Chapter Text
It’s cold. Windy. The rain drizzles drearily from the sky.
Or maybe it has finally begun to snow?
Neil isn’t sure, and doesn’t bother to open his eyes. The noise of the streets and the city wraps itself around him like a permeable, scratchy blanket that doesn’t do anything to protect him.
When the cold creeps into his clothes, he shivers, curls closer to the warmth at his side, undisturbed by the dampness of her fur, though he can’t stop his nose from twitching with the unpleasant smell of wet dog.
Trixie shifts then, stretching her paws contently as her tail begins to wag with enough force to rhythmically, but rather violently whack against the back of Neil’s thigh. He sighs, curls his fingers into the thick hair at the back of her neck, and, when that doesn’t do anything to calm her down, pries his stuck-together eyelids open with difficulty. He opens his mouth to tell her that, no, she can’t have that hot dog or whatever else she’s smelling right now, don’t you remember what happened the last time?, but a metallic clink in his vicinity stops him dead in his tracks.
His muscles pull taut, shoulders tensing, fingers snagging in a snarl of Trixie’s fur, before his brain has any chance of catching up with what’s happening, flight-instincts coiled tight in his stomach, and it’s only when the blurred mess in front of his eyes sharpens and finds focus that he manages to pull in a shuddery breath.
It rattles in chest, as do the gleaming coins that now lie on the bottom of the paper coffee cup in front of him. As he watches, a twenty dollar bill follows, flutters in the wind and almost misses the cup, but doesn’t, in the end.
Neil blinks.
Narrows his eyes, looks again.
The money is still where shouldn’t, where it doesn’t have any reason to be.
His body only kicks into action again when he feels Trixie twist against his side and he knows she’s about to get up; his hand reaches up these couple of inches, numb fingers wrapping around the makeshift collar he’s made her for Christmas. Distantly, he’s amazed that the cheap gift-wrapping bow holds when she strains against it just so, turning her head to glance at him with a betrayed look in her intelligent eyes, but he doesn’t dare to let go at the moment. It takes a split-second, then she blinks; her tongue flops out of her mouth and once across Neil’s face, accompanied by that rumble in her throat and chest that tries to mimic the purr of a car but fails miserably, and then she finally sits her butt down next to him, the danger of her going after someone who won’t be happy about it staved off once more, and only then does it occur to him to look up, to try and find out just what is happening here.
(It’s mostly to distract himself from the subsequent realization that he really shouldn’t try to dictate how this dog lives her life, not when he has so little control over his own; she’s a free being and Neil has no right to hold her back from doing whatever she wants, and sometimes, knowing that hurts. But as it happens, this time, the distraction happens to be a good one, and so he doesn’t think about it.)
It’s raining, Neil thinks, though it won’t take much for it to turn into snow. It’s late and/or dark enough for the street lamps to have turned on with additional help from Christmas lights everywhere, traffic is heavy as people strive to get home to their families and a cozy warmth, and there’s a man standing in front of him.
He’s wrapped up in a long, black coat and wearing a bemused expression as well as a black knit-cap, and his body-language tells Neil that he feels as unsure about this as Neil does.
Their eyes meet for a heartbeat, and Neil blinks, startled by the intensity of it, before the words tumble out of his mouth without him quite realizing it. “What’s that supposed to be?” he asks, his voice coming flat and raspy, his throat feeling scratchy and raw, and he wonders just when he’s last talked to another human being.
The absence of reaction to that is what confuses Neil the most; “Money,” the man simply says, and just continues standing there, arms hanging at his sides, posture relaxed, his expression neutral, and maybe only a little too blank.
“I can see that.” Neil doesn’t roll his eyes, but it takes an effort. “But why did you put it in there?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because that’s where Trixie drinks from, maybe?!”
Now, that gets a reaction, albeit a small one; the man lifts an eyebrow, his lips thinning.
