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Friday, 8:57 PM, Justice Family Apartment
Anita Justice was not a helicopter mother, nor was she the type who worried uselessly. Her parents had done enough of that to last her a life time. In fact, her father had worried so much when she'd moved to Los Angeles that he'd given himself two heart attacks and an ulcer before he'd passed on. Afterward, her mother, Agueda Justice, had told her not to worry so much after all.
[It is apparently possible to worry yourself to death,] the woman had chuckled over the phone. [If you have any children, Nita, I beg you not to worry like we have. I have more gray hair on my body than I know what to do with.]
So, listening to her mother's instructions, she'd made it a point not to hover too much over Apollo.
Even when he came home day after day with a new scrape or bruise, or when his eyes where rimmed so red, were so swollen, that she'd worry he'd contracted pink eye. Even when he would mumble, cross his arms, and hide in his room. Even when he never told her what was wrong when he wouldn't eat, or on the days it was like pulling teeth to get him to say something, anything. Even when his unwillingness to talk to her sat in her gut, a rotting weight she somehow knew she'd have to live with if she wanted him to trust her. It had only been two months, after all. The sisters at the home had told her he'd be like this for awhile, distant and moody and...and trouble, though she was having a hard time believing the last one. Her son was not trouble.
Anita had two older brothers, and she had watched them grow into moody teenagers before herself. Even if the circumstances were different, Apollo was a young man first and foremost. Perhaps getting into fights, coming home late, and avoiding having to talk about it were all...normal
But tonight was different. Tonight, Apollo hadn't come home at all.
He was four hours late coming back from school, and Anita has gone through all the stages a mother could. Fear, after the first hour, had her dialing the Terran residence. Mr. Terran had woefully told her, as best he could, that Apollo had not been to their house in a week. His son, Clay, had taken the phone after that and told Anita all he knew.
"He said he would see me Monday and got on the bus," even through the phone, she could picture his face, scrunched up and worried. "He said he'd call me when he got home, even though he promised to watch the new Steel Samurai episode with me tomorrow morning." He'd sniffed and continued. "Don't worry, Miss Justice! Abi and I are on the case! We'll find him!"
He'd hung up with that, and Anita had been left to worry on her own time, pacing, checking the news, turing it off when she'd seen that two car crashes had been reported, trying not to envision a phone call from a hospital coming in to report her son's broken, battered, body. She was trying hard not to see anything like that, only picturing her boy walking through that door, unharmed and quietly apologizing for his lateness.
After two hours, she'd crossed over into anger, but it slowly fizzled out. She was only angry that Apollo hadn't called, yes, but she knew he reserved the right not to. Perhaps he'd forgotten the house phone number. Perhaps the disposable phone she'd given him until she could find something more permanent was dead. Perhaps he simply had no change for a pay phone.
And so her brief anger melted into worry and grief. She sat on the sofa for the remaining two hours to wait. Wait for what, she didn't know; a phone call, maybe. A knock at the door. A note. A damned carrier pigeon, something, anything, God, anything, she didn't care. So long as Apollo came back, so long as he was safe...
She pressed her trembling fist to her mouth, swallowing passed her tears and tight lump in her throat. She'd wait another half an hour. And then she'd bring her Apollo home herself.
Friday, 9:40 PM, Justice Family Apartment
"I know how to walk up stairs, detective," he growled, jerking his aching shoulder away from the man next to him. Detective Gumshoe was a younger man, mid-to-late thirties, with dark hair going white at the temples and laugh-lines around his eyes and mouth that struggled when he tried to frown down at Apollo.
Gumshoe placed his hand in the same place it had been as they ascended--well, Gumshoe did, Apollo trudged up them as if he were walking toward his execution-- and squeezed as gently as he could.
Apollo inhaled sharply and jerked away again. "Don't touch me."
The detective sighed. "Seventh time I've had to bring you home in the passed year, pal," was all he said, his voice a weathered down stone of what if might have once been. Tired, soft, and in a way, fatherly. Apollo hated it, and hated him more. He never yelled at him, or threatened to keep him over night. Never tried to scare him, push him, or make Apollo dislike him. He was kind and understanding, if not always with a twinge of affectionate disapproval, and that always made whatever pain he was in by the time the police came that much worse.
