Page 44 of Freedom
~*~
When Roger finallyhung up (these damn fools’ obituaries should at least be good material for the next Hunting 101 textbooks), he turned around and found Tobias kneeling on the floor in a corner of the living room with his head tucked down to his chest.
Roger swore. “Kid? What’re you—uh, Jake?” He pitched his voice louder.
Tobias didn’t move from the corner. He was utterly motionless, and it was creepy as fuck. Roger found himself gripping the hilt of his knife sheathed at his belt, unable to look away.
Jake bounded downstairs in big leaps, saw Tobias, and an instant later was on his knees at his side. “Toby, hey, what’s wrong? I got you, you’re okay. Dammit, Roger, what happened?” The last was directed over his shoulder, though he didn’t look away from the kid hunched on the floor who still hadn’t raised his head.
“How the hell should I know? I didn’t do anything to him—” Roger stopped, remembering the call he’d just been on. Maybe he hadn’t used the most tactful wording for a lifelong inmate of Freak Camp to hear.
But Jake appeared to have forgotten him. He had an arm around Tobias’s back, his other hand cradling the back of Tobias’s head, touching his cheek, soothing him with hands and voice in a way Roger had never known Jake Hawthorne was capable of. Where the hell had he learned that? Certainly never from Leon, with his tough love and buck up orders. In contrast to his father, Jake wouldn’t have noticed now if a herd of rhinoceroses charged in and settled down for a tea party.
This wasn’t the first time Jake had done this.
Roger watched, holding onto that detached, observant part of himself that kept him alive when other hunters were throwing up and promptly getting disemboweled for their trouble. The cool head and indifference that always got him through the threat before letting himself feel. Better that than thinking of the bile in the back of this throat and the itch in his fingers for the nearest bottle of Jack.
Being around Tobias reminded Roger why he’d never wanted kids. The last thing he’d ever wanted was to make a kid cower the way Roger’s own father had tried to make him cower.
The manifestation of that fear was before him now in maybe a hundred pounds of malnourished, traumatized teenager, now shaking in Jake’s arms. The kid who was so damn afraid of him, expecting to be slugged across the face at any second, just for being in the way. He didn’t just think that Roger was capable of that violence; he expected it with every breath, glance, and flinch. Roger could remember that fear and helplessness too fucking well.
It was all too fucking close to home. And whatever effect the kid was having on him, Roger reckoned the one he had on Tobias was just as bad, or worse.
After a couple more minutes, Jake drew Tobias to his feet. Without another glance at Roger, he hustled him upstairs to the guest room.
~*~
Once inside the guestbedroom, Jake sat Tobias down on the side of the bed and didn’t let go of him. Tobias buried his face in Jake’s shirt, shoulders shaking in hitched sobs.
“I’m s-sorry,” Tobias whispered, eyes closed while Jake combed out his hair with his fingers and tried to think soothing thoughts. “S-so sorry. D-Didn’t mean to...”
“I know, it’s okay.”
“Tell him I’m s-sorry, I d-didn’t mean...” Toby’s shoulders spasmed, and Jake recognized a silent sob, pain struggling up and Toby giving it nowhere to go.
Jake swallowed. “He knows, Toby. It’s fine.”
“You’ll t-talk to him? T-tell him I’m—”
“Yeah, but not yet. I’m with you right now.”
“Y-you don’t h-have to. I’m not—”
“Toby.” Jake had to stop and breathe. He didn’t think he could take hearing how Toby might’ve finished that sentence. “Just relax, okay? I’ll take care of it, I promise. Roger’s not mad at you.”
“I’m sorry,” Toby whispered again, wrecked like he hadn’t been since Boulder.
It had been so long since their last really bad attack. Yeah, Toby got spooked sometimes, locked up, needed to step outside restaurants if they got too noisy, but he hadn’t had anything that left him shaking and sobbing in weeks.
One fucking day with a hunter Jake trusted, and that was blown all to hell.
Jake stroked a hand through Toby’s hair while the kid fell asleep, and wished he could fix this, really and truly, not just put a Band-Aid on it or look away from what was happening. He’d thought that because Toby hadn’t had nightmares last night he was maybe doing better today—but if he was honest with himself, he’d hoped that but never really believed it, not with how Toby reacted around Roger, reacted just when Jake mentioned his name. Now, he suspected Toby just hadn’t slept. He didn’t have nightmares when he was awake, other than the panic attacks.
Jake wanted to kick himself in ways that weren’t technically possible. He hated this—hated that he’d been wrong to bring Tobias to the home Jake had always loved best, the place that had been his home more than any other in his life. Roger wouldn’t hurt Toby, but Toby couldn’t see that, and nothing Jake tried to say would help. It fucking sucked.
“Hey, you wanna lie down, see if some shut-eye helps? I’ll stay here with you.”
Toby didn’t disagree, curling up under the covers. Jake lay down next to him on top of the blanket, one arm wrapped around him, listening to Toby’s breathing until it slowed down, deep and even.
