Day 12 Of @ailesswhumptober

Day 12 of @ailesswhumptober

Isolation/sensory deprivation- "can you feel me? I'm right here."

cw. Claustrophobia, dissociation, references to child abuse

(My longest one yet!)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Morris never meant to tell Snyder that Os hated small spaces.

But it was one of those casual conversations in his office that almost made Morris think about Snyder as some kind of friend. His heart had stuttered in his chest with panic when the guard had first called down to the dorm to get him but upon being shoved into the office he'd been greeted with a sandwich, with real fucking meat in it, and a glass of milk.

Snyder was sat on the far side of his desk, his own meal in front of him, steak and potato's and veg, and a glass of something that smelt like the shit da used to drink by the bottle.

"Sit down Morris, I didn't invite you to stand there."

"Sorry, mr Snyder."

He sat down, the plate of food in front of him. Snyder cut a sliver of steak and looked up again. Stared at him for a moment. Expectant.

"I know you grew up poor Delancey, but I trust you've had enough food that you know how to eat it-"

"Yes. Sorry. Weren’t sure it was for me-"

"I have to teach you not to interrupt as well, apparently." His tone was sharp.

Fuck. "Sorry."

Snyder stared at him a moment longer then turned his attention back to his own lunch. he scoffed slightly, but didn't look over at Morris again, too busy catching a green bean on the end of the fork. He only leant back once he took the mouthful, chewing thoughtfully while he stared at Morris, eyes bright and assessing.

Morris had to try and shrug off his gaze as he reached for the sandwich, trying to remember all the ways ma told him to eat polite and chew with his mouth closed. The bread was soft.

It was hard not to feel on edge. Being invited to Snyder's office was never over anything good.

But Christ Morris was hungry.

Morris was sure Snyder waited until he had taken a bite to ask him question just to be a dick. It was the kind of thing Morris assumed he'd find funny, the kind of thing that reminded him Snyder was in his early twenties at best, only a few years older than Oscar when it came down to it.

"Is it good?"

Morris nodded. Knew better than to speak around the food. The memory of da whacking him round the head at the dinner table at home when he did it was all the reminder he needed. He could still hear his voice ringing, that southern drawl snapping at him to 'have some fuckin' manners'.

He swallowed. "Yeah. S' good."

It wasn't a lie, the bread was fresh and there was butter and ham. The glass of milk was cold.

"Do you know why I asked you here Morris."

He was never sure what the right answer was to Snyder's questions. But it felt the appropriate time to put the sandwich back on his plate, Snyder hadn't touched his own food since the initial fork-full.

"No, sir."

"Your brother had been particularly," he hesitated, searching for a word and seemingly in no particular hurry to find it, "difficult, recently,"

Morris hadn't really noticed any changes, Oscar was as Oscar as he ever was, but he was always good at hiding these things from Morris, he realised as he got older. With every year and birthday he realised he never reached quite as old as Oscar seemed.

"You know why I've been placing you and Oscar on different tasks, don't you?"

Morris didn't, he had been wondering since the start of the week when him and Oscar had been sent to opposite ends of the refuge, with Morris cleaning in the chapel and Oscar down the other end, doing fuck knows what. Morris never really asked. Oscar was his older brother, older and responsible and fine, so it didn’t matter whether Morris asked.

But he didn't know and he knew Snyder knew that. But he shook his head anyway.

Snyder smiled slightly. "In an attempt to break the little codependent habit you and your brother have, I've been trying to seperate you. seems you're doing better without him than he is without you."

And an ugly satisfaction curled in Morris's gut that almost immediately made him feel sick with the guilt of it.

"Os has always looked after me."

"Oh I'm aware. I'm just surprised he can't seem to clear out a cleaning cupboard without nearly passing out-"

Morris spoke without thinking.

"Yeah but he ain't never liked small spaces. Don't think it's got nothin' to do with me."

Something in Snyder's eye glinted, a vague shift to his posture that made Morris want to sink back in his seat and out from under his stare. Snyder's eyes were intense, cold. being directly under them was intimidating.

"Your brother's claustorohobic?"

"He's- what's that mean?"

Snyder's lip twitched, amused. "Scared of small spaces, Morris, like you described."

Morris bit the inside of his cheek till he tasted iron, washing out the taste of ham and butter and bread that wasn't stale to replace it with something copper. Like he'd put a nickel under his tongue.

"Yes, sir."

For a moment Snyder let the silence sit. And then he finally leant back in his chair, satisfied in a way that made Morris nervous.

