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[May. 3rd, 2014|09:08 pm] |
GENRE: Modern day, the ruins of a ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) superiore-like place.
PREFERENCES: Slash/het/gen
WARNINGS: sexual assault implied
“You know, Ronan mused, “I think I like it better this way.” The gothic arches of Bastille Hall drooped somber and ancient against the backdrop of a charcoal sky. Police strobes played into the dimpled faces of gargoyles nestled beneath the stone rafters. A length of yellow police ribbon fluttered in the uncharitable breeze. It had been torn loose when the news crews pressed in for a shot at the convicted headmaster and his coterie of accomplices. All but two members of staff had been spared the massive culling. Student numbers were harder to estimate.
Ronan tracked the flicker and wave of the police tape with his eyes. It curled around the back of a police cruiser, caught a gust of wind and drooped miserably down to the asphalt, where it snared around a pair of scuffed ballet flats. He looked up with a tug in his chest. “Joy, hey-”
The crackle of skin on skin echoed loudly over the eerily silent quad. Ronan registered it as a tingle in his flaming face. Humiliation came first, with patrol cops glancing his way and Stanley pushing away from the car to intercede, then the actual, throbbing sting snaking up the length of his right cheek.
Joy was nineteen and very blonde. Over one of their many late night chats, she had confessed to Ronan that she dyed her eyebrows to look less Nordic. That was before she showed him the welts on her back, but after she told him how to pack his bruises with heat. “You’re a pig. And an asshole. How could you even…”
“You’re certainly within your rights to think so,” Ronan said, trying to roll with the metaphorical punches. He hadn’t realized, until then, that it was much easier to do so with the physical ones.
Small fists clenching and unclenching at her sides, Joy snarled. “I hope you die.” She whirled around, curls bouncing on her narrow shoulders, and stalked away with a great sense of purpose. A uniformed cop moved to intercept, but Ronan shook his head. Joy was by no means the only student lashing out in the wake of the sting. The much-commentated scandal of Vatersay University had triggered a wave of condemnations and recriminations. From one end of the political spectrum to the other end of the celebrity circuit, hopes had been dashed, careers terminated overnight.
It seemed like more and more graduates were coming out with their stories every day. The statutes of limitations had expired for many of the alumni charged, but that didn’t seem to affect the court of public opinion. A pastor in Arkansas had decreed Vatersay the birthplace of evil in America. The Westboro Baptist Church was reportedly planning a protest outside the campus as soon as they could make the media sit up and pay attention to their antics. Outrage was rife enough that Larry King had come out of retirement to head a panel discussion on prime time.
At least Joy had used the back of her hand to make herself understood. It wasn’t as spectacular, but boy was it effective.
Stanley caught Ronan by the chin. “You’re okay, kid.”
“I know,” Ronan said, shaking him off. They had been partnered for three years, spent two cobbling together this operation, working together through thin but mostly think -- and still Stanley showed no inkling of forgiving Ronan his young age. It was true that he’d been a greenhorn at Quantico when Stanley was chasing domestic terrorists up and down the eastern seaboard. It was also true that if it hadn’t been for Ronan’s baby face, they might never have found the proof they needed to shut down the cycle of coercion and abuse that had been greasing Vatersay pockets for the better part of two decades.
“She’ll come around. Prolly needs a couple of years in therapy, but—“
Stanley meant well, but Ronan didn’t believe a word of it. “I’m gonna stretch my legs. I need to -- I’ll see you at the motel, alright?” He was already turning away when Stanley snatched a hand around his elbow. Big mistake.
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