It hadn't been his fault. He hadn't done a goddamned thing wrong today. He went to school, he'd passed his math test. He'd gotten all of his homework done. He'd even eaten the fruit that came with the nasty cafeteria lunch. He'd been good, damn it, he'd been trying.
But as soon as school had let out and he and Clay had stepped off the school grounds, Apollo had seen them. A nasty-looking bunch of kids, dressed dark and smoking. Eyeing him and Clay the way he'd seen animals eye prey in the weird nature documentaries Clay had once shown him.
He'd seen kids like this before; they followed you at a reasonable distance until there was no one around, and then they cornered you. The rest was not so pretty, and bruises afterward were not so fun. It was never clear if they were looking for money or a punching bag or a bit of legal trouble, but so long as their sights were locked onto you, you were screwed.
So he'd ditched Clay, telling him some crap about calling him soon, canceling their weekend plans with a careless "see you Monday." He wasn't about to let his only friend get hurt, if he could help it.
It had worked like he'd wanted it to; they'd favored him over Clay, and moved when he had to board the bus. Apollo had sat near the front, to keep safe. The gang sat in the back. After three stops, Apollo switched to another bus, and then another five stops later. He kept it up, moving busses, staying near people, until long passed sunset, the group of older thugs following him with knowing, shit-eating grins. At eight in the evening, or somewhere around there, he'd had enough. He'd been all over L.A. today, trying to outrun these assholes, trying to get them to give in.
Since they wouldn't, he'd have to take care of it himself.
So Apollo had walked a mile and a half to a nearly abandoned gas station, and spun around to face them.
Hey kid, one of them said. Finally run out of places to go?
Apollo crossed his arms and spat at the kids shoes.
After that, it was twenty minutes of screaming, kicking, biting, clawing, and punching until Gumshoe and his partner had pulled in with back up to take the older boys and Apollo into the station for questioning.
After that, he'd been stuffed into a police car and driven home. Well, to Anita's apartment.
Anita was probably a nice lady, Apollo thought. She was in her early thirties with a job as a nurse in a university hospital. She was a very warm person with honest eyes and a dark hair, always so gentle with him. She never pressed him for information, never forced him to keep his door open when all he wanted was privacy. She didn't even ask about his bruises, or his scars.
And he could see that she was getting tired.
Tired of his antics and his trips to the principal's office, of his coming home late and his ignoring her. (Good) he thought, stopping in front of her door. (The warranty is about to expire on me anyway, and the government's return policy is strict. Fine. Good. Wouldn't want her to waste anymore time.)
Gumshoe was the one who knocked. It was loud and commanding, and as soon as he heard movement on the other side of the door, all anger was snuffed out of him, replaced by fear.
How would this look to her? He had done this to other families sure; shown up next to an officer, gotten yelled at, been told he was troublesome, and then put back into the system. But this was new for Anita. He had been on his best behavior. Now he was bloodied and bruised worse than ever. His shoulder ached, and his arms and neck itched from the dried blood and scrapes he'd acquired. Worse of all though, was the lovely shiner on his left eye and his spilt lip. He was a mess, and when Anita saw him, he didn't stand a chance in Hell.
Apollo was going back into the system tomorrow, he was sure of it.
At the thought, he flinched backward, and felt the press of Gumshoe's hand on his back. Stopping him from running away, no doubt.
"I said don't touch me," Apollo grumbled, tearing himself away from the touch.
Gumshoe gave him a sad smile. "Pal," he said softly as Apollo listened to the bolt sliding behind the door, "sometimes touch is the only thing you have to hold onto, and the only way to communicate. You better get used to it."
The door opened.
Anita Justice was standing there, her eyes wide and full of fear and hope. Her jacket was on, and her purse around her shoulder. In her hand, she was clutching a picture of him that the "children's home"--(Orphanage, it's a damned orphanage, and I hate it when they tell me otherwise)--had given her.
"I believe this kid belongs to you?" Gumshoe said, curving the words into a question.
Her eyes immediately filled with tears, and flicked from the officer to Apollo. "Oh Dios mio! Apollo! " And then she was weeping, kneeling on the floor to embrace him, one hand wrapped gently around his torso, and the other placed on the back of his head, holding him to her. "[What happened? Oh, God, God, Apollo, my god. Thank God...]"
