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Rookie didn't exactly mind that he wasn't anything more than a glorified hall monitor. It was a technically easy job, to just stand in the halls during class time to make sure nobody was skipping, and then overview the detentions.
It would be much easier if he didn't care so Goddamn much about these kids.
Teenagers, he has to remind himself. They weren't helpless little kids, some barely ten years younger than him. Subconsciously, they were still little kids, in desperate need of some guidance. Maybe Rookie wouldn't be the first choice for a somewhat stable figure, and "somewhat" was doing some heavy lifting, but he was the best option.
The detention regulars were split pretty evenly between bigoted assholes and troubled teenagers, and it was the troubled ones he was fond of. It was almost painful how much he saw himself in them.
One of these regulars was Theodore Huxley. Rookie was, more often than not, concerned for him.
He was concerned for more of them, of course. It didn't take a genius to know when kids were acting out because of their home lives, though maybe some teachers should be getting their degrees revoked with how hard they found it to come to that same conclusion.
Rookie would never stop the regulars from confiding in him, he'd broken the "no talking" rule of the detentions so often he had forgotten it was a rule at all. They needed an outlet, and who better to intrust than the one adult who had obviously struggled with those same things?
Ted tended to keep on the quieter side. He was the type to keep his head down and stay silent, but would fly into rants about his father – who Rookie had not met, though he decided he firmly hated that man – and every other thing that was going wrong in the poor kids life if prompted.
This was why seeing Ted walk past him and go straight into a toilet stall was so worrying.
It shouldn't be. If it was anyone else, it wouldn't be. But this was Ted, who already had his face scrunched up in that uncomfortable way Rookie had become familiar with, who was seeking out being alone. He had the suspicion that Ted wasn't exactly in the right headspace to be alone right now.
He's frozen for a second, before following after Ted.
—
The bathroom stall clicks as it locks. Ted throws his backpack onto the ground, sanitation not really in the forefront of his mind, and digs through the small front pocket looking for his stress relief. His fingers brush past the cold metal of the razor blade, and he shivers out a sigh of relief.
He brought it, thank God. There were no longer any scabs on his arms to pick at, they'd all scarred over last week. If he didn't bring his blade, he may of been able to just generally pick at his skin, but he knew that wouldn't bring him the same kind of relief he was seeking.
That didn't matter though, because he did bring it, now laying in the palm of his hand. He needed this, he needed some sort of pain. This would definitely give him the best kind. The full effect.
Ted stumbles, a little hard to navigate such an enclosed space when his head was so fuzzy, but manages to sit on the closed toilet seat. His right sleeve is pulled up, revealing the years worth of scars, all different sizes and shapes and colourations.
With a deep breath, the blade is hovered over a relatively unscarred part of his arm.
His eyes instinctively close when he strikes down the blade.
God. Oh, thank God. Finally.
A shaky breath escapes him as the hand holding the blade is pulled to his chest, and his eyes become half-lidded to see the damage done. It wasn't as deep as he'd like it to be, but with a slightly dull blade on skin so scarred, he wasn't all too surprised.
The process repeats, each swipe becoming less desperate than the last. Relief was finally washing over him in red waves – his brain relaxes and his body stops tensing as much. He raises the blade up once again.
"Theo?"
Three knocks and the soft voice of Rookie interrupts his fifth strike of the blade, his hand pausing mid-air. The sigh that's drawn from him is shaky, a mix of yearning and fear perfectly packaged into the inability to response.
A moment of neither of them speaking passes, before Rookie tries again.
"Theo…? C'mon, dude, I know you're in there."
Damnit. He wasn't letting up. Part of Ted was grateful for that, because he knew he needed the comfort Rookie would bring him. The other part of him wanted to just ignore him, pretend it wasn't him in the stall – but for being a stoner, Rookie wasn't stupid. Rookie was, in actuality, very stubborn.
"Hey..."
Ted can see Rookie's shadow from beneath the door, and his voice was instantly recognisable.
"...everything alright in there?"
The urge to just say yes was so strong. It would be significantly easier for his own sake to just lie, to brush Rookie away and suffer by himself. That would avoid the embarrassment and shame of being seen like this. Maybe he has already dug his grave with how he initially ignored Rookie, signalling something was wrong, but he knew a lie was in him somewhere.
Despite how tempting pushing him away would be, letting himself be embraced by that comfort also seemed… nice. Ted hadn't experienced something like that before, and it was equally as tempting to just let himself be taken care of for once. He thinks for maybe too long, before swallowing back the shake in his voice, and calling out a soft "no…"
The door creaks as Rookie leans back on it, his heels visible through the crack underneath it.
"Can you come out, lil dude?"
No words are said for several moments, but they don't need to be. Rookie can gather what it means when he hears the ripping of toilet paper.
—
When Ted unlocks the door, Rookie greets him with a sad smile. Neither of them point out the small patches of blood that stained the fabric of his sleeve. It wouldn't be too noticeable once dry, fading into the same shade of red as his sweater.
"Hey," Rookie is the first to speak. Ted was still hesitant, knowing the sobs that threatened his words.
"Hey…" his voice is soft, a trembling whisper, and he wasn't entirely sure if he could speak up any louder. "You're… you're not gonna just leave me with the nurse, right? I– I don't want her calling… my dad…"
Rookie shakes his head, and that action alone relieves the majority of his anxiety.