Before he can think of a response, though, the wagging picks up pace again as soon as the dog hears her name, and this time, Neil doesn’t try to hold her back when she gets up.
He’s always made a point about not getting into anyone’s way if he can help it, and this dog is no different. It’s stupid, he knows that, but breathing always gets just a little bit harder, his heart heavier, whenever Trixie walks away from him. She’s been good company, and she’s never not come back to him up until now, but if she wants to move on with her life, she’d be free to do so. Neil won’t hold her back, won’t make the same mistakes again, even though he’ll definitely miss the dirty brown fur ball.
This man looks friendly enough, at least, strong and protective, and he probably smells good, too. He looks as though it’s warm wherever he lives, as though you don’t go to bed hungry with him. Which is more than Neil could ever offer this dog, and she deserves it.
“Uh-huh.” The sound is skeptical, as is the look the man sends his way, but there’s an undertone to it that Neil can’t interpret, and then it’s too late anyway. Trixie has come to a halt a step in front of him, and Neil can imagine the look all too well that she’d be now giving him, puppy-eyed and pleading to be petted—it’s been the reason why he’s even tolerated her in the first place, why he’s let her get the scraps from what he’s dug out of containers after dark, that and the way she’d fend off the rats from coming too close every time Neil decides to make his bed in some alleyway or another.
Neil draws up his legs, wraps his arms around them and rests his chin on his knees, leaning back against the crumbly brick wall at his back as he watches them now. It’s both to stop himself from reaching out and to put his hands closer to the small switchblade that he keeps in his boots, a kind of protective instinct he hasn’t known he possesses. But it’s churning in his stomach and a raging storm in his heart and Neil knows that if this man is so much as looking as though he’d hurt Trixie, he’s going to get stabbed. Hard.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, there’s another bemused sound that Neil can’t even hope to identify, then the man leans down a little (it isn’t even much; he’s small enough that he only has to bend a little at the knees to comfortably hold out his hand at Trixie’s nose-level).
Neil doesn’t watch any longer. Instead, he says, “Well, you shouldn’t have bothered. I have my own money,” and stares at the cup that has started this in the first place. If he’s honest he’s never even thought about begging, it hasn’t occurred to him as an option, and then he wonders about how much of this has to do with his upbringing.
His fingers are getting numb, but he can’t stop playing with the seam of his jeans instead of just tucking them into his sleeves where they’d have an easier time to stay warm. There’s too much nervous energy vibrating through his body to keep completely still.
Out of the corner of his eye, Neil sees as the man gives pause before squatting down to be even more on level with Trixie; there’s a pause halfway down, a twitch in his cheek, the smallest of a grimace that Neil knows rather intimately as he’s so familiar with these kinds of things himself; it speaks of suppressed pain and stubbornness, defiance in the face of the inevitable, and he wonders what lies behind it; some old injury maybe, a broken leg or thigh that never healed quite correctly? Neil is rather experienced in these kinds of things.
“Right,” the man eventually breaks the silence, without stopping to pet the labrador-terrier-mongrel mix, restarts a conversation that Neil has thought long since dead. “And that’s why you’re sitting out here alone on Christmas Eve, because you have so much money to spare.” It’s kind of startling how bored he sounds despite the fact that everything speaks against him being bored; Neil doesn’t think he’d be here anymore otherwise.
“I’m not alone,” he counters without a thought, because while he might be alone after today, he hasn’t been truly alone for over two months now, and it’s been a blessing.
“No, you’re not,” the man agrees lightly, and his expression changes when he looks back down at Trixie, who’s now making happy noises again, because she’s getting petted and she still thinks she’s a cat. Her tail swishes, giving Neil a split-second’s warning of what’s to come, but it’s too late. The man almost loses his balance when Trixie decides that she needs to get even closer and his knit cap slips out of place as his arms flail for balance, causing a shock of white-blond hair to peek out from underneath it and that’s when the realization finally slams home.