It sent another thrill of fear through him, as did her words, a lightning bolt that had him squirming in her arms and shoving away from it none too gently. She was holding him, not hugging him, and that wasn't...what he'd been expecting. Yelling, sure. Tears, of course. But holding him as if he was going to break into a million pieces, as if he was something precious to her, as if she actually gave a damn? That wasn't what he'd expected, wanted, or had asked for. (Pity, it's pity. She pities you, that's all. It doesn't change anything. She doesn't care, and as soon as this door closes, I can pack my stuff and be ready in the morning.) "I'm fine," he growled, though he hadn't wanted to put venom behind it. "I'm fine, leave it alone."
Her hands that hovered near his face fell, and Apollo moved roughly passed her to get to the kitchen and grab a bag of frozen peas. The cool press of it against his eye was a momentary relief, washing over him like a barrier and shutting the world out. God, he hadn't realized he'd been in that much pain, how badly his head was aching. He shut his eyes and rolled his bruised shoulder, reveling in what little solace the makeshift compress offered.
As soon as he shut the freezer, it was gone, and his reality was back. With a heavy sigh, he headed toward the entrance of the kitchen. He could hear Anita and Detective Gumshoe murmuring from the doorway.
"Gracias, officer, I. I cannot thank you enough. You--he--! I did not think I would have him home tonight." She sniffed, and her voice trembled, and Apollo's entire body shook with it. He wasn't sure why she was putting on a show like this, why she pretended to care this much if she was sending him back, and why it affected him. (She has to be angry, I know she is. Even if she doesn't look it, even if that hug was different than all the others. It just means...I don't know.)
But he wouldn't let himself hope for a permanent place here. He wouldn't do that to himself again, hope and pray that this new family would be the one, that he'd finally find a home or something like it. He'd already had a plan in place, a plan that didn't revolve around his adoption. He didn't need Anita, or any other family for that matter. He could rely on himself, and had for most of his life.
"It's not a problem, ma'am," the man in the doorway told her. "Though I'm really glad we caught you while you were still home. Leaving for somewhere?"
Apollo's breath hitched, and he made the mistake of shutting both his eyes tightly against the unnecessary swell of tears (I knew it, i knew she didn't care, she was going out, she had plans, you stupid idiot, you let yourself hope, didn't you, you--) and the ache in his eye and head was back full force. He let out a low, involuntary groan.
There was pause in conversation, and then he hear Anita call, "Apollo? Niño? Te encuentras bien?"
"E-estoy bien," he snapped, though the stutter made it sound weak, and the tremble in his voice had made it sound weaker.
She sighed, and it was filled with something Apollo understood as sorrow. "I was leaving to find him," she told Gumshoe Her voice was soft. "He was supposed to be home after school today, or he was supposed to call me. But I did not...he could have forgotten the number. I just..."
"You were gonna go looking for him?" Gumshoe asked, and the shock in his voice was a testament as to just how many times he'd personally escorted Apollo back home to unfazed families. The tone burned him, another brand on his soul he'd keep forever.
"Of course I was!" Anita suddenly snapped. "Four hours, officer, I waited here for him. I called his friend's house. I searched for a good picture of him to show the police."
(She called Clay?) Clay had been around for the last few months, and was amazing friend. Seemingly his only one. After their initial meeting, they'd been near inseparable, and Apollo would be lying if he hadn't foolishly hoped that Mr. Terran would take him in. The Terran family seemed like the only people in the world who gave any semblance of a damn about what happened to him. Even Apollo could admit he himself cared very little about it.
And Anita had called them? He poked his head out of the kitchen entryway to watch.
"I'm sorry ma'am," Gumshoe said, adjusting his coat. He looked embarrassed. "I didn't mean to doubt your dedication to your son."
Anita shook her head. "I am sorry for the late hour. Was he..." she paused for a moment. It looked like she was pressing her hand to her mouth, shoulders tensing as she sucked in a shaky breath. "His eye?" she asked.
The detective seemed to understand the question. "And his shoulder too. Those boys--" Anita stiffened at the mention of multiple assailants, "--thankfully missed his ribs, or Apollo was smart enough to keep 'em covered. He fought back pretty hard, too. At least two of those hoodlums had their noses broken."
Along with the resentment, sadness, and pain, Apollo felt pride settle into his gut, a dignified warmth that worked into the dying rage he had toward that gang. Good. They deserved it. Even if he had been aiming for their freaking jaws.
