Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1994

"Set the table." Aimee ordered from the kitchen, her face shining from the steam. When Monty and Gwennie, his foster sister, froze looking at each other for clarification, she growled. "Montgomery! The table! Now!" She pointed a long, perfectly manicured finger at Gwennie who swallowed nervously. "Get the plates." Her voice was softer, sweeter but her hand was perilously close to the utensil jar where the weapons lived. 

They both slid from the couch, taking slow steps into the kitchen, Monty trying to keep his distance from Aimee as she drained the rice into the sink. The cabinet door screeched as Gwennie reached for the large, pale green plates, taking one at a time. 

"Faster, Gwennie." There was that poisonously sweet tone again. "You don't want me to tell Daddy that you didn't do what you were told, right?"

Monty watched as Gwennie struggled with the plates. She'd just turned four and was tiny, but because she was four, Aimee had decided she was old enough to take on chores. Which was crazy, especially when it meant forcing her to carry those heavy plates in her skinny arms. Sometimes he thought Aimee liked thinking up ways to make them screw up, just so she or Cyrus could hurt them, just so she could get her frustration out on them. The plates made Gwennie's body tremble under the weight and Monty rushed over, cramming the forks and knives into one hand. Supporting them, he slid them out of her arms. "It's okay," he said. "I'll carry them and you can put them on the table."

Gwennie breathed out softly, relief clear in her doe-like eyes. "Thanks," she said quietly. "They're heavy."

They were heavy. Monty tried to act like they weren't because he knew Gwennie would only try to help if she thought he was struggling. He turned to the doorway and the top plate slid before he could do anything to stop it. It fell and shattered noisily against the linoleum, shards of chunky, apple-green porcelain scattering all over. Monty stilled. He heard Gwennie's sharp intake of breath and the slam of a pot on the counter, sending white-hot drops of water flying through the air. 

"Goddammit, Montgomery!" Aimee's hand seized his shoulder, pushing until his back hit the wall. "I told Gwennie to get the plates, not you."

Monty's heart sped up as he looked into her eyes. They were as dark and beautiful as sapphires, so deep that he could see his reflection, pale and scared, looking right back at him. "It was an accident."

"I don't care if it was an accident. It doesn't magically fix that, does it?" Her fingernails were piercing as she gripped his shoulder and then the linoleum struck his knees as she forced him down. "If I see one little piece of porcelain on this floor, I will make you eat it, and it'll shred up your insides. Do you understand?"

Monty nodded, his hands reaching for the bigger pieces, slowly because he didn't want to cut himself. A sharp pain exploded between his shoulder blades and he yelped, looking up into those blue-black eyes. "I'm getting it," he said. "I am."

"Faster. Because if Daddy walks in here and sees all this, what do you think he's going to do?" Aimee's fingers tapped the wide belt around her narrow hips. "Better hurry."

'He isn't my daddy,' Monty thought to himself, but he knew this wasn't the time to make a stand, so he scrabbled for the pieces, wincing as they poked and scratched at his skin. Blood trickled down his fingers, scored across his palms, but the last thing he wanted was for Cyrus to make him bleed, so he collected every piece he could see and scanned the floor with his eyes to make sure there weren't any slivers left. The front door opened and swung shut. Cyrus' key turned in the lock and Monty could hear the mumble of voices - Aimee telling Cyrus all about what he'd done. Gwennie shuffled over, wrapping both her arms around his. She couldn't protect him if Cyrus decided to hurt him, but it was a tiny comfort to have her beside him. They both looked down as Cyrus' sneakers slapped against the floorboards and Monty's palms stung as he clenched his fists in an effort to be brave.

"Gwennie, go to Mommy."

Gwennie stayed still, her grip tightening. Monty didn't want her to get in trouble, so he nudged her gently. "It's okay. Go to...Mom." Saying that, giving Aimee that title felt wrong. But he was hopeful for leniency, so he betrayed his real mother to pacify the fake one. Gwennie reluctantly left his side and soon the scuffed toes of Cyrus' sneakers came into view. Monty swallowed air because his mouth was bone-dry and when Cyrus took his jaw, he looked up into eyes of pale, sandy brown. 

"Mommy says you broke her plate."

"It was an accident." Monty's voice rasped from lack of moisture. Even his throat felt dry. "The plates were too heavy for Gwennie-"

"So Gwennie asked you to carry them?"

Monty shook his head quickly, catching glimpses of Gwennie's wide, frightened eyes. "No. I made her."

"And then you dropped them."