He knows this man. Knows his swing with a borrowed Exy racquet, knows his trade-mark salute, and like a physical dejà-vu, he suddenly finds his lungs empty of air.
Hysterically, the blank look and the stiff hip immediately make sense now, the way he gives away his money so seemingly carelessly.
It’s Andrew Minyard.
Retired from the US National Exy team and the Atlanta NightHawks due to an accident that destroyed not only his hip but also his professional career, then pursued a higher degree in Criminology, now acting as a professor at a local university, frequently donating money to various charities, vehemently going against child abuse and generally fighting for a better foster care system. Or that’s what the papers said about him, at least, he last time Neil’s read them.
And, if they’re to be trusted, it probably even makes sense for this man to give Neil the money without a question; he doesn’t really look his age, especially as dirty and wrapped up in a too large, ratty winter coat as he is, and to be sitting out on the streets on Christmas evening without a betterment in sight, it’s not hard for someone with a personal history of abuse and neglect to see similarities first, and maybe want to do something against it, to improve a life where he can. Not that Neil would know about these kinds of stuff.
“Don’t look at me like that,” the man—Andrew—says, effectively snapping Neil out of his quickly-spiraling thoughts.
He blinks, tilts his head to the side, frowns. “Like what?”
Andrew gently pushes Trixie’s head out of the way before he answers, ignoring her attempts at head-butting his hand in order to make him keep stroking her. Or maybe that twist of her head means that she’s sniffing his pockets for food, that’s another possibility that’s best never to be forgotten about.
“You’re not a cat, Trixie,” Neil reminds her automatically, can’t help himself, because they’ve been through this and she still doesn’t get it. “Dogs don’t show their affection like that. And no, you also can’t purr. Stop trying it.”
The stray comes waddling back to him at that, tongue hanging side-ways out of her mouth, her gait tilting a little to the right like usual, because she seems to have learned that it earns her pity-points when she dramatically pronounces the fact that she’s only in possession of three legs.
“You’re such a drama queen,” Neil chides when she does rub her face against his the moment he’s within reach. Trixie huffs at that, a sound that’s not quite a bark and definitely not a purr, but it earns her some scratches between the ears anyway.
The rain has fully turned into snow by the time Neil looks up again, big, feathery flakes that fall from the sky and immediately cling to everything; Andrew has gotten up and he has his eyes carefully trained on his watch now, his expression once again a little too blank for Neil’s taste, but he still hasn’t left yet.
Neil sighs. “What are you still doing here?”
When Andrew looks up, there’s something like hesitance crossing his features; a furrow of the brow, a faraway gaze, then he presses his lips together and the completive look vanishes, replaced by a strange kind of determination. “Your dog is very clingy,” he says out of nowhere, immediately followed by, “Also, because of you I’m running late. So we better get going now.”
“What?”
“You’re hungry. Your dog is hungry. I have food. A place where it’s warm.”
Neil squints, wondering if maybe he’s been wrong and it’s not Andrew Minyard after all, but someone else with a hidden camera somewhere who’s going to make fun of him any time now. “Why?” he asks, when several seconds pass and nothing happens except for Andrew’s look intensifying and the snow falling more densely.
“Because it looks like your dog won’t leave me alone otherwise. Also, I think I already listed some pretty good arguments.”
There’s not much intonation in Andrew’s voice that would give away what’s he’s really thinking, but he’s right in both points, unfortunately.
Neil glares, but it’s halfhearted at best. And it’s a lost cause because Trixie has heard the word food and her entire body is shaking with the force of her tail-wagging, and of course that’s the moment his own stomach chooses to let out a loud growl. Neil sighs. “How much?” he asks, mentally going through how much money he could spare just for one meal, because if this isn’t about money in any way he’d better stay out of it.
“I don’t need your money. That would be pretty contradictory anyway, wouldn’t it, considering I just…” Andrew nudges the no-longer-empty coffee with his foot, and Neil realizes that he’s forgotten all about it already. He’s strangely grateful for the fact that Andrew didn’t decide to articulate just what he did when they both know what he’s talking about, and it doesn’t make any sense.