"I...that's good," Anita said softly. "And the boys?"
"In holding."
She seemed to gain power from that. "Good. Thank you, officer. For helping him. For finding him."
"It wasn't a problem, ma'am. Just doing my job. Well, sort of." He looked like he was turing to go, but paused. "Ma'am?"
"Yes?"
Gumshoe cleared his throat. "Ma'am it's been awhile since I've had to bring Apollo home. About two months." He scratched the back of his neck. "Detectives don't usually do that sort of thing, but, you know how it goes. Anyway, this kid...I've broken up more fights involving him than not. He's got a record, you know?"
Apollo bristled.
"But they aren't ever his fault. He's a strong kid, ma'am. And I'm glad he's got a strong mom to look out for him now. He didn't get that a lot, the last few times I had to escort him out of a bad situation. I don't ever think I've seen someone look so scared over losing him. So I guess I'm trying to tell you thank you. For looking out for him."
The silence stretched, and Anita's shoulders continued to shake. After a few minutes, she nodded to herself. "Detective. Thank you, for bringing my Apollo home to me. You are...very kind. A good man."
"Shucks, ma'am," the Gumshoe mumbled, nodding his head in farewell.
Anita shut the door, pressing her hands to it like she was gathering energy from the outside world so she could turn and face Apollo, who was now standing in full view in the living room.
"Are you okay, Apollo?" she asked him after a moment, looking at him over her shoulder. Her eyes were rimmed red, and he hated her for it. Hated her for pretending to care.
Before he could stop himself, self-preservation kicked in and he hissed, "Cut it out already." The compress was still on his eye, and his voice came out muted.
"I--Apollo." It wasn't a reprimand. It was an inquiry. She move toward him and knelt down. He let her remove the ice from his face, but he turned away when she went to examine his eye. "Apollo. Mi tesoro, look at me."
"Just leave it," he grumbled, looking away from her. His hands were balled into fists. She was a good actress, he'd give her that, but enough was enough.
"Apollo, please," she said softly. Her hands settled for holding onto his arms, gently squeezing them. "Tell me what you need, how I can help you. Please."
Apollo head turned toward her so fast that his shoulder felt it, and he the pain was sharp enough to make him gasp instead of saying exactly what he thought. Anita's hands fluttered uselessly around him, wordlessly trying to soothe his pain.
He didn't give her the chance. "I need you to leave me alone," he snapped, working hard to look her in the eyes. "You want to know what I need? Stop pretending like you aren't pissed about this. Like you weren't planning to rip me a new one if I wasn't returned to you broken. Like you care." He spat the word at her.
Anita squinted at him, the corners of her mouth turned down. "Do not talk about yourself like that. You are not an item, Apollo. You are not returned to me after the world borrows you."
"Like hell I'm not," he growled, edging away from her. She sat on the floor, watching him with wide eyes, as if he was a wounded, dying animal and she was only trying to comfort him until animal control arrived to put him down.
(Accept that this is exactly what's happening.)
"Like hell I'm not a product to you. I can see it, you know," he told her. He tried to keep his volume down, but wasn't sure how well it was working. "I can see how tired you get every time I come home late, or bruised. I know you're sick of me." He had to rein in using her first name. He'd made it a point to never call her mom, or mamá for that matter, but he didn't want her knowing that he knew her first name. He didn't want her to think he cared that much more to have learned it.
"I know the look you give me, you know. Every other family had it too." He smiled darkly, finally breaking eye contact to look at the shag rug underneath them. He didn't want to look at her anymore. She wouldn't drop the act, her honest eyes wide and scared, as if his words were hurting her with misplaced truths. But he was right, he was always right. She didn't care, she couldn't. He knew it, and he knew she did too. She had to. "Don't worry. The two month warranty is up. You can collect your money when you return me, okay? Thanks for product testing, or whatever it is you think your doing."
"Apollo Justice, that is enough," she said harshly. "Don't you talk like that! You really think I would send you back for something that wasn't your fault? Mi niño, you were attacked, you did not look to fight those cruel boys. And I wouldn't give you up even if you had."
"Don't call me that!" Apollo suddenly yelled, staring at her. "My name is Apollo, and just Apollo. I don't have your last name, and I'm not keeping it. I don't want it."
