shadows_have_offended | 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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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."

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

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