argentum_ls (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
argentum_ls) wrote2013-03-31 10:44 pm
argentum_ls) wrote2013-03-31 10:44 pm
Entry tags:
Fanfic: Broken [Teen Wolf]
Title: Broken
Characters: Isaac
Word Count: 509
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Broken bones aren't the worst pain.
Notes: For angst bingo prompt: broken bones. All warnings associated with Isaac's past are in play.
Isaac huddled on the exam table in the room #3 of the ER, his arm cradled close to his chest, while he waited for the doctor. He knew the bone was broken; he’d heard the crack and felt the first surge of pain that now lay straining to reach him from behind a wall of disassociation and a shot of some kind of painkiller. His father was out in the lobby filling out paperwork, his voice drifting through the thin wall with the over-defensive protest about how “boys will be boys” and “you can’t take your eyes off ‘em for a second.”
He closed his eyes and tried to keep as still as possible. Maybe he could sink into the rough white sheets, fall into the bed and out of sight. A part of him reveled in the hope that he could vanish from sight with just the power of his will. He could only imagine the look on his father’s face when he opened the door and found the room empty. Isaac badly wanted to see that look for real, even as he understood that that was too many kinds of impossible for one lifetime.
He tried to tell himself that it wasn’t his father he was afraid of. The flare of rage that had preceded the injury was nothing compared to the crushing disappointment he’d face for having been injured at all. And, yet, neither was comparable what would come next:
The questions.
“What happened, Isaac?” he would hear. “How did you break your arm, Isaac? What can you tell us, Isaac? Are you afraid in your home, Isaac?” Each of the questions would be asked in patient, caring tones by people whose eyes brimmed with tears.
And there was only one way he could respond.
“I don’t know,” he would answer. “I guess I wasn’t careful. I don’t know. I love my father.”
He knew how the questions would go and he knew how the answers would have to go.
He understood that the doctors and social workers were trying to protect him.
What they didn’t understand was that there was nothing they could do. It was all on him: to try harder, be better, pay attention to his surroundings, and—above all else—give the right answers. He couldn’t keep making his father unhappy. With Cam gone, it was Isaac’s job to keep the family together, and it was a job he couldn’t shirk.
So he pulled his legs up tighter and bit his lips to hold back the whimpers of pain, and prayed that he would either disappear into the whiteness, or that the questions would never come.
He could stand a broken arm like he’d withstood broken fingers and a broken nose because his mother was gone and Camden was gone and all Isaac had left was the man in the lobby who, even now, was filling out the paperwork that would help Isaac get better. Broken bones could heal. But, what he couldn’t cope with was the threat of a broken home.
Characters: Isaac
Word Count: 509
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Broken bones aren't the worst pain.
Notes: For angst bingo prompt: broken bones. All warnings associated with Isaac's past are in play.
Isaac huddled on the exam table in the room #3 of the ER, his arm cradled close to his chest, while he waited for the doctor. He knew the bone was broken; he’d heard the crack and felt the first surge of pain that now lay straining to reach him from behind a wall of disassociation and a shot of some kind of painkiller. His father was out in the lobby filling out paperwork, his voice drifting through the thin wall with the over-defensive protest about how “boys will be boys” and “you can’t take your eyes off ‘em for a second.”
He closed his eyes and tried to keep as still as possible. Maybe he could sink into the rough white sheets, fall into the bed and out of sight. A part of him reveled in the hope that he could vanish from sight with just the power of his will. He could only imagine the look on his father’s face when he opened the door and found the room empty. Isaac badly wanted to see that look for real, even as he understood that that was too many kinds of impossible for one lifetime.
He tried to tell himself that it wasn’t his father he was afraid of. The flare of rage that had preceded the injury was nothing compared to the crushing disappointment he’d face for having been injured at all. And, yet, neither was comparable what would come next:
The questions.
“What happened, Isaac?” he would hear. “How did you break your arm, Isaac? What can you tell us, Isaac? Are you afraid in your home, Isaac?” Each of the questions would be asked in patient, caring tones by people whose eyes brimmed with tears.
And there was only one way he could respond.
“I don’t know,” he would answer. “I guess I wasn’t careful. I don’t know. I love my father.”
He knew how the questions would go and he knew how the answers would have to go.
He understood that the doctors and social workers were trying to protect him.
What they didn’t understand was that there was nothing they could do. It was all on him: to try harder, be better, pay attention to his surroundings, and—above all else—give the right answers. He couldn’t keep making his father unhappy. With Cam gone, it was Isaac’s job to keep the family together, and it was a job he couldn’t shirk.
So he pulled his legs up tighter and bit his lips to hold back the whimpers of pain, and prayed that he would either disappear into the whiteness, or that the questions would never come.
He could stand a broken arm like he’d withstood broken fingers and a broken nose because his mother was gone and Camden was gone and all Isaac had left was the man in the lobby who, even now, was filling out the paperwork that would help Isaac get better. Broken bones could heal. But, what he couldn’t cope with was the threat of a broken home.