![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
st_aurafinaTitle: Know Your Rights (All Three of Them)
Fandom: Person of Interest
Rating: Mature
Words: 1646
Characters/Pairings: Carl Elias, Anthony Marconi, Bruce Moran
Warnings/Content: Group home, mention of past sexual abuse, mention of past violence, implied risk of current sexual abuse, violence.
Notes: Written forvegetetarianvampireduck for Chocolate Box 2020
Content warnings at the Archive
Title from The Clash
Summary: Carl's not afraid to kill someone. It's what comes after that needs to be considered
Also at the Archive
The dormitory is rarely quiet. There's usually some new kid spending his first night alone, sniffling quietly to himself as he comes to terms with reality; or there's the soft murmur of business transactions in the various currencies of the group home: cigarettes, trading cards and booze. Sometimes the older kids fool around with each other. There's always noise, but Carl is used to that now. He knows it's the silence you have to worry about.
It's the silence that wakes Carl with a start tonight. The entire dormitory has gone still, so when the door opens, the squeak is as loud as breaking glass. When Carl peeps through his eyelashes, he sees the broad silhouette of Father Dolan in the doorway, and his heart sinks. They took in a new kid today; of course Father Dolan is going to have a sniff.
Carl is torn for a moment: he could duck his head under the covers, pretend this isn't happening. Father Dolan isn't interested in Carl now that he's a bit older, even though he's small for his age. It would be fine to close his eyes, stick his fingers in his ears. Anyone can see this home is shit, and nothing good will come of intervening. Carl hates the gush of nervous relief that floods him when he considers that option. It makes him sick to be so weak, but there's not much a kid can do.
"Sst!" It's Anthony, in the bed beside his. Nobody messes with Anthony, even though he's as undersized as Carl, because Anthony is trouble. There's lower-hanging fruit than a child who is already a murderer. Besides, Anthony's face is marked by a livid red line. Sister Bartholomew says it has marred his good looks, but Carl thinks the scar is beautiful. It's a battle wound. It's a warning.
Carl stares at Anthony, rage cold in his chest and shame curdling his guts. "Yeah but what can we do?" he tries to telegraph in silence.
Anthony gives him a crooked grin and lifts up his pillow. Underneath is a baseball bat, dented from years of use, flaking paint onto the sheets. He slips his feet out from under the covers, still clad in battered sneakers because Anthony never sleeps barefoot. Carl reaches out and pushes his legs back under the covers.
"Let me," he says, barely making a sound. Anthony is hanging onto his place in the home by the skin of his teeth, and they both know the next strike against his name will see him back in juvie. Carl wriggles out of his own bed and takes the baseball bat in his hand. He crouches down low and scuttles to the front of the dormitory, hidden by darkness.
The floorboards creak as Father Dolan takes his first step into the room, and Carl pulls himself upright, staying in the shadow of the open door. He knows the routine by now: Dolan will check the corridor for any witnesses, then he'll close the door softly before advancing between the beds.
Carl cocks the bat over his shoulder, plants his feet solidly into the wooden floor. He's small but he's got a strong arm and he knows how to use it, whether in a game of stick and ball, or in self-defence. He spares one second for a quick glance to the other end of the dorm. In the faint light from the window, he sees Anthony sitting up a little in bed, his head tilted on that angle that Sister Bartholomew calls insolent. For Carl, though, it is pure encouragement.
When Father Dolan turns back from closing the door, Carl slams the bat into his stomach. It's extremely satisfying: like punching a fist into a sandbag, soft but firm. Dolan folds over with surprising flexibility and a huge gust of air. Carl follows up with another blow to the man's back, and another. By the fourth strike, Dolan is on the ground.
Carl rests the tip of the bat on Dolan's neck for a moment to catch his breath. That was more effortful than he would have imagined. His arms are burning. On the floor, Dolan seems to be winded, heaving and gasping as he tries to regain his breath. That means he can't scream, which gives Carl time to make a few decisions.
The warmth of a body comes close up behind Carl, and he jumps, but it's just Anthony, reaching out to take the bat.
