shadows_have_offended | I'm chasing down my demons, I can hear them breathing

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I'm chasing down my demons, I can hear them breathing

When Neil gets the curricular assignment for his Senior summer courses, he feels a little fragile about it. He's grateful, at least, that the teachers are listed, that the English teacher is not the one from this term, and that the History one is. He still feels awful about throwing a spanner in the works of everything, about decimating his chances of just getting out of this whole situation and getting on with his life already; at least he'd managed to resurrect the corpse of his Science and Math classes, and hadn't needed to, amazingly, with his non-core classes.

But when he got the assignment, he was raw and fragile in a way that felt very dangerously like when he'd first arrived in Darrow--or, more realistically, like when he'd sat in his English classroom in Welton and lied to Mr. Keating and told him that his father was letting him stay in the play.

Neil walks for a long time after he's given the assignment, glad for the end of his day. Tries to clear his head, or at least think. And when he finally stops, it's because of gentle hands on his shoulders.

"Mr. Perry," Billy Rocks says, voice low and calm. He's still in uniform--and for good reason, it seems, since Neil has walked all the way from Darrow High to the police precinct where Billy works at. How embarrassing. "I was just off," he says. "You can escort me home."

Neil knows, from mornings running into Billy returning home from work when Neil's leaving the Bramford for school, that Billy does not go home in uniform. But in this moment, when he feels a bit like he's been run over with sandpaper, or something like that, he appreciates whatever lie it is that allows for this structure.

"Yes, alright," Neil says, and nods.

They walk in silence, in part because Billy has never been particularly talkative with Neil and in part because Neil is not feeling overly talkative with anyone at the moment.

But they don't head straight for the Bramford, which takes Neil a moment to notice. By the time he does, Billy is steering them into a booth at a cafe that, once, Neil went to on a double date. The memory feels strangely far away as Neil sinks into the seat.

"Call whoever you need," he says. "Order whatever you want."

Mostly, Neil just feels like breaking into a hundred pieces.

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"Heard you kidnapped someone," Goodnight said when he saw Billy, and then just beyond him, Neil Perry sitting at a table. "What happened?"

He'd gotten texts from both of them: one from Billy to say he'd found Neil wandering, and one from Neil to say that Billy had picked him up and brought him to a cafe. Goodnight worried, since Neil had a rough spring and summer was shaping up to be a slog.

Billy smiled, just a little, when Goodnight got in. He started to make room on his bench for Goodnight, considered that for a moment, and then did ultimately slide over. It was probably better that Neil was forced to face down two adult faces than to feel hemmed in on one side with no escape route.

"Coffee's on its way," he reported. And Lord, did he need it, after an overnight shift. He was still regretting not changing out of his uniform, but it was too late now. He was trapped like this until they were done with this bit of an intervention. That was alright by him.

Billy didn't explain, and that was just fine, and Neil realizes after a moment that it's because he hadn't explained. Hadn't explained the wandering or the dead-fish stare when Billy picked him up, hadn't explained what he needed or why this was so critical that he needed people right now. Billy just knew. He was like that.

Neil feels a little bit like he might cry, but he manages not to.

"I finally got my summer school assignment," he reports. It's different than when he took summer classes at Welton, keeping on top of his studies and graciously avoiding being at home for as much of the break as he could. It feels so different. "It's just English and History."

Goodnight settled down next to Billy, pressed their legs together as soon as he was comfortable. "Surprised you haven't passed out yet," he said fondly to Billy, because he looked tired. Overnight shifts were rough, sometimes on both of them.

Neil looked rough, too, and Goodnight stayed quiet while the boy opened up about exactly why he had such a long face.

"That's not terrible," he assured gently. "Two classes over the summer, you can cut through those in no time." He was quiet for a moment, then asked, "Or is there something else that's eating at you?"

"That's why there's coffee coming," Billy said. He put his head briefly against Goodnight's, because he could hear, and he watched the way that Neil watched them.

He pushed the menu towards Goodnight, because Neil didn't look in any shape to be thinking about food right now, so it would be best if they let him take over for the moment.

Neil sighs a bit, just watching the two of them, because it's still something remarkable. There are clubs and bars here, and things out in the open, and men--and women--who are just like this every day. Neil still struggles with holding hands in public, not to mention all the problems that have cropped up in the past few months with school.

"I have to actually sit through the class," he says. "They're physical sessions. So, uh. So probably no plays this summer. And just...it all feels stupid. And I missed my chance to apply to college because of everything."

"So you'll sort yourself and take a gap year, or you'll apply for the spring semester and start just a bit behind. This is not the end of the world, Neil. And part of this is due to choosing to skip other classes, ones that had nothing to do with your troubles."

Goodnight felt the need to be somewhat stern on that point. He understood the blow of being thrown so far off course and having trouble correcting, but that had been in English. As far as he knew, as far as he'd heard, Neil had been enjoying, or at least doing well in, his other classes until all that. Perhaps he was the last person to lecture on running away from things, but here he was.