But Trixie is whining up at Andrew and this is going to get real annoying real quick, so they’ll have to find a solution or Andrew will just have to go alone.
“Then what do you want?”
Andrew appears to be biting his tongue for a moment there, then he takes a breath and says, “How about we discuss this later? Depending on how much you eat, you really don’t have to pay anything. Renee always makes too much food, I’m sure we won’t even notice that there’s another mouth to feed. Also, there are the cats, and I think we’ve even got dog food lying around somewhere, so.” He stops, looks down at Trixie, tries to ignore her and fails. “Your dog looks ready to devour me, so I think I’m offering mostly out of my own best interest,” he notes dryly, though that ice in his voice is cracking slowly.
Neil’s head swims, overwhelmed with the task to try and figure out how much of this is the truth and what is made up. “Stop saying ‘your dog’,” he deflects instead. “She’s not my dog.”
“No?” Andrew raises an eyebrow. “Did you steal her, then?”
“No. She’s nobody’s but her own. I don’t make her do anything.” Neil hesitates, thinks about stopping here, but in the end he can’t make himself take the easy way out. He never could. “So. Like. If it really bothers you. Feel free to take her home with you if you want. She’ll eat without me there, she’s a great dog. Actually likes dog food better than humans, don’t worry. So. Don’t think just because you’ve stopped to talk to me you’re now kind of responsible for me or something. I’m an adult, I can look after myself, and you’re doing enough charity work anyway, you don’t need the extra karma to have to burden yourself with me.”
Even as he’s saying this, mentally already saying goodbye to the prospect of a warm meal that has seemed so inviting before, Neil’s stomach grumbles at the thought of it, of real food, something warm and rich, but he knows that it will only get worse afterwards, when he’s tasted it and then won’t have it available any longer. Sometimes nothing is better than a little; not even trying better than fighting and losing still.
Life hurts less that way, Neil has learned.
You can’t get let down if you expect nothing from anyone, Neil has come to understand.
Because humans generally aren’t to be trusted, Neil has known from the start.
Andrew Joseph Minyard sure as fuck isn’t an exception. No matter how much he has come around in the last year, how he’s begin to open up and talk about his own traumatic childhood in order to raise awareness, no matter how many abusive bastards he calls out, how many children he saves. Neil doesn’t meet people that are good for the sake of being good; everybody wants something or another and Neil has he feeling that he won’t be able to pay Andrew Minyard’s price.
“Don’t be difficult,” Andrew says, simple words that can come to mean something else entirely, because while Andrew’s voice is bland like an empty sheet of paper, Neil knows all about the secret, invisible messages that can hide there written in lemon juice and water (that they only come to light when they burn).
He swallows. Refuses to back down entirely. “I’m not.”
“Kid—” Andrew starts, and nope, absolutely not.
“I’m a year younger than you,” Neil interrupts him before he thinks it through.
“Great. So you do know who I am. Whatever you think I will expect of you in repayment, it won’t happen. No ulterior motives other than wanting to help out of the good of my heart.”
“Now you’re being sarcastic.”
“Well spotted. Congratulations. Now come on, I won’t repeat myself again. I’m late for Christmas dinner. Because of you. People won’t believe me when I tell them the truth without bringing you as proof, and then they’ll be on my case for the whole evening. I’d rather spare myself the pain. So. Let’s go. You also just can come by, stand there, be proof, and then leave through the back door with or without the food, I don’t care. I’m being purely selfish here, believe me.”
“Alright.” It does sound reasonable, doesn’t it? And even if it weren’t, if there were some kind of trap that Neil hasn’t seen yet, he’d still have his switch blade in his boot and a handgun in his backpack, and if worst should come to worst, Trixie would be there and it wouldn’t be the first time for her to bite someone in the ass for trying to do wrong by Neil. “I’m coming.”