Monty could feel heat building up behind his eyes. He knew that flat tone, the one that meant it was a foregone conclusion. Still, he tried. "I just wanted to help."

"And now we're down a plate. Is that helpful?"

With no other answer to the question, Monty mumbled; "No." Silver flashed warm in the kitchen's flower-style overhead lights and the sound of black leather hissing through faded denim loops made Monty's back stiffen.

"Turn around."

'It'll be okay,' Monty lied fruitlessly to himself as his feet clumsily bumped against each other in their obedience. 'It'll be okay.'

Gwennie whimpered.

Aimee shushed her sharply. "This is what happens when kids are bad."

The belt whooshed and Monty screamed as it slammed between his shoulderblades, burning a thick line he couldn't see. Another strike followed, and another and then it all blurred into one huge pain, ignited by further hits. 'My daddy wouldn't hurt me like this,' he thought to himself as he desperately tried to keep still because moving meant worse. 'I want Daddy.' But Daddy was far away, still happy without him in his life. And Monty was here, with people who hurt him. Tears leaked and he choked on a sob. "I'm sorry!" The words tore out of him, high and desperate. "I'm sorry! Please don't be mad any more, I'm sorry-"

"Oh, don't be a damn baby." Cyrus snapped, swinging the eighth and last crack at him. "You've got to learn." As Monty's shaking legs lowered him to the ground,  Cyrus' hand grabbed his arm, forcing him up as he swayed unsteadily. "Get out of my sight."

Monty staggered, his back burning and raw under his t-shirt. He knew the drill. Go upstairs and think. Think about what he did wrong. He just didn't know what he'd done so wrong that he'd deserved this.

"But, Daddy..." As Cyrus' eyes fell on her, Gwennie's voice quietened, but she still tried. "We haven't had dinner yet."

"Montgomery should have thought of that before he decided to break Mommy's plate. Now go sit down, princess."

Gwennie still looked unsure. Aimee stroked her hair, a single, cold touch. "He doesn't need dinner, he needs to think."

Every step jolted his bank, causing rolling waves off pain to ripple through his beaten muscles. When he got to his room and pulled his shirt off, he could see blood smudged against the cheap, thin fabric. He sniffed and lay on his bed, facedown and reached under his pillow for the tiny car, still as perfect as the day his daddy had given it to him. Even though Daddy had let this happen, had freely given him away to these scary, mean adults, Monty missed him. He felt tears fall, hot and bitter down his cheeks and buried his face in his pillow. "Daddy," he whispered. "Daddy."

Chapter Text

2000

"Okay, superstar. I'm just going to meet with a client to grab a coffee with him." 

Monty looked up from the magazine and saw a silvered reflection of his own face staring back at him. Harv often went out and it was rarely for short periods, now that he felt Monty was settled in. Monty would have preferred to have Harv around more often, but he did understand that there was a reason he went out so much. "Okay." 

Harv smiled, reaching for the keys he'd left in a small kintsugi bowl by the front door. "I'll just be an hour. Two, tops." 

"Is he a racer?"

"He thinks he is." 

So, he was a racer. Monty pushed away the magazine, looking up into Harv's expressionless sunglasses, hoping that his eyes could see him properly. "Can I come?" 

Harv shook his head. "Trust me, you wouldn't find it fun." He must've seen the disappointment in Monty's eyes because he softened his tone. "This guy isn't even a tenth of the success you'll be. You'll meet better racers than him, kid. Just not today."

"Okay," Monty sighed. 

"Aw, Jesus. Look, I know you've been alone a lot lately, but it's not personal. You do know that, don't you?"

"I know. It's just..." Lonely. It felt very lonely. It sounded pathetic, so Monty didn't say it. But, god, he felt it. 

"We'll do something. I'll take you to a movie or something later."

Monty felt his spirits lift. He'd never been. Dad was too poor and the foster monsters weren't big on spending money on him. "Really?" 

"Yeah, sure." Harv gave him a wave and swore as his phone started ringing. The door slammed and Monty could hear him saying; "Yeah, I'm coming, you impatient bastard."

Monty finished reading the magazine. He found and watched a very interesting documentary about birds. And then an even more interesting one about reptiles. He reread his magazine. And then he started wandering around the house which was still new territory for him. Harv had said he was free to go anywhere in the place and Monty had slowly been exploring different rooms over the past six months. The last one was the home office, which he found himself standing in the doorway of. A glass desk sparkled in sunlight that spilled through slatted blinds, proudly bearing a chunky computer. Shelves held photographs, awards, framed certificates and as Monty stepped inside, he could see a globe bar, opened to display tiny bottles of stuff that he wasn't meant to drink just yet. Probably would, though. Harv let him drink beer. 