"Want me to finish him?" This is a thing that seems to be really important to Anthony: some invisible line that separates the people who have taken life from those who haven't gone all the way yet. He told Carl once that it matters, that you shouldn't do it if you don't have to, and since there's already blood on Anthony's hands, he's happy to do the dirty work to keep the two of them safe. Carl doesn't see it that way. It's more a question of consequences, he thinks, and how to make them work to your benefit.
"Nah," Carl says. "We can't cut his throat on the dormitory floor."
There's a slice of light cutting through from the hall through the gap in the door frame, and it's just enough to see Anthony's face. "I'll do it," he says. "It's no big deal."
"It is a big deal, because you'll be back in juvie." Carl is angry, at the system, at this useless bag of flesh on the floor, but mostly right now at Anthony. If they're killing Dolan, he'll do it, no problems. He's just not sure if they need to. Dolan is weak, and Carl has just proven that he's strong.
He bends down till his lips are against the priest's ear. "I'm going to let you live," he hisses. "But if you touch another kid, you better believe I'll cut you from ear to ear." Dolan says nothing, but a low wheeze escapes his mouth, carrying brandy fumes strong enough to make Carl's eyes water. He'll take that as assent.
Above him, Anthony huffs out a breath. "That won't work," he says. "It'll be his word against ours." They both know who wins that argument. Their word is worthless.
Carl straightens up, pushes the priest's body with his foot to gauge the weight of it. "Father Dolan's had a lot to drink," he says, reconsidering his options. "He really shouldn't be wandering around the hallways in the dark. Not so close to the stairs."
"Huh," says Anthony, considering. "Okay."
Dolan is too heavy to lift on their own, so they drag the new kid out of his bed to help. The boy is terrified, and protests as loud as he dares, until Anthony clips him across the head. Then he shuts up, eyes wide behind his spectacles.
"Who do you think Dolan was here for?" Carl says, as reasonably as possible. "He tries on all the new arrivals." He turns to Anthony. "What's the time? Gotta be close to midnight." Sister Bartholomew would be around soon to do bed checks.
"It's ten to." The new boy still has his own wristwatch, it turns out, a digital one with a button that lights up the numbers. Carl and Anthony are briefly caught up with this new wonder, then it's back to getting Dolan up on his feet and wobbling towards the stairs. By now, the new kid is on side, standing in front of Dolan to stabilise him, while Carl and Anthony provide the grunt work from behind to propel him one staggering step at a time to the staircase.
Dolan seems dazed, even though Carl didn't hit him anywhere on the skull. His soft, pink hands flail for the bannister, but either his sweaty palms, or the labour of a dozen children with furniture polish, mean he can't grip the wood securely. He teeters on the edge of the first step, and Carl yanks the new kid to safety.
Anthony puts one sneaker-clad foot up on Dolan's ass. "You have a good trip now, Father," he says, and shoves. Carl watches, fascinated to see physics in action. Father Dolan is briefly airborne, then he hits the stairs with a tremendous thud and rolls, a flapping ball of black cloth from which protrude arms and legs in random order. He stops moving on the landing, lodged in the narrow passage of the turn.
Carl and Anthony stare at each other, then bolt back to the dorm with the new kid in tow. As they're closing the door, they hear Sister Bartholomew calling up from the staffroom.
"Did someone fall? Hello?"
In the dormitory, Carl stands on the new kid's bed. "This is how it goes," he says to the room. "Father Dolan fell down the stairs. That's all you need to know. Anyone who says otherwise, you're gonna answer to us." Anthony leans against the iron frame with practised nonchalance, which is all the reinforcement Carl needs to guarantee silence.
They're tucking the new kid into his bed when Sister Bartholomew's scream echoes up the stairs. Carl takes the kid's glasses off and passes them to Anthony. The kid stares at him with an expression that Carl finds both disturbing and elating. It would be wrong to glory in this kid's worship, he schools himself silently, but for the moment, it's a tiny flicker of warmth that feels good. At least the kid is safe for now. That's due to him and Anthony.
"What's your name?" he asks. Beside him, Anthony carefully folds the glasses and puts them on the bedside table.
The kid grins, the first time Carl's seen him do anything other than stare in terror or cry. "Bruce," he says. "I'm Bruce Moran."
Carl pats the kid's foot through the blankets. "You did good, Bruce. Stick with us, okay? We make a good team."