"Nah, don't worry," his voice is smooth, soothing. "I'll patch you up myself."
That offer was… a surprise to Ted, but it wasn't one he was about to turn down. Ted just nods, murmuring a thanks. Rookie's smile gets a little bit less sad.
"C'mon," he starts walking, and makes a vague gesture with the hand not stuffed into his pocket for Ted to follow. He obliges, of course.
The walk to what Ted soon found out to be the teachers lounge is done mostly in silence, but he was grateful for that. At least they wouldn't be talking about his issues where any passerby could hear. When they get to the lounge, it's empty, thankfully – every teacher would be in their class at this hour.
Rookie guides Ted to sit down in a chair that faces another, before moving to the kitchenette they had tucked away in the corner. Something is pulled out from under the sink – a first aid kit. Ted doesn't speak nor move a muscle as Rookie walks back.
"Can I see the damage?" Rookie asks softly, sitting across from Ted.
There's a bit of hesitation, but Ted eventually does as he's asked, pulling back the sleeve and presenting four clean, fresh cuts to the elder. Rookie makes a soft hiss noise at the sight.
"Jesus…" he whispers, his frown deepening. He shakes his head a little, reminding himself to focus on helping the teenager who just relapsed clean up. One gentle hand holds the underside of Ted's wrist to help him still his trembling arm, the other cleaning the cuts with an antiseptic wipe.
"...sorry," Ted whispers, trying not to flinch at the slight sting of the wipe. Rookie shakes his head again at that, this time to dispel Ted's thoughts instead of own.
"Don't be, man. 's all good," he whispers back, matching the gentleness of his voice. The scars on Rookie's wrist press against the scars on the top of Ted's arm as he continues to clean the cuts in mostly-silence, save for Ted's noises of discomfort and Rookie's humming.
The silence is broken eventually, surprisingly by Ted, who asks what song Rookie was humming. Rookie smiles, glad he felt comfortable enough to start the conversation himself.
"Ghost of You. It's stuck in my head, I was listening to it on repeat during my smoke break," he chuckles, and Ted shakily mirrors the noise.
"Oh– MCR…?" Ted asks tentatively. Rookie nods, and Ted smiles. A small smile, but a smile nonetheless. "Nice… I like their music…"
That got Rookie grinning alongside him, who was now wrapping soft gauze around the wound, "you do?"
Ted nods, "yeah, I– I'm not really supposed to listen to any sort of– like– alternative band. But I don't really listen to that rule." His laugh s a little awkward, but Rookie still nods back approvingly.
"Rebellions the name of the game," Rookie notes with a slight chuckle. Once he finishes wrapping the gauze around Ted's arm, he cuts it to the correct length, and ties it off.
"I guess it is," Ted lets out a small sigh of relief once Rookie was done, looking down to admire his handiwork. "Uhm– thank you. You– uh– yeah, thank you."
"Don't mention it," Rookie gives him a smile, before tucking the scissors and the rest of the gauze back into the first aid kit, then placing the kit onto the table.
He doesn't comment on how Ted brushes his thumb over the bandages, over where the cuts should be. He swallows, "you wanna… uh… talk about anything?"
Ted pauses, before shrugging a little. Rookie just hums – he understood. Maybe a little too well.
"Yeah, yeah, I– I get it," he leans back in his chair. "I assume you don't want to go back to class?" Ted shakes his head before he could even finish his sentence. Rookie thinks for a moment.
"I'm going on my smoke break soon anyway, would'ya wanna come join me?"
Ted looks up for the first time since this all started, finally meeting his eyes, "you– you can do that? Just… pull me out of class?"
Rookie chuckles and shrugs, "beats me. But Stevie'll be here in a second to take over my shift, and I think fresh air will do you good."
Ted thinks for a moment, "you're not… offering me to… sm–smoke, right?"
"God, no! You're a baby. I only share with the older kids," Rookie chuckles, standing to return the first aid kit to its rightful place.
An almost embarrassed noise, something alike to a laugh but not quite, escapes Ted.
"I'm not… a baby…"
Fourteen was a baby to Rookie, but he wasn't about to argue with him. He simply tucks the first aid kit back under the sink, and then walks back to Ted, who was still sitting in the uncomfortable plastic chair. There's a silence before Rookie speaks up.
"...hey, uh, kid?"
Ted hums and looks up from where he was playing with his sleeves, now covering the bandages that covered his cuts.
"I'm, uh– I'm gonna need whatever you used, alright? I don't feel… super great about leaving you with it."
Ted freezes up, and Rookie's expression softened. It was painful to see him struggling like this, but he wanted to do whatever he could to help. Even if Ted had plenty more at home, he wouldn't be able to relapse for a few more hours. Baby steps.
"What if… you do something with it…?" Ted's voice is bordering on being scared, and the concern melts Rookie's heart even more.
"I've not done that stuff in years, ya don't gotta worry about me, lil man."
Ted hesitates more, before sighing and unzipping the smallest pocket of his bag.
After the blade is handed over, the two walk down to the little spot Rookie resides in during his smoke break, a pair of headphones shared between the two. Ted gets priority on the songs.