"Finish your food, Delancey," he said as he picked up his knife and fork again. "Or there won't be a meal for anyone in the morning."

This time the sandwich tasted like sand in his mouth.

…

The next night Oscar never came back to the dorm room. Morris had spent a couple of hours sitting and waiting, had even asked around in the group of boys if anyone had seen him, and the longer he didn't show up the more on edge Morris found himself getting.

It was a last resort to ask one of the guards, because inevitably they'd tell Snyder and Morris didn't know if he could suffer any more of his direct attention.

But Oscar wasn't here.

He was clinging to the hope that when one of the guards, or Snyder if he was feeling like it tonight, took rolecall before the boys were sent to sleep that they'd notice.

And then Snyder walked in the room, cane in one hand and clipboard in the other, and the boys had all lined up by their bed silently, and Morris had affirmed he was there when his name was called.

and then Snyder skipped directly over Oscar.

Morris has to bite his tongue. For the second time in two days he tasted blood. He pressed his teeth harder and stared at a crack in the wood on the floor beneath him-

"Morris did you hear what I said?

Snyder's cane was on the floor next to his feet. All at once his heart was in his chest. He could feel his ribs creaking.

"No, sir."

"I said your brother won't be joining you tonight."

Morris felt sick. Hadn't yet looked up from the wooden slats on the floor, splinters throughout the room. He could feels the eyes of all the boys in the room on them.

"Aren't you curious as to why, Morris?"

"Why, sir."

"I'm trying to help him. A young man still so scared of the dark? Of small spaces? I'm meant to be releasing upstanding young men. Not children."

Morris tasted bile in the back of his throat. He could already hear the whispers that would come later. They weren’t meant to know this about Oscar.

"Would you like to come and see him?"

It was more than da ever offered when Oscar was locked in his bedroom at home for days at a time. When Morris was tiny and would whisper outside his room and wait for Oscar to answer, if he would answer. The first few hours were always the worst, Oscar's awful yelling that tore up his throat so bad that he only stopped when he couldn't yell no more. Slamming his hands on the door and begging when he heard footsteps walk past the door only to be ignored by ma or da or Morris on those days he was too scared to find out what da would do to him if he knew he'd been talking to Oscar.

The silence was the worst part.

Oscar going quiet for hours at a time.

At least if he was sobbing, loud and breathless and so bad it sounded like he was choking on each inhale, Morris knew he was alive.

"Yeah. Yeah please."

Snyder's expression didn't shift, and Morris couldn't read it.

"Come along then. Boys, the rest of you, bed."

Morris could still feels the stares as he followed Snyder out of the room as the others scrambled for their beds. he knew the second the door was closed behind them the whispers would start.

Snyder was silent as they walked through the halls of the refuge. It was disconcerting how quiet it was aside from the sound of Snyder's polished shoes on the floor. The hallways long and empty and dark, not bustling with young boys and coughs and sniffles and crying and arguing and fights-

The stairs as they got further down were covered in even thicker layers of dust, and Morris knew it wouldn't be long till he could feel it when he breathed. He would've stopped to let his eyes adjust to the dark if it weren't for the fact that Snyder didn't.

They were almost at solitary and the panic that crept up his throat at the sight of it was unrelenting. And then they walked past it.

A storage closet at the end of the hall.

He could hear Oscar's laboured inhales from here. The door rattling as he slammed against it, so far from everything, so removed.

"Mr Snyder-"

"The best way to overcome our fears, Morris, is to face them. I'm only doing what's best for him.

Then Oscar's voice broke as he yelled out again. He sounded so young, like he had back in the farm.

"Da! Da please- fuck I- I swear I'll stay outta the way just lemme- please-"

Snyder was smiling. Didn't shift his gaze from the door.

"I wasn't expecting him to call for your father, and of course from this I can come to my own conclusions. But I always like having confirmation that I'm right."

Morris sort of. half nodded, knew what Snyder was asking even without the question. He could feel his heart beating in the hollow of his chest.

Christ Oscar sounded so young. He wasn’t meant to sound so young. So scared. It made Morris nervous, the unfamiliarity of it all.

"Da would lock him in," he said, real quiet, like he was telling a secret. And it was, in a way. "Back on the farm. Days sometimes. Just so he was outta the way. Couldn't bother no one."

"A cruel man, your father." Snyder was casual, as if they couldn't hear Oscar. "Did he ever do the same to you?"

"No. No he hit me but they-" his eyes burned. "They didn' want Os. So sometimes they'd just. Put him away."