"Ap--"
"I don't need it," he railed. It was almost second at nature at this point, to argue. Part of the reason he wanted to be a lawyer. Part of the reason he didn't have a family. "I...I have a plan, okay? I don't need a family, I don't need a mother. I'm fourteen. I just need to get out of the system, and I can apply for state loans, and go from there. I can do most of it on my own, so don't worry about me. Don't think I can't take care of myself. I don't need your pity, or your wrongly placed guilt. I'm fine."
Anita watched him carefully. She did not move from her place on the floor, her eyes dark and warm and flooded with sadness and hurt that he'd put there. "No one can live completely devoid of family."
Apollo scoffed and crossed his arms. She didn't know a damned thing. "Then explain me. How I'm doing it."
She shook her head. "Because you are a brave boy, Apollo, mi tesoro, and you live on hope."
"Oh, like you could know anything about me," he scoffed, baring his teeth.
She wiped her eyes. "You think you are alone, my son. I am sor--"
"I'm not your son," he growled. This was getting him nowhere. He made his point. He wanted out. He didn't need a family, no matter how badly he'd ached for one in the past. He walked passed her, forcing himself not to look back, not to regret his words. "For the record, when you call the orphanage, make sure you use the term troubled youth. They love that."
"Apollo," she called after him when he neared his room. She hesitated a moment, probably wanting to shout. Not giving up that façade, though, she lowered her voice. "We will talk about this in the morning."
"Great!" Apollo yelled with sarcastic joy, wrenching open his door. "You can talk to the social worker in Spanish about what a pain in the ass I've been, and pretend I can't understand you!" Not that she'd ever done that, always making sure to speak English when she talked to extended family over the phone.
"Apollo Justice, come--"
"Don't call me that!" he shouted back, voice cracking in two places. He punctuated his words, his pain, his anger, with the slam of his door, just as a sob ripped out of his chest.
Saturday, 12:12 AM, Justice Family Apartment
Apollo's heart seized when he heard Anita pick up the phone receiver in the kitchen.
This was it. He'd been on the way to his bedroom, patching himself up before he tried to sleep, but stopped dead when he head her dial.
God, he was going back after all. God, God, God...
Before he could think too much on it, he was sneaking into Anita's room. She had a phone by her bed, another landline he sometimes used to eavesdrop when he was too shy to ask who she was talking to.
Apollo picked up the phone slowly, trying to avoid the other party hearing the release of the hook switch. He pressed the receiver to his ear, holding his breath. His hands were shaking, but he worked to still them. He could handle this. He had before.
(I'm Apollo, and I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine.) He focused in the conversation.
"Anita? Anita? Estás bien?" The panicked voice of an older woman speaking rapid fire Spanish startled Apollo, his eyebrows shooting up. He winced and clenched his jaw at the sharp headache it caused. He could only pick out a few words, like "late" and "child" and, a few times, his name.
Over the woman, Anita's quiet voice soothed the other with calming words in English, as if she suspected Apollo could be listening. Perhaps she did, suspect it. "Mamá, I'm okay. I'm okay, I know it's late. Apollo...he is okay too. We are safe, please don't worry."
The woman on the other end--Anita's mother--scoffed. "Anita? You are speaking English." Her accent was very thick, and for a moment, Apollo had thought he'd suddenly sunk into the language, understanding it as if it was his mother tongue.
"I know." Anita's voice was warm. "I do not think Apollo is in bed yet, mamá, and I want him to understand me when I speak."
"Is he okay?" she asked. "It is midnight, niña, and you are calling. He is not hurt?"
Anita's hesitation could be seen over the phone, and Apollo felt guilty for it. He was obviously hurt, and tonight he might have accidentally proved that a bit too much. With his words carelessly tossed between them, it'd been like opening his chest and showing her his ribs. Too much.
"I am coming," the woman over the phone said suddenly. (She could be abuela) his mind supplied helpfully.
Well. She would have been, anyway. "Are you in your home? Or are you at a hospital? Heading there?"
"No, no!" Anita corrected too loudly. "No, we are fine, mamà, we are fine. I..."
"He is sick?"
"I...don't know." Again, Apollo listened to Anita hesitate.
