Re: Carriage House: Atticus & Billy
“Just aware of the target demographic for the wares I’m peddling,” came the return that was made to sound like a joke but really wasn’t one: good-natured and self-deprecating delivery in a single shot. Billy closed his eyes again for just a minute, maybe less, pressing his head back against the couch so that the arm dug into the spot on his neck at the base of his skull, right where he always seemed to feel a marrow-deep ache with a dull sort of insistence. He hadn’t noticed it all through dinner, though, and that paired with a better meal than he’d had in weeks seemed like more than a fair trade for a bit of the same forthcoming that Atticus seemed to avoid like the plague, himself.
But it had always been easier for Billy, come more naturally that it seemed to for Atticus. Being honest with people. Not about this stuff exactly, with the things that scared him or that had chased him so far away from his home (and the people who thought him deserving of love and safety, or what it meant that Billy wanted to be as far away from them as possible). But in general, he used to be good at opening up to people, talking to them. So he gave it a shot. “I say that I shouldn’t be around people because…” he began, slowly, jaw working as he chewed the words over carefully and tried to figure out how much he could give without doing Atticus a disservice. “I don’t want to hurt anyone more than I already have. And I say that I’m dangerous to them because that’s just the reality. There are plenty of us who are, right? In this town? For one reason or another.”
Billy opened his eyes again but didn’t quite lift them to Atticus’ face, instead fixing onto a point somewhere around his shins. His own features carefully arranged, like his words: open, no immediate betrayal of upset because he wasn’t, but careful. He could feel the pinpricks of something other starting to work its way up the column of his spine, and he could hear the preoccupation in Atticus’ voice. Billy was a perceptive kid, and he knew what it sounded like when someone was trying to get rid of him without being impolite.
“Anyway, I should get out of your hair. Still a work night for me, and all,” he said with a smile, pushing up to his feet. He patted over the pockets of his jeans until he found the slightly-squashed pack of cigarettes, grabbed his backpack off the floor near the kitchen doorway and swung it up onto one shoulder. Going through the motions of making sure he wasn’t forgetting anything, heading over to the propped-open door of the carriage house and leaning down to slip on his boots that were just a little too small. Waving away the offer of cab money as he straightened up and regarded Atticus warmly, if a little awkwardly, as he hovered near the door. Back to feeling a little like a charity case, but trying not to make it obvious. One hand was pushing at his hair, and the other fiddled idly with a cigarette at his side.
“I’m fine, I like to walk, no worries. Um, thank you. For dinner. I had a nice time."