It was something from childhood Morris remembered and had never questioned much, till now. And the thought made him feel sick.

He ran back the memories again, hazy at best like most on the farm, but there were so many things that just. didn't involve Oscar.

There was one particular memory slowly piecing itself together, like it had been triggered by the sound of Oscar’s fist on the door. Morris had been tiny, Christ not much bigger than four or five, and had sleepily dawdled down the cold hallway of the farm house crawled in with ma and da in the middle of the night because Oscar was in the next room over and wouldn't stop banging on the wall. morris couldn't sleep. So he'd told da. And da had said he'd get him to stop.

Da had clambered out of bed, dragged a hand down his face and came back five minutes later.

Morris was already curled into ma's side, asleep.

He didn’t even remember complaining about Oscar till now.

His vision darkened a little at the edges.

"Let him out?"

Snyder barely spared him a glance at the question.

"Not until morning. How is he going to overcome anything if I give into his endless yelling."

"Please, he's-"

"Nearly 18 now Morris. God, sometimes I wonder how you boys would survive to adulthood if I weren't around."

"Can I see him?" His voice came out a croak.

And for a moment Snyder hesitated, and Morris thought he might actually say yes.

"Wait here." He said instead and Morris wasn't brave enough to disobey Snyder when he said things like that. He wished he was.

"Oscar?” Snyder called out, just a little louder than usual.

The banging stopped.

Then the begging started.

Morris shouldn't be here to hear it. He knew he shouldn't, every fibre of his body, every bone and muscle was telling him to sprint back up the stairs, back to the safety of the dorm room where he didn't have to hear this. This mockery of his older brother. It made him uncomfortable down to the marrow his bones; it was wrong.

"Da, da I'm sorry- please jus'- lemme out. Please. I'll be good i swear. I swear- please-"

Snyder didn't answer. Morris was watching his back but could picture the expression on his face.

Oscars voice wavered. Uncertain at the lack of response.

"Da? Da are you-"

"I'm here."

Morris pressed a hand to his mouth to stop himself from making a sound. The lump in the back of his throat was painful and the burning in the backs of his eyes was turning into a pounding headache-

"Da, pl-" a sob. "Please. I don'- what'd I-"

"I'm turning the doorknob. Can you feel it turning.”

"Yeah. Fuck. yeah. Please-"

"I'm right here, Oscar."

"M' sorry. An’ I- I been prayin' like you said. An' I ain't- ain't talked to Mo-" he went quiet. Just for a moment. Morris noticed Snyder had let go of the door knob. "Da?

Snyder had turned around, face expressionless, hand on his cane.

"Da! Da please come back!” The door rattled. “Fuck. Da - Mo-"

Snyder was close enough to slap a hand around Morris's face. Fingernails digging into his cheek. A hissed "not a word," as he all but dragged Morris back toward the stairs

As if Morris would've been able to bring himself to do anything even if Snyder wasn't there.

In there, that person in that room, crying and yelling and so scared. That wasn't Os. It couldn't be. So Morris would wait until Snyder brought him back.

Just like he would on the farm when Oscar acted like nothing had happened, and Morris had his big brother come back home.

I have lots of thoughts about Oscar and claustrophobia so here is a second interpretation of todays whumptober prompt

cw suicidal ideation

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oscar would bet money that solitary got smaller every time he was sent down there. Logically he knew it didn't, brick and stone didn't just move, but it was hard to be logical when it was like this, when it was dark outside and the only light was coming through the barred window in the high corner of the room and his ribs hurt from tensing with how cold it was.

Sometimes he thought he'd die down here. The weather or the fact that sometimes, most of the the time, he couldn't breathe quite right, could feel his heart in his chest and pinpricks under his skin, so aware of every sensation and the lack of space. He got restless when it was quiet. He got restless and paranoid and considered smashing his head against the wall to just end it and let Snyder find his body-

"Delancey."

Oscar spun at the voice through the door, it was embarrassing how quickly he darted to it.

"Mr Snyder. Fuck. M' I done-“

"I can hear you from my office you know, it's the floor above."

It was one of those moments again, where his heart was beating out of his rib cage, up his throat, and his hands were shaking where they were pressed up against the thick wooden door. he was begging for splinters. Something to make the floating feeling stop, something that made him think about anything other than being at home and in his room for days on end and calling for ma and da and hearing nothing from no one and being so sure he was going to die-

"breathe, Oscar."