His teeth sank into his lower lip, and the healed skin from earlier split the tiniest bit. His tongue tasted coppery. When she spoke again, her voice was barely a whisper. "Mamá," she said slowly. "I...when I was young, you worried about me everyday."
Her mother chuckled warmly. "Si, si. Constant worry, still, every day and every night."
Antia continued. "You hovered. I remember you always behind me, always asking questions about my day. Pressing even when I'd told you every detail, making sure even my stories were safe."
The woman hummed in agreement.
"I am worried," she said softly, a catch in her voice that made Apollo's head throb for an entirely different reason. "You told me not to worry over my own children like you like papá. And I have tried, mamá, I have. I do not ask him about anything, and I let him keep to himself as much as I can.
"But I...I can't do it. I need help, I need advice."
Apollo nearly threw the receiver down. There it was, the admittance that she could not handle him as her son. That she no longer wanted him in her home, no longer tolerated him and his distance. He held the phone away from his ear, setting it on the bed gently so he could wipe at his eyes. The room had grown blurry with tears, and the taste of them had joined the flavor of blood in his mouth. He sniffled, caging the sob that threatened to burst out of him in his chest.
This had been what he'd been waiting for. She was too fragile to handle his antics, his record, his scars, his...him. He'd known after he'd denounced her name, known before that, known as soon as he could form memories that family was always going to be a vicious cycle, and had been able to shut out most of the feelings that went with it after the first few.
But hope always managed to sneak in somehow, less and less with each family. But it always hurt twice as much when they no longer wanted him.
(I said I could live without family, devoid of anything like that, devoid of hope. Stop crying. I'm fine) scolded the rational part of himself, wrapping his arms around his middle, holding himself in one piece. (But I'm scared) another part of his mind reasoned. (I'm scared. What happens when I stop hoping for anything? God, what kind of husk can person become?)
Just how much longer could he pretend not to give a shit what his foster families thought? The thought was both a challenge and a death sentence.
He tried and failed to steal himself with deep breaths and retrieved the phone with shaking hands.
Anita's mother was the one speaking when he began to listen. "If you worry, Nita, you must tell him."
Worried? Apollo's eyebrows knit together. Was she worried he'd put up a fight about leaving? Clearly not; he'd thrown a fit over being her son hours ago. She couldn't still think he'd want to stay here. Was she worried about his reaction? That he'd leave kicking and screaming? Ruin whatever reputation she might have with false reports of abuse so Anita could never adopt again?
"I worry he won't understand."
Unfortunately, he understood perfectly. Apollo shut his eyes, forgot for a moment that he was supposed to be keeping silent, and sniffed back tears.
On the other end of the phone, he heard Anita take a deep breath. Her mother did as well, and launched into Spanish again, fast and soft, words slipping passed Apollo's ears, familiar ones like "listen" and "child" and his name and finally, "go." It took him a moment to realize he'd been heard over the receiver. Without a second thought, he slammed the phone back down.
He quickly exited the room, head still pounding in time to his heart--that was simply angry, not aching-- and his eyes burning--with sleep, not tears.
He tiptoed out into the small hallway, turing to shut the door behind him, to shut the conversation he'd heard in there.
"Apollo?"
Apollo's hand gripped the doorknob tightly. His breath hitched, and a thrill of guilt-fed fear danced up his spine and directly to his mouth. "I'm sorry," he blurted, looking straight at the woodgrain of the door. "Sorry, I didn't mean to--I mean, I meant to, but I didn't mean to listen, I didn't mean to overhear--" his voice cracked again, but he fought his tears valiantly, "overhear anything. I-I'm sorry."
The silence stretched between them for several minutes. Apollo took deep, sobering breaths. "I shouldn't have eavesdropped like that." He slowly removed his hand from the doorknob and turned in her direction. The muscles in his shoulders relaxed a bit when he saw the look in Anita's eyes was the furthest thing from anger. He hadn't listened in and heard something he wasn't already going to hear, for whatever that immediate knowledge was worth. He took strength from that.
"So when are you calling them to send me back?" It came out conversationally, and he didn't let his eyes fall from hers. "It's okay," he shrugged mechanically. "I heard you say you couldn't do this. Not...no seems to be able to. So it's okay. I w-won't tell them anything bad about you. A-and I won't be a nuisance about leaving, if that's what your..." His voice trembled, became a painful croak, and he trailed off.