He went to the globe bar, wanting to see what was in it, but something caught his attention on the desk. It looked like a mini Ferris wheel, with thick black knobs on either side, with a spine of cards fanned like feathers. He approached it with interest. Could it spin? He reached out and gently pushed down. It span slowly, with a clunk-clunk-clunk noise that Monty liked the sound of. He span it again. Clunk-clunk-clunk. He span it again, faster this time, and its sound sped up. The fourth time was his undoing, though. A card slipped out and another and then they avalanched from the tiny Ferris wheel, scattering over the desk and the plush, white carpet. 

"Shit." Monty started gathering them up. He recognised Harv's slanted, sharp handwriting on some of them and wondered what they were for. He didn't try looking at them long enough to see, because he didn't want to waste time. He wanted them all back in the Ferris wheel before Harv could find out what he'd done.

"Hey, baby- what the hell happened in here?!"

Monty froze. Lifting his eyes from the stack he held, he could see Harv was unusually shocked by the sight. Monty shifted guiltily. "I was spinning the thingy and these all fell out."

"They all fell out?" Harv stepped in further and his mouth thinned in an angry line. "Oh, Jesus."

Monty braced. But instead of hitting him, Harv stepped inside and pointed at the door. Slowly, Monty got to his feet and edged around him, glad for once that he couldn't see Harv's eyes. "I'm sorry-"

"You think sorry is going to undo ten years of very precise organisation? You stupid, stupid kid!" Harv looked at the mini Ferris wheel and gritted his teeth. "Goddammit. No wonder they hit you. Too bad it didn't actually teach you anything." He looked back at Monty, his eyebrows disappearing under the chrome frames of his aviators. "Go to your room. I don't want to see you right now."

Monty walked away, feeling a hard ball grow in his throat. He left the cards he had been holding on the bottom step and climbed the staircase, walking along the landing to his room. Sunlight blinded him and he closed the door. He didn't find his car like he used to, didn't whimper for the father who'd left him all those years ago, but he did cry. Because Harv had told him months ago that he didn't deserve to be hurt, and Monty had believed that. But now it seemed that Harv hadn't meant it.

The room grew darker and when Monty finally clicked on his lamp, his bedroom door opened. He tensed, waiting for Harv to yell at him or maybe start hitting him. He kept his eyes on the charcoal grey carpet under his feet. "I'm sorry." he whispered. "Please don't be mad with me any more. I'm sorry." 

"I know you're sorry." Harv must have walked in because Monty could see his feet, still encased in the expensive Italian leather. "Look at me, baby."

Monty did it because Harv had asked him to. Because he was calling him 'baby' again and that probably meant he wasn't angry with him any more. Again, he wished he could see his eyes. Wished he could know how he truly felt.

"You shouldn't mess with my stuff in the home office." Harv spoke softly, without threat, but the hairs on the back of Monty's neck stood up. "I keep very important things in there. That thing with the cards is my Rolodex and it has all the contacts I've made over the past decade. I can't afford for anything to happen to it. I know this is your home, but I think it would be better if you don't go in there without me. You understand that, kid?" 

"Yeah." Monty never wanted to go in there again. Never wanted to do anything to piss Harv off like that again. "Am..am I still in trouble?"

Harv looked at him for a moment and tilted his head a little. "What do you mean?"

"You said..." Monty felt the air drain from his lungs, felt his heart pound, but pushed on. "You said you understood why they hit me."

"They hit you because they were weak-minded. That's all violence really is." Harv sat beside him, his arm draping itself over Monty's shoulders. "I'm not like that, superstar. I'll never hurt you."

"Oh." Monty felt relieved because he'd really thought Harv would decide hitting him would be a good idea. But he also felt confused because Harv had hurt him. "Why did you say that?"

"Sometimes a man has to vent, baby. Like when he comes home to find his kid made a mess out of his Rolodex." Harv squeezed him a little. "I didn't mean it, alright? So don't worry about it."

"Do you still want me?"

"I'll always want you, superstar. I love you, you know that." Harv took his arm back, leaving Monty feeling cold. "Come on, there's a movie playing soon. I think you'll like it."

For a moment, Monty thought about refusing. But Harv was offering an olive branch and he'd rescued him from those foster monsters and he wouldn't hit him and he was the first person in a long time to love him. So he put on a smile. Asked if they could get popcorn. And told himself that Harv was sorry too.