"Fuck you," He spat. He didn't mean to, no one spoke to Snyder like that, you weren't meant to speak to Snyder like that, but he couldn't think straight down here, losing his goddamn mind with every minute that ticked past, like he was turning into his fuckin' ma-

"Oscar." It was sharp.

"Let me out. Fuckin'. Please Snyder, christ. I can't breathe down here."

He could barely see either, feel his hands, the numb tingling that had spread from his fingers and up his arms, his whole body felt like a stack of cards-

The slot for the food he hadn't been given was pushed open.

Fuck he was hungry. Too out of it to process it.

"What- what're you-"

It felt like the ground was moving under him. All cold stone and brick. If he passed out maybe he'd hit his head hard enough he'd die

"Don't get your hopes up, Oscar. I told you you weren't eating and I meant it. Give me your hand."

"I ain't wanna touch your fuckin' hand-"

"Give me your hand or I can add another day to your stint down here."

Oscar tried to hold out. He really did. But he relented. Reached his shaking, calluased hand and let Snyder grab it.

If the semi-dried blood on Oscar's knuckles from punching the stone wall bothered Snyder any, he didn't show it. Oscar thought he must've been used to the blood on his hands.

Snyder's hand was a little bigger than Oscar's and warm to the touch, soft. Nails cut and manicured, he had a firm hold, painful, almost as he squeezed Oscar's hand.

"Can you feel me? I'm right here, Oscar."

The air came out of Oscar's mouth in quick puffs of cold air. At least he wasn’t being ignored. At least it wasn’t like calling for ma and da.

"Yeah. Yeah I know,"

"How does my hand feel."

"What-“

"Answer the question Oscar."

He hesitated, trying to focus on the feeling of palm pressed to palm.

“Skins real soft," he said. "Like you ain't ever done a days work in your life."

Snyder huffed a laugh. Oscar wasn't laughing, still trying to persuade himself the walls weren’t closing in.

"Good. good. Now can you take a deep breath."

"Fuck you."

Snyder squeezed his hand so tight it hurt.

"Take a deep breath."

Oscar tried, but it felt like he couldn't get enough air into the bottom of his lungs, like they wouldn't expand wide enough. Like his ribs were seizing up with the cold air with every attempt of an inhale.

Snyder's grip didn't loosen up any. when he spoke again, his voice was low. filled with a barely restrained anger Oscar recognised.

"I can hear you pacing from my office and it's slowly driving me insane, so I need you to calm the fuck down, do you understand me."

Oscar tried to yank his hand back. Snyder didn't relent.

"You're not getting out. So do you understand me."

Oscar voice still wavered when he answered, he thought about how his pacing couldn't bother Snyder if he was dead.

"Yes sir." It was low, gravely with cold, "I understand."

ofc! 💖

newsies fic recs (from an english major):

no hate to those who like the 5+1 and just one bed tropes, but they're just not my cup of tea. (i have been called a hater.) instead, here are my favorite ao3 newsies fics, ones with intense originality, lyrical prose, and in-depth character studies. (;

canon era:

among the roses green by TheBarkeep. a jatherine retelling of the ballad of tam lin, featuring a gentle davey, tumultuous katherine, and poignantly-drawn jack. and, of course, whump, always. word count 66k.

Sacrifice by Efstitt. this fic is my roman empire. mayer jacobs and jack kelly have a history riddled with pain, and jack has to battle his demons to let himself be loved. oh, and the refuge has a fight club. word count 15k.

keep the earth below my feet by scarlettroses. i'm a sucker for race & jack friendship, and here, race is a prizefighter. jack is there to drag him out of trouble, forever. word count 2.6k.

tryin' to talk with a fist in ya mouth by Somanywords. jack kelly's full backstory, chronicling his grief, his darkness. featuring intense PTSD, art as a form of therapy, and emotionally charged prose. word count 15.5k.

Jack's Self Portrait in Apologies by Em_313. a different angle on jack's backstory, captured in snapshots of regret. meticulous period research in this one, as well as a whole lot of bloodstains and death. word count 3k.

cardboard crown (jack kelly, a life) by stars_and_sunflowers. this is my own take on jack's story. featuring a fight club, a debt-riddled race, and irish catholicism. in-progress, current word count 16k.

Escapes by Efstitt. jack has just broken out of sing sing, and he lands smack dab in the middle of the pulitzers' summer estate. cue savagery, a pretty heiress, and a compassionate spot conlon. word count 30k.

On the Road by Efstitt. sequel to escapes! ever more whump, this time in the context of a road trip. jatherine is endgame, and the plot is dazzlingly engaging. and, as always, brilliant characterizations. word count 56k.