The look she was giving him was far from anything Apollo had expected. He expected frustration or anger or sorrow, maybe. Even guilt. But instead her bright eyes watched his with understanding in their depths. "Come," she told him, holding a hand out and waving him closer. "We will make something warm to drink."
Apollo didn't take the outstretched hand, but shuffled close enough that she could press her palm to the milld of his back, careful to avoid his aching shoulder, and let her gently guide him to kitchen.
He watched at she worked. She poured two mug-fulls of milk into a speckled black and white saucepan, and set the stovetop to high so it could boil. Apollo stood a foot away from her, on the other side of the oven, wedged between it and the too-large kitchen table. His hands were balled at his side, and he was repeating his mantra over and over again in his mind.
(I'm Apollo and I'm fine. I'm Apollo and I'm...I'm fine. I'm fine.)
"...May I ask you a question, mi tesoro?"
"I..." he paused, and then nodded instead. Anita gave him a small, warm smile and went to the fridge to retrieve the bag of frozen peas he'd been using. She set it on the countertop and began looking through cabinets for something else.
"If it is alright to ask," she started slowly, standing on her toes to look peak at one of the higher shelves, "how many families have you had before this one?" She huffed and reached far into the back, drawing out a dish towel. She wrapped the peas in it and offered it to Apollo. "I'd like to know, if that is okay."
Apollo blanched, and looked away, not bothering to take the woman's offering. He couldn't tell her that; he couldn't, it was too many and he didn't want to. He'd have to lie. Lawyers were supposed to be good at that anyway. "Three."
His voice cracked and she winced. "Five," he tried again. His fingers went to his birth mother's bracelet, thumbing the cool metal. He always felt it when he lied, always thought it got heavier and tighter when he fibbed about anything. Like she was there, watching him, raising him. It had once been a comfort when he was very young. Now it was a tell he'd have to work on. "Seven."
Tighter still. Anita just watched him curiously, but when his eyes flickered cautiously upward, he could see they were pinched around the edges with sadness and concern as the numbers rose.
"I..." he sighed. "Fifteen, not including this one. Three of them, I think when I was five. And then, more recently, came the rest."
To her credit, Anita did not wince or scoff or weep. She nodded, pressing her lips together. "More recent?"
"Uhm..." he hesitated, clearing his throat. "Ten. The last family to return me was when I was seven. Then...a three year gap. Then..." Then he had given up, and with every family that took him in, Apollo made sure they'd regret it. And just like that twelve families had come and gone in four years. It would be an impressive record if it didn't ache so bad.
Anita set the ice on the kitchen table and turned toward the warming milk, reaching into the cupboard above the stove for teaspoons and honey. "Apollo," she said softly, drizzling the first tablespoon over the pot. "You know what mi tesoro means, don't you?" Her voice was shaking.
So was Apollo, bodily and vocally. "It's a n-nickname, I know that. Isn't it for little kids?"
Anita nodded. "My mother used to call my brothers that, did you know? They are twins, and she would always call them 'mis bellos tesoros.' My beautiful treasures.' "
For a moment, it felt like vertigo, the admission of this nickname, of its meaning to Anita. It wasn't something she'd pulled out of thin air, or something she had thought necessary. It was something her own mother had done for her siblings, a nickname passed down in a way that was meant claim someone not as their child, but as their family. A way to show love, not possession.
Apollo's lower lip trembled, and he bit his cheek hard to try and stop it.
"When I call you mi tesoro, Apollo, it is not because I feel I must, because I am forcing myself to believe you are family."
Finished with the honey, she set the spoons in the sink and turned to face Apollo fully. Her own eyes were brimming with unshed tears. "You are my family, Apollo. From the moment you came here, from the first night you spent here. You were brought into my life by greater forces than I can explain, niño. You were brought to me for a reason. You are, and will always be, my son."
His vision was blurring and shaking, so he had to look away, at the floor. "I don't." It was all he could manage, all he could say without breaking down anymore than he already was. He needed tell her to stop talking, to stop crying, to stop, but the words wouldn't come.