Chapter Text

2006

"Easy there, rookie." Doc catches Lightning's elbow as he thumps the duster around the floor corners, sending grey clouds of dust up in the air. "You need to ease up on those cobwebs."

"I'm trying to send the spiders a warning."

Doc chuckles. "I don't think the spiders are going to care much if their old homes are beaten into dust."

"Worth a shot." Lightning says, and he traces the edges of the skirting board to the kitchen. He likes dusting. Partly because he's being proactive in the Spider War and partly because he likes tickling the back of Doc's neck with the soft, shimmering blue fibres. Doc always curses when it happens which makes it even funnier. He spots a grey, fluffy strand just under the fridge and attacks it with the vigor Doc asked him not to use. 

And, then, out comes the biggest, longest-legged, fattest-bodied, meanest-looking and ugliest spider Lightning has ever seen. 

He screams. Throws the duster back out of some weird instinct and climbs on the kitchen counter, all while screaming; "Doc! Doc! Doc!"

"I'm comin', kid, I'm coming...oh, jumpin' Jesus." Doc might be surprised , but he isn't frightened by the spider at all because a man of his age has lived through all his fears. He calmly scoops it up, telling it what a big boy it is, and takes it outside. 

Lightning thinks, again, that Doc is also crazy. "Doc, it'll live out there!"

"That's the point. He can't help the way he looks."

Lightning shivers. "Thank you for getting it."

"No problem." Doc comes back inside, mercifully spiderless, and takes the duster off the counter. He pauses, his eyes narrowed at something on the counter. "Oh, no. Dammit, dammit, dammit!"

"What is it?" Lightning jumps off the counter and walks around it to see Doc lift something rectangular, white and waterlogged from a patch of growing, clear liquid. A glass lies on its side nearby. Lightning swallows. He remembers what that is. Doc was grouching about it big time this morning because, in his words, 'a bunch of pencil pushers want to make sure I'm not practicing witchcraft'. Lightning isn't entirely sure what that means, but he knows it means the medical board want to make sure Doc is up to their standards. And now he's drenched it. 

"Well, that's what I get for leaving it in such a stupid place." Doc says. He squints at it and sighs, deeply, in a way that twists Lightning's stomach and makes him drop his gaze to the floor.

"I'm sorry," Lightning murmurs. "I shouldn't have been so careless." 'Please don't be mad with me, please don't be mad with me...'

There's a stretch of silence and then hands are on his shoulders. Warm, strong, healing hands. "It wasn't your fault." And then those hands are replaced by arms that pull him close. "I'm sorry, rookie. I didn't mean to make you feel like you're to blame. It was my own fault for leaving it there. I should've kept it on the coffee table."

"I threw the duster." Lightning mumbles into Doc's chest. "Not you. Me."

"Well, I really don't blame you for that one. The spider was a beast." Doc rubs his back, over the places where Cyrus used to beat raw. "You didn't throw the duster on purpose, darlin'. It was an accident. I'm so sorry I made you feel like it was your fault. I'm so sorry."

Lightning isn't sure what to make of it. In his life, adults have never taken the blame, never shouldered their load. They've just attacked, using weapons to cause injuries and words to cause pain. But here's Doc. He reaches up, wraps his arms around Doc's back. Grabs his shirt. "It's okay," he says, using the words he wished one of them had said all those years ago. "You didn't mean to."

Doc releases him, taking a single step back. "Can you do me a favour? Some water got on the floor and it needs mopping. I need to try and save that letter. Do you mind?"

"No." Lightning grabs kitchen roll from the windowsill., having to go on his toes for the extra he height. He's sure that Doc has asked him in an attempt to save his knees because they sound like bubble wrap when he kneels down or crouches, and they must give him hell when he stands up because he always holds his breath, grabbing onto his bad leg like it's personally responsible. Lightning's own knees are fresh out the box and as he drops to one knee, he wonders how long he has before his joints start giving out. "When did your knees start getting bad?"

"There's some dispute." Doc says. "My doctor would tell you thirty-six because the bad leg started getting stiff."

"That's not very old. Well, it kinda is. But not for that, right?"

"You're right, it isn't very old for joint problems. But I know they both were bad at fifty." Doc lifts the hand towel he's using to soak up water and nods slightly. "So, Brookie can take that for the fact it is."

Brookie's real name is Donnie Brooks and he's a doctor who graduated way back in the eighties, along with Doc. Lightning would love to meet him someday for the stories, but Doc claims he never gets sick, so it's not likely to happen for a long time. Or ever. Lightning leans back on his bent leg and surveys his clean-up effort. A patch of the floor gleams. One patch shines under the stove and he approaches, cautious of any spiders. "Doc, if another one crawls out..."