Just Hold On Kid by flyinghome21. another jack kelly backstory (do you see a pattern?) flashes of years gone by; i was really captured by the way the plot moved, the highlights of what made jack tick. word count 27k.

melt your headaches, call it home by floodlights. latino jack kelly. jatherine. classism/racism, violence, startlingly lyrical prose. do i even need to SAY more. i want to eat this fic. one of my all time faves. word count almost 5k.

Best Laid Plans by TheBarkeep. ashkenazi jewish jacobs family rep! this one features a soft davey jacobs falling in love with a sex worker, jatherine sweetness, and teenagers bearing the weight of the world. word count 128k.

Jack and the Baby by tuppenny. cute one-shot told in jack's vividly unique, endearing voice -- he steals a baby in the summer of 1891. carefully researched, wonderfully executed. word count 5.6k.

of cowboys and princesses by TheBarkeep. little jack and charlie meet each other in an orphan asylum. jack is a fierce protector, charlie a wistful dreamer. this one made me cry. word count almost 3k.

honorable mention: for you are my fate, my sweet by TheBarkeep. cupid & psyche retelling featuring organized crime, meticulous period piece research, and a villain more horrific than snyder. this is one of my favorites, but i skimmed so much of it because it gets very dark. word count 149k.

(now would be a good time to get up, stretch, drink some water. will i ever stop yapping? eventually.)

modern au

No Way by Efstitt. this and the sequel have my brain in a stranglehold. foster care au ft a severely traumatized jack, charlie and jack gorilla glue familial love, stunning plot twists, horrific whump, mayer jacobs for king of the universe now and forever. this one made me cry like a baby.

Just Hold On, Kid by Efstitt. the sequel. i am getting these two as bound books by the end of the year. davey is doing an investigative report on the refuge just as jack gets sent back, and mayer won't let something like trauma or distance stop him from loving his boys. in-progress. current word count 56k.

Medda Crusade by sunkissedstar. this series is the perfect blend of fluff and angst, focusing on baby jack and his trauma in foster care, and medda showering him with mother love. series word count is 10k.

to be updated! i am currently reading hell is a sober crawl by glitter_ink which came highly recommended. thanks for coming to my ted talk enjoy <3

newsies cast the way it’s in my head:

jack kelly — christian bale

david jacobs — david simmons but also he kind of just is

katherine plumber — laurie veldheer

crutchie — andrew keenan-bolger

spot conlon — neither gabriel damon nor tommy bracco. he just,,, exists??

racetrack higgins — ben cook

les — luke edwards honestly

snyder — alex christian (omG)

medda — aisha de haas

oscar delancey — anthony norman

morris delancey — mike faist

i’m not adding the smaller newsies but elmer is anthony zas always and forever

Day 13 of @ailesswhumptober

Whumpee using themself as bait/defiance - "take me instead."

cw. child abuse

the night the boys were taken to the refuge

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was the middle of the night, or close to. Dark outside. The blanket didn't do much to keep Oscar warm but the two fingers of whiskey he'd drank earlier were humming through his veins still, so he wasn't as cold as he could've been. But it could be better.

He glanced over to Morris on the other side of the room, all curled up, knees pulled up to his chest and curly hair that Oscar would have to cut soon splayed out across his pillow, his face tucked into the gap between it and the mattress. He looked like the kid when he was sleeping like this, the nine year old he was, even with the hollow cheeks.

Oscar sat up slowly, careful to not let the bed creak under him. If he woke mo up he wouldn't go back to sleep for hours and Oscar knew he would've been the one talking him down, keeping him quiet so da didn't hear. He wouldn’t mind usually, but he’d already sacrificed the heavy quilt ma had knitted years back, quietly draping it over Mo's sleeping body and gently ruffling his hair; he didn't want to sacrifice a nights sleep aswell, not that that seemed to be going well so far.

Walking quietly across the creaking, wooden floor of the farm house had been a skill Oscar perfected. He was practiced and silent and it brought a sense of comfort as he felt his way down the dark hall, fingers on one hand running over the bottom of crosses and the torn edges of ma’s sketches of the Virgin Mary pinned to the walls. When he reached the end of the hall he started down the stairs. It was careful; he knew what side of what step made what noise, and how to avoid it, avoid alerting da to the fact he was still up.

He just wanted another finger or two of whiskey, something to help him sleep.