She knelt in front of him, her cool hands resting on his trembling, freckled, bandaged arms. "Mi tesoro, fifteen families, and I will be the last. You were brave for all of them, weren't you? You're being very brave now, you are trying to keep your stiff upper lip. But you aren't going back, I am not sending you away, and you are welcome here with me, if you wish to stay. You do not need to be so brave now, Apollo. You can let me worry over you, and you can talk to me without fear that you are giving part yourself away in vain. You are safe to cry here. You are home."
The dam broke, splintered into a million pieces, and left him drowning as she held him gently to her like she did when he'd been brought home. One hand on the back of his head, the other pressing between his shoulder blades. She moved her thumb in small circles in an effort to calm him.
Never had he been told he could have a home.
Never had it been said that he had a home without the implied "for now." Never had he desperately clung to someone who wanted to be his mother while she held him just as tightly, crying much in the same way.
When he pulled away from her, slowly, still hiccuping, she cupped his face, and asked him to wait for her on the couch while she cleaned up.
When she came out, she had two mugs of warm milk, and Apollo had the peas pressed against his eye again. Everything was sore, and everything was aching, but for just this small pocket of time he let himself hope that it would all be fine, and barely moved to take the mug for fear it would shatter the illusion.
They sat in silence, taking deep, calming breaths and small sips of their drinks. Anita's eyes occasionally flitted over to the hand that was holding the ice. Apollo grit his teeth and let out a slow breath. If this was going to last, if he was going to do this...
He set the ice on the coffee table and wrapped his fingers around his mug. "Apollo Miller," he said softly, his heart beating faster. He reclined on the sofa, head pressing into the back as he tried to relax.
Anita only stared at him in confusion.
"Th-the scar. On my hand, on the back?" he waited for her to nod in understanding before he continued. "A kid brought a pocket knife to school a few weeks after I turned eleven. He was threatening a few kids, and I managed to keep him from hurting anyone by lunging for it. I got it away from him, but I was framed with being the one who brought a knife. The...the family I was will was the Miller family. I was Apollo Miller, then."
Anita set her drink down, staring curiously. Gently, she placed a hand on a discoloration that was on his inner forearm.
Apollo smiled sadly. "Apollo Garcia," he mumbled. "Bike accident. I had a concussion, too."
A jagged line near his collarbone. "Apollo Cheng. Didn't last long, and their chow hated me."
Her hands hesitated over a few perfectly round burns, centered all in one place, getting lost up his sleeve. "Apollo Ramirez," he said softly. "It...those...cigars. Mr. Ramirez was a nasty, grumpy old bastard."
"Apollo," Anita said, and the tone suggested both anger toward the man who left those scars, and frustration that he'd cursed in her presence.
"Sorry," he whispered.
They continued like that, her examining a scar and Apollo documenting it by name and injury. Archiving his past with someone who seemed to be (miraculously) a part of his future.
"Apollo Brown. Stairs."
"Apollo Johnson. Playground accident. A slide broke."
When she examined his bracelet, he surprised himself by simply telling her, "Apollo."
Anita raised her eyebrows. "This was with you at birth?"
He nodded slowly. "I...they told me it was my mother's. I was kind of left on the steps, and with a note was the bracelet. That, the beauty mark, and the freckles, are all just...Apollo."
There was a wave of stillness and silence before Anita reached, so, so slowly, for the bruise around his eye. She didn't touch it, just hovered.
He took a deep, shuddering breath. She was asking permission, asking for his trust. Anita Justice waited with her hand by his bruise, asking Apollo to be her son.
His choice.
His nose and eyes stung with fresh tears. "A....Apollo....Apollo Justice." He could feel the tears coming, and he spoke passed them the best he could. "A-age fourteen. A f-fight with a group of boys. Also got a bruised shoulder, and a split lip. And numerous other smaller cuts and contusions."
His head swiveled to look at Anita, and his throat felt tight. "I...I want it," he said softly. "I w-want to keep it, Justice. T-the name, I...if you'll let me I-I..."
Anita had him in her arms tightly before he could even finish the sentence, and he tried to blink back the quiet tears that had leaked out. "Of course," she was muttering, her own voice catching a few times. "Of course you can, of course."
They sat their like that, their drinks growing colder, crying and hugging.
Becoming a family.
(Maybe it can work) he thought at one point, sniffling and snuffling closer to his mother. (Maybe I can do this after all. I can...I can hope for it.)
(I'm...I'm Apollo Justice, and I...I think I'm going to be fine.)