Fandom: Person of Interest
Rating: Mature
Words: 1646
Characters/Pairings: Carl Elias, Anthony Marconi, Bruce Moran
Warnings/Content: Group home, mention of past sexual abuse, mention of past violence, implied risk of current sexual abuse, violence.
Notes: Written for
vegetetarianvampireduck for Chocolate Box 2020Content warnings at the Archive
Title from The Clash
Summary: Carl's not afraid to kill someone. It's what comes after that needs to be considered
Also at the Archive
The dormitory is rarely quiet. There's usually some new kid spending his first night alone, sniffling quietly to himself as he comes to terms with reality; or there's the soft murmur of business transactions in the various currencies of the group home: cigarettes, trading cards and booze. Sometimes the older kids fool around with each other. There's always noise, but Carl is used to that now. He knows it's the silence you have to worry about.
It's the silence that wakes Carl with a start tonight. The entire dormitory has gone still, so when the door opens, the squeak is as loud as breaking glass. When Carl peeps through his eyelashes, he sees the broad silhouette of Father Dolan in the doorway, and his heart sinks. They took in a new kid today; of course Father Dolan is going to have a sniff.
Carl is torn for a moment: he could duck his head under the covers, pretend this isn't happening. Father Dolan isn't interested in Carl now that he's a bit older, even though he's small for his age. It would be fine to close his eyes, stick his fingers in his ears. Anyone can see this home is shit, and nothing good will come of intervening. Carl hates the gush of nervous relief that floods him when he considers that option. It makes him sick to be so weak, but there's not much a kid can do.
"Sst!" It's Anthony, in the bed beside his. Nobody messes with Anthony, even though he's as undersized as Carl, because Anthony is trouble. There's lower-hanging fruit than a child who is already a murderer. Besides, Anthony's face is marked by a livid red line. Sister Bartholomew says it has marred his good looks, but Carl thinks the scar is beautiful. It's a battle wound. It's a warning.
Carl stares at Anthony, rage cold in his chest and shame curdling his guts. "Yeah but what can we do?" he tries to telegraph in silence.
Anthony gives him a crooked grin and lifts up his pillow. Underneath is a baseball bat, dented from years of use, flaking paint onto the sheets. He slips his feet out from under the covers, still clad in battered sneakers because Anthony never sleeps barefoot. Carl reaches out and pushes his legs back under the covers.
"Let me," he says, barely making a sound. Anthony is hanging onto his place in the home by the skin of his teeth, and they both know the next strike against his name will see him back in juvie. Carl wriggles out of his own bed and takes the baseball bat in his hand. He crouches down low and scuttles to the front of the dormitory, hidden by darkness.
The floorboards creak as Father Dolan takes his first step into the room, and Carl pulls himself upright, staying in the shadow of the open door. He knows the routine by now: Dolan will check the corridor for any witnesses, then he'll close the door softly before advancing between the beds.
Carl cocks the bat over his shoulder, plants his feet solidly into the wooden floor. He's small but he's got a strong arm and he knows how to use it, whether in a game of stick and ball, or in self-defence. He spares one second for a quick glance to the other end of the dorm. In the faint light from the window, he sees Anthony sitting up a little in bed, his head tilted on that angle that Sister Bartholomew calls insolent. For Carl, though, it is pure encouragement.
When Father Dolan turns back from closing the door, Carl slams the bat into his stomach. It's extremely satisfying: like punching a fist into a sandbag, soft but firm. Dolan folds over with surprising flexibility and a huge gust of air. Carl follows up with another blow to the man's back, and another. By the fourth strike, Dolan is on the ground.
Carl rests the tip of the bat on Dolan's neck for a moment to catch his breath. That was more effortful than he would have imagined. His arms are burning. On the floor, Dolan seems to be winded, heaving and gasping as he tries to regain his breath. That means he can't scream, which gives Carl time to make a few decisions.
The warmth of a body comes close up behind Carl, and he jumps, but it's just Anthony, reaching out to take the bat.