If he'd paused before pushing the door to the kitchen open he would've noticed the dim, yellow glow around the door frame, the low flickering orange and yellow of lit candles.

Da was sitting at the kitchen table, bottle of whiskey next him, crucifix pinned to the wall behind him just above his head.

Oscar froze in the doorway.

"S' late, Os." His voice was like gravel, like the words were pulled up out of him and spoken from the back of his throat. There was a warmth to it, sometimes, by nature of his accent, by nature of being their da.

He stayed in the doorway, kept his distance and tried to keep his voice even. "Couldn't sleep."

Da took a slow sip of his drink, one poured into a glass not just straight from the bottle, and some the tension drained from Oscar's shoulders.

"S' the babby asleep?"

"Yeah. Yeah mo's sleeping."

Oscar had spent a couple hours lying shoulder to shoulder with Morris, chatting quietly about everything and nothing until he had eventually drifted off. Oscar didn't believe in God or anything like that, or maybe he did and it was just god who didn't give a shit about him, but he couldn't help the habit of swiping a cross on Morris's head with his thumb and a murmur of god bless, the same way he'd watched his ma do hundreds of times over before she passed.

Da nodded, his figure still mostly shadow in the low light, but broad, familiar. “Good kid. You wanna drink?”

Oscar was hesitant, glanced up at the crucifix and then back at da again, his eyes were dark with the way the candles were haphazardly spread about the table, his blue eyes, Oscar's own, flickering into view every view seconds.

He stepped further into the room, let the floor creak under him this time.

"Yeah. Thanks, da."

Da didn't respond, wordlessly pushed his half full glass toward Oscar and instead took the bottle by the neck.

"Once you finish that, want you to go wake up your brother, tell him to pack."

The whiskey hit the back of Oscar's throat and burned. He sputtered and da huffed a laugh. He knew da was jeering the fact he apparently couldn’t hold his drink but Oscar didn’t care-

"What? Pack?”

"We're goin' into town."

"But it's-" da was unpredictable, but usually in a way Oscar was used to. So unpredictable that there was almost a pattern to it. But it had been different since ma died. He had been different, withdrawn and angrier and kinder in equal measures. Uncertainty seized at Oscar's chest. "It's the middle of the night, da."

"Didn't ask you to ask questions. Drink that n' then get him up."

A pit in his stomach opened up.

Da was going to kill Morris. That had to be it.

It was a thought that had lingered in the back of Oscar’s skull since the baby had been born.

He couldn't finish the rest of his whiskey.

"What- where you goin' in town."

"Don't start at me Os."

"Mo ain't- he ain't done nothin'. He's been good-"

"Oscar-"

"Least take me instead, c'mon da, you don't even like me-"

The back hand was sharp. A crack that sent Oscar sideways and the glass of whiskey crashing to the floor in needle shards and a pool of splintered amber all before he noticed da had even shoved out his seat, his free hand still around the neck of the bottle.

Oscar's cheek throbbed and his eyes burned and the candles flicked.

Da's head was blocking the cross.

Oscar hoped the noise hadn't woken Mo up.

"I ever say you ain't comin' too, boy?"

Da's eyes were dark with the way he leant over the table, shrouding out the light.

The smell of whiskey stung Oscar's nose.

"Said go get your brother. Or I can go get him an' leave you here."

Oscar tried to swallow through the stinging of his cheek, ignore it and the pressure he could feel behind his eyes. The familiar anger crawling up his throat. Da always hit hard, especially when he'd been drinking. but apparently the silence of Oscar’s lack of response was answer enough.

"M' loading' up the cart," Da continued, and he took a heavy swig of the bottle, then held it out to Oscar; he hesitantly stepped forward, just enough that he could reach. The neck was still warm from da's large hand. "Half an' hour Os. And then we're headin'."

Oscar nodded, didn't ask where they were going, knew he wouldn't get an answer. Knew da could hit harder than that.

"Atta boy."

Da slapped his shoulder, too hard, and shoved past him, out to the outhouse, Oscar could only assume. Out to where the old cart was kept during winter.

Oscar's cheek stung. He glared at the lone crucifix nailed to the wall. The bony figure of Jesus limp and splayed out across it, a speck of red on his ribs where he’d bled. his eyes on Oscar.

Oscar turned away. brought the bottle of whiskey to his lips and let it burn on the way down.

the penguin! idk what episode (possibly opening flashback)

is THIS your man? [shows an image of a malnourished injured exhausted man with big sad eyes looking up at the camera with blood smeared all over his face and mouth. and he is visibly trembling]