another girl, a little one, is down the hall, Wayne's heard. As rough of shape as Ed.
His goal, Ed told Wayne, is to be able to walk down the hall to see her.
They all make 'im feel okay enough to leave the hospital. T'shower n' change and eat somethin' that wasn't under a heat lamp, not that his microwave is all that different, but it helps him, knowing his boy's in safe hands.
He packs Ed's things. Changes o'clothes and those books he loves, grabs his favorite snacks off the shelves and, before he leaves, Wayne grabs a jersey.
They're all packed into Ed's room when he comes back. Two on his bed, little ones, curlin' over a notebook, watchin' as Ed scribbles in notes. The two inseparable ones stand at either ends of the bed, the boy untangling the mats that had formed in Ed's hair, the girl with a bottle of polish, painting Eddie's toes. Still others are asleep on those uncomfortable chairs, and while Wayne has learned to not ask questions, it burns him to see how young these kids really are.
"Wayne!" His boy's voice brings him back, and he grins before gently setting Eddie's things on the foot of the too-small bed. "Thought you were gonna miss it!"
Wordless, Wayne unzips the bag. Tosses the blue n' red tee on his nephew's face. "How're the Oilers supposedt'a win without you wearin' their good luck charm?"
Ed can't really wear it, on account of the needles still in his arms, but when the boy with the comb finishes, he ties the thing around Eddie's head, Messier boldly visible across his forehead.
Wayne finds he's never watched a hockey game this loud outside of an arena. The little ones might not've understood the game at first, but it don't take 'em long to start shouting about it. Standin' and jumpin' enough a nurse tells them to cool it--
But his son is smilin'. There's IVs in his arms and bandages across his middle and stitches across his cheek, but his toes are painted. His hair is tied back and there's a light in his eyes Wayne never thought he would see again, and Messier has the puck.
+1
Wayne Munson has always been a homebody. He likes his own bed. He likes the way his own coffee maker brews his cups, likes how his own detergent smells and likes the noise of his own air conditioner, but today Wayne Munson went on a plane for the third time in his life.
Indianapolis to Boston, a city he's never been, and never thought to go.
Until his boy moved.
It's hard, lettin' 'em go. Lettin' 'em find where they're supposed to be and lettin' 'em trip up along the way.
Wayne's pretty sure, though, that Ed's exactly where he's supposed to be.
His boy hugs him when he find him in the crowd, wraps arms that are a man's, now, around him, but buries his face in Wayne's neck same as he did when he was three feet shorter. "Missed you," Eddie mumbles, and Wayne holds his son a little tighter, kissing the side of his head.
"Missed you too, kid."
Steve n' Robin are there, when they get back, the two peas in a pod that are still nestled tight.
Ed's all exuberance, showin' Wayne their cramped kitchen, fridge overflown' with cards n' letters n' photos, and Wayne sees some of his own up there: postcards he's been sendin' every week since his boy moved.
He's then lead a whole three steps to the living room, filled with second-hand furniture n' stacks of books as side tables, records piled high and a cracked television, and Wayne swells a little at the sight. At the sight of this life his son built, at the life his son built when there was everythin' and then some standin' in his way.
Eddie holds something out to him. Smiles that way of his when Wayne takes it, pullin' a lock of hair across his face that he's done since he had hair long enough to.
It's an envelope. With two tickets inside.
Wayne never much held allegiances after the Racers. Indiana had their moment, a short lived one, and after that, Wayne was happy to watch hockey for the sport of it.
Boston Garden, though, just might turn his towards the Bruins. Yellow banners hang from the ceiling, proud displays of Stanley Cup Champions, and Wayne knows his boy, knows his own loyalties run deep, but as the Bruins warm up, run drills, stretch, Eddie is in his ear.
"That's Roy Burque and Bob Sweeney," Eddie explains, "best defensemen we've got." His boy points again. "Andy Moog, nothin' gets past him."
A hush falls as they prepare for the puck to drop, and this has always been Wayne's favorite part. The moment of quiet. The pause. The held breath--
And suddenly Neely has it. Neely to Brickley, Brickley to Ashton, and Ed's already shouting, already screamin' along with everyone else, and Wayne feels it again: that pride. Pride for his boy, and everything he wouldn't let be taken from him.
Ashton shoots, and the buzzer sounds, and Eddie throws an arm around Wayne's neck, squeezin' tight.