"Want me to finish him?" This is a thing that seems to be really important to Anthony: some invisible line that separates the people who have taken life from those who haven't gone all the way yet. He told Carl once that it matters, that you shouldn't do it if you don't have to, and since there's already blood on Anthony's hands, he's happy to do the dirty work to keep the two of them safe. Carl doesn't see it that way. It's more a question of consequences, he thinks, and how to make them work to your benefit.
"Nah," Carl says. "We can't cut his throat on the dormitory floor."
There's a slice of light cutting through from the hall through the gap in the door frame, and it's just enough to see Anthony's face. "I'll do it," he says. "It's no big deal."
"It is a big deal, because you'll be back in juvie." Carl is angry, at the system, at this useless bag of flesh on the floor, but mostly right now at Anthony. If they're killing Dolan, he'll do it, no problems. He's just not sure if they need to. Dolan is weak, and Carl has just proven that he's strong.
He bends down till his lips are against the priest's ear. "I'm going to let you live," he hisses. "But if you touch another kid, you better believe I'll cut you from ear to ear." Dolan says nothing, but a low wheeze escapes his mouth, carrying brandy fumes strong enough to make Carl's eyes water. He'll take that as assent.
Above him, Anthony huffs out a breath. "That won't work," he says. "It'll be his word against ours." They both know who wins that argument. Their word is worthless.
Carl straightens up, pushes the priest's body with his foot to gauge the weight of it. "Father Dolan's had a lot to drink," he says, reconsidering his options. "He really shouldn't be wandering around the hallways in the dark. Not so close to the stairs."
"Huh," says Anthony, considering. "Okay."
Dolan is too heavy to lift on their own, so they drag the new kid out of his bed to help. The boy is terrified, and protests as loud as he dares, until Anthony clips him across the head. Then he shuts up, eyes wide behind his spectacles.
"Who do you think Dolan was here for?" Carl says, as reasonably as possible. "He tries on all the new arrivals." He turns to Anthony. "What's the time? Gotta be close to midnight." Sister Bartholomew would be around soon to do bed checks.
"It's ten to." The new boy still has his own wristwatch, it turns out, a digital one with a button that lights up the numbers. Carl and Anthony are briefly caught up with this new wonder, then it's back to getting Dolan up on his feet and wobbling towards the stairs. By now, the new kid is on side, standing in front of Dolan to stabilise him, while Carl and Anthony provide the grunt work from behind to propel him one staggering step at a time to the staircase.
Dolan seems dazed, even though Carl didn't hit him anywhere on the skull. His soft, pink hands flail for the bannister, but either his sweaty palms, or the labour of a dozen children with furniture polish, mean he can't grip the wood securely. He teeters on the edge of the first step, and Carl yanks the new kid to safety.
Anthony puts one sneaker-clad foot up on Dolan's ass. "You have a good trip now, Father," he says, and shoves. Carl watches, fascinated to see physics in action. Father Dolan is briefly airborne, then he hits the stairs with a tremendous thud and rolls, a flapping ball of black cloth from which protrude arms and legs in random order. He stops moving on the landing, lodged in the narrow passage of the turn.
Carl and Anthony stare at each other, then bolt back to the dorm with the new kid in tow. As they're closing the door, they hear Sister Bartholomew calling up from the staffroom.
"Did someone fall? Hello?"
In the dormitory, Carl stands on the new kid's bed. "This is how it goes," he says to the room. "Father Dolan fell down the stairs. That's all you need to know. Anyone who says otherwise, you're gonna answer to us." Anthony leans against the iron frame with practised nonchalance, which is all the reinforcement Carl needs to guarantee silence.
They're tucking the new kid into his bed when Sister Bartholomew's scream echoes up the stairs. Carl takes the kid's glasses off and passes them to Anthony. The kid stares at him with an expression that Carl finds both disturbing and elating. It would be wrong to glory in this kid's worship, he schools himself silently, but for the moment, it's a tiny flicker of warmth that feels good. At least the kid is safe for now. That's due to him and Anthony.
"What's your name?" he asks. Beside him, Anthony carefully folds the glasses and puts them on the bedside table.
The kid grins, the first time Carl's seen him do anything other than stare in terror or cry. "Bruce," he says. "I'm Bruce Moran."
Carl pats the kid's foot through the blankets. "You did good, Bruce. Stick with us, okay? We make a good team."