"I'll relocate it. Could be his wife." 

"Doc!" Lightning sees the smirk playing on the old man's lips and flicks the wet kitchen towel at him, snickering when Doc has to take off his glasses to dry them. "Serves you right."

"I'm gonna have Red chase you all around town with his firehose." Doc mutters. "You vengeful little punk."

"You totally had it coming." Lightning tells him unrepentantly. He shuffles forward and bends a little to reach for the puddle, holding his breath. His - well, it's really Doc's - t-shirt falls along his back and he freezes before remembering that the cigarette burns are on his front, not his back. The t-shirt is too big, really. But he likes it because Doc wore it when he was young. Water soaks into the kitchen towel and he straightens back up, feeling Doc's eyes on his back. He turns his head, looking into piercing blue. "What?"

Even though he's undoubtedly seen all kinds of horrible injuries, Doc's voice carries more than a hint of sorrow. "You've got a scar."

Lightning remembers the excuse Aimee taught him. "I got it from playing a little rough-"

"Bullshit."

Lightning is shocked into silence. Doc doesn't swear, not without cause, as he puts it. "It isn't," he tells the floor as he gets up. "We were playing cowboys."

"I know what that is." Doc sighs, a soft noise that carries fondness and protection. "When I was growing up, it was common for parents to beat their kids. I know a belt mark when I see one. I have my own."

"You weren't supposed to know." Lightning hugs around his middle, keeping his eyes focused on the rippling, honey-toned wood under his feet. "It doesn't matter anyway."

"Did Harv do that to you?"

The question makes him laugh, a short clipped sound. "No," he says, finally looking up at Doc. "He's never hurt me. Not like that." In other ways. He's starting to see that now. "My foster...dad. He was kinda the muscle of the two of them."

"That's why you got nervous." Doc reaches for him, takes his shoulders and drags him back against his chest. He's strong, Lightning is reminded. It feels like he could be easily broken in two, but he knows Doc wouldn't break him, not with words or with weapons. "It's wrong to do that," he says. "It's always been wrong to hit kids. I'm sorry they did that to you."

No 'you had it coming'.

No 'they had a point'

Just pure and simple, Doc confirming what Lightning had always thought; it should never have happened. "My dad never hit me," he whispers. "I don't get why he...he sent me away to people who did." He remembers waiting, hoping, for his dad to finally come and get him, just like he'd promised. How that hope dwindled and finally died. "I waited for him...I don't know why he stopped loving me." Liquid pools and spills over his lower eyelids and Doc finally pulls away. "Maybe he'd already figured I wasn't worth loving."

"Hey." Doc's thumb wipes a tear as it snakes down Lightning's cheek. "That's not it. He was sick and couldn't take care of you. Please, don't cry because you think you aren't worth love, because you are. Every kid is." He smiles, looking into Lightning's eyes with such warmth that the rest of his tears dry. "It's okay to be sad, and it's even better to purge it all out. But there's no sense in being sad over something that isn't true." 

Lightning sniffs. "I hate him for leaving me. It's just...I don't hate him."

"Well, love is like that." Doc says. "If we could choose, life would be easier."

"Do you still love your dad?"

Doc rubs his jaw in that way he does when he doesn't like a question. "No," he says, quietly, like he's admitting a terrible crime. "He wasn't a good man, Lightning."

"Like my foster parents?"

Doc thinks about that, his hand moving to the back of his neck. "I guess so, yeah."

"Then Smokey got you." Lightning says. He smiles when the weight visibly leaves Doc's shoulders. "And I wound up with you."

"You really don't have much luck, do you?" Doc says and he ruffles Lightning's hair. He chuckles, all proud of himself for messing up Lightning's hairstyle and doesn't let him retaliate, which is very unfair of him. "Quit trying to kill me, rookie. That's for splashing me earlier!"

"You're a mean old fossil." Lightning snaps out heatlessly. "I'm gonna put Nair in your shampoo."

"That's vicious." Doc tells him. "Speaking of hair, can I borrow your dryer? I want to dry out this letter before the ink fades."

"You can use it if you can figure out how it works."

"It can't be that hard if you figured it out."

Lightning rolls his eyes and goes to find it. Maybe one day he might tell Doc about the tiny circles dotted over his abdomen. But then he thinks of the pity. He shakes his head at the thought.

Some things are better left unknown.