Neil can't really be blustery and self-important about the whole thing, even though his immediate reaction is defense. Well, actually, his first immediate reaction is trying to come up with some sot of believable lie or fabrication, something that can get him out of this specific knowing of the situation.

Instead, in the end, he slumps petulantly down in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Nobody should be dealing with my problems except me," he says after a minute, "because I'm the only one in charge of me and my choices. And I made some bad ones. But they were mine."

"Son you have just swung to the very opposite end of the spectrum here," Goodnight said, proud of himself for not sounding weary. "Let people help you with your problems, Neil. If you had let us, this might not have gone quite so far. So yes, you made some short-sighted decisions, but stop acting like you're drowning and no one has thrown you a rope."

Because they had. He and Billy had offered several times to speak with someone as guardians, even if they weren't quite legally so on any paperwork. Goodnight was good at talking, and most people wouldn't question a man wearing a police uniform, he'd learned.

"We're still here to help you, Neil, whenever you're ready to let us."

Billy kicked Goodnight, but gently, in the ankle. He didn't disagree with him, per se, but it was a sort of delicate situation with Neil. It was why he hadn't spent the walk lecturing him in the first place. They'd given him plenty of opportunities to approach them throughout the spring, and he'd taken the opportunity to spiral. Now, they were there.

A part of Billy wanted to point out the irony of Goodnight Robicheaux chastening someone on acting like they were drowning when they'd been thrown a rope. Instead, he sipped his coffee.

Neil shrinks a little bit, arms even tighter over his chest. Goodnight and Billy have been constant and present throughout this entire situation. That isn't the point, though, not when he's struggling with the whole bit of it. All he wanted was to get through the year. He just wants one senior year to go well.

That's maybe a little morbid. He picks himself delicately away from the thought.

"I don't know why everybody keeps acting like telling me they're here to help will change the fact that I already screwed the first go around." Neil shrugs a little bit. "I have the summer to fix it. I'm mad enough at myself, I don't need you telling me what I should have done differently."

"Because you clearly didn't hear us the first several times." Goodnight lifted his eyebrows, but he sat back. "So take it as a lesson. Next time you're in over your head, you've got somewhere to go, people to help. And Billy will have quiet words with that sonnabitch and you won't have to skip his class just for peace of mind."

The time for that had passed, obviously, but that wasn't the point.

"You'll get through the summer, Neil. Failure is not the end of the road. Certainly not for you."

Billy would probably like to do more than have quite words with someone like the teacher Neil had been dealing with over this term, but he didn't say this out loud. He and Goodnight had talked at length about the situation, and if it would be appropriate to just go over Neil's head when he wasn't, technically, under their care and was, technically, a legal adult in Darrow.

Now, Billy sort of wished they'd gone over his head. Maybe Billy would file an anonymous complaint with the school board. A bigot didn't need to be molding the minds of children. Neil might just be the tip of the iceberg.

"It's important," Billy said gently, "to be outspoken about these things. You had people to back you up. Now you've learned a hard line to not let yourself cross, something you can't let people treat you like again."

Neil heaves a huge sigh and puts his head down on the table for a moment, covering the back of his neck. Nobody else in the class had had issues, though, was the problem. Not as far as he knew. There was no one from that particular class--though from others, sure--that were going to be in his summer course, and certainly none of them were there because the teacher didn't like who they were seeing.

Goodnight was right. Billy was right. But Neil had never been able to make his own choices, for so long, and to be given that freedom, that power, had felt like a precious thing. Even if he'd screwed it up.

"Can we just get food?" he asked softly, head still down.

"Course we can. As dismal as the situation is, we'll count it a small victory. Maybe you can do some revolutionary writing over the summer, in the tradition of Whitman."

Goodnight winked at Neil when he picked his head up again. Some lessons were hard to learn, but he had faith Neil would get through this, and other trials. He was a good boy, and he was smart as a whip when he let himself run with it. He didn't want to see him brought low by some small-minded idiot in a position of power. He'd seen it too much to tolerate it now.

But he also knew the rules of engagement and he exchanged a look with Billy. Maybe there was something they could do, when Neil was free and clear of it all. Goodnight would like that.

They shared a look, and then Billy looked up and away from Neil so he could signal the waitress to come over to them. They could all use a refill on their coffee, at any rate, and if they were going to order food, they ought to.

Billy pushed the menu in front of Goodnight so he could make a decision for them at least.

"At the very least," Billy soothed, "you never have to deal with the sod again. Not after classes, and not during the summer. Isn't it so?"

Neil nods, first to the idea that the situation is dismal, and then because of Billy pointing out his freedom from being under the thumb of that horrid teacher. There are definitely worse ways to spend his summer, he knows that. And far better ones, too. But he can make do.

Whitman, though, puts him in mind of Keating, and of Todd and all the other boys, and he sighs, all melancholy. When the waitress comes over to them, he just orders toast and eggs as he pushes his coffee cup closer to the edge for more.

"Todd was the writer," Neil says softly. "I was good enough for the grade, and have an excellent speaking voice."

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I'm chasing down my demons, I can hear them breathing

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