[ Drake is just exiting a shop as Jo goes in, his attention a little divided as his phone chimes and he doesn't even notice her in the doorway. It's a gentle bump, but his hand brushes hers and then... Hadriel fades away.
--
Drake comes home in the evening, kicking the door closed behind himself and dropping a bookbag unceremoniously in the foyer so he can hang up his coat. He’s tired and hungry and wants to just grab dinner and go collapse, but has to say hi to Ma first. The tv is droning on in the living room but a quick glance only reveals a middle aged man in a recliner, so Drake moves down the hall to the kitchen. As he gets farther from the tv, he can hear… something. Crying.
His mother is at the table, with a towel full of ice pressed to her face, sobbing into it. She doesn’t seem to hear Drake, but he rushes over and kneels in front of her.
“Ma?! Ma! What happened?”
“Oh, Drake…” She lowers the towel, and it’s bloody. Her eye is already swollen shut, blood smeared on her cheek and lips.
From the living room, the man is calling out. “Hey! Kid, if you’re in there, grab me another beer!”
Something in Drake’s expression must scare his mother because she starts shaking his head as he stands up. “No… no, Drake, don’t--”
But he’s off, seeing red as he storms into the living room. The man in the recliner glances up, then scoffs at him.
“No beer? Shit, you’re both useless.”
“Get up.”
“What?”
“Get up, you miserable fuck.”
“Drake, don’t…” Ma is pulling on his arm and Drake just gently pulls free, stepping closer.
“Get up, Frank.”
“Whaddaya gonna do if I don’t?”
“Try me.”
“Nothin’ kid. You’re never gonna do nothin’ and you’re never gonna be nothin’. Just like your Ma. At least one of you could get me a--”
He doesn’t get to finish because Drake’s already moving forward, ignoring the awkward low angle to punch Frank sharply in the face. Straight in the nose, just once. Ma keeps begging from the background.
“I said try me! Huh?”
Groaning in pain with one hand clutched over his now-bleeding nose, Frank does get up. But when he drops his hand it’s not to make a fist. It’s to pull out a switchblade. “Walk away, Drake.”
“No. You’re done, asshole.” He lunges forward and Frank raises the blade, going straight for the kill, right in Drake’s eye. Ma screeches bloody murder as Drake dodges a second too late, the knife cutting deep into his temple instead, the origin of the scar he still bears. He lets out a sound like a snarl and the fight begins in earnest.
Ma keeps screaming.
It isn’t until Frank is a motionless lump on the floor and Drake is still wailing on him, 19 years of restraint and abuse from several men boiling over on the one in front of him, that Ma rushes forward and grabs his arm to stop him.
Drake falls backwards and goes very still, as if in shock, and stares at his bloody fist. Reaches up to touch his head and that hand comes away covered in blood too. From the cut and the few hits Frank got in, one of which split his lip. Ma starts crying again, the sobs hysterical and incoherent as she clutches at her son, and Drake stares at the body. He’s still breathing, Drake can tell because of the blood bubbling out of his mouth.
Shaking now, he shifts and digs into his pocket, pulling out his cell phone and calling 911.
When the cops and ambulance come, he’s extricated himself from his mother and is sitting out front, still covered in blood, smoking. He points the EMTs inside to Frank, and flicks the butt into the street, holding out his wrists to be cuffed.
As they lead him to the car, he hears his mother screaming again. “Don’t take him! Don’t take my son! You can’t take my son!!!”
sewers please! (cw: extreme violence)
--
Drake comes home in the evening, kicking the door closed behind himself and dropping a bookbag unceremoniously in the foyer so he can hang up his coat. He’s tired and hungry and wants to just grab dinner and go collapse, but has to say hi to Ma first. The tv is droning on in the living room but a quick glance only reveals a middle aged man in a recliner, so Drake moves down the hall to the kitchen. As he gets farther from the tv, he can hear… something. Crying.
His mother is at the table, with a towel full of ice pressed to her face, sobbing into it. She doesn’t seem to hear Drake, but he rushes over and kneels in front of her.
“Ma?! Ma! What happened?”
“Oh, Drake…” She lowers the towel, and it’s bloody. Her eye is already swollen shut, blood smeared on her cheek and lips.
From the living room, the man is calling out. “Hey! Kid, if you’re in there, grab me another beer!”
Something in Drake’s expression must scare his mother because she starts shaking his head as he stands up. “No… no, Drake, don’t--”
But he’s off, seeing red as he storms into the living room. The man in the recliner glances up, then scoffs at him.
“No beer? Shit, you’re both useless.”
“Get up.”
“What?”
“Get up, you miserable fuck.”
“Drake, don’t…” Ma is pulling on his arm and Drake just gently pulls free, stepping closer.
“Get up, Frank.”
“Whaddaya gonna do if I don’t?”
“Try me.”
“Nothin’ kid. You’re never gonna do nothin’ and you’re never gonna be nothin’. Just like your Ma. At least one of you could get me a--”
He doesn’t get to finish because Drake’s already moving forward, ignoring the awkward low angle to punch Frank sharply in the face. Straight in the nose, just once. Ma keeps begging from the background.
“I said try me! Huh?”
Groaning in pain with one hand clutched over his now-bleeding nose, Frank does get up. But when he drops his hand it’s not to make a fist. It’s to pull out a switchblade. “Walk away, Drake.”
“No. You’re done, asshole.” He lunges forward and Frank raises the blade, going straight for the kill, right in Drake’s eye. Ma screeches bloody murder as Drake dodges a second too late, the knife cutting deep into his temple instead, the origin of the scar he still bears. He lets out a sound like a snarl and the fight begins in earnest.
Ma keeps screaming.
It isn’t until Frank is a motionless lump on the floor and Drake is still wailing on him, 19 years of restraint and abuse from several men boiling over on the one in front of him, that Ma rushes forward and grabs his arm to stop him.
Drake falls backwards and goes very still, as if in shock, and stares at his bloody fist. Reaches up to touch his head and that hand comes away covered in blood too. From the cut and the few hits Frank got in, one of which split his lip. Ma starts crying again, the sobs hysterical and incoherent as she clutches at her son, and Drake stares at the body. He’s still breathing, Drake can tell because of the blood bubbling out of his mouth.
Shaking now, he shifts and digs into his pocket, pulling out his cell phone and calling 911.
When the cops and ambulance come, he’s extricated himself from his mother and is sitting out front, still covered in blood, smoking. He points the EMTs inside to Frank, and flicks the butt into the street, holding out his wrists to be cuffed.
As they lead him to the car, he hears his mother screaming again. “Don’t take him! Don’t take my son! You can’t take my son!!!”
Except they have to. The memory fades on a siren.
--
And he's trapped in Jo's mind, too... ]