Chapter Text
When John was seven years old, his dad took them on a weekend trip to London. John packed and repacked and rerepacked his bag at least half a dozen times, running through the house in search of things he needed to add until his dad picked him up, swung him around and told him to restrict himself to the bare essentials, young man, and by that I don't mean your wellies.
"But it might rain!" John protested.
"But it might not!" his dad had laughed, and John had nodded because that made perfect sense.
So in the end, he ended up with the bare essentials: toothbrush and paste, two pairs of pants, one pair of trousers, one jumper, one t-shirt, two pairs of socks. A picture book, his Connect Four travel set, paper and crayons. A strip of chewing gum, three onions, a ball of wool, a nail clipper, a white sock – size 7.5 – and the skull from his dad's study.
"Really, Johnny?" his mum asked with a frown, but his dad just laughed.
"He gets that from your side of the family," he said. John had never met his mum's side of the family 'cause they lived in America, but he knew that they were Waverleys and they were special. They had to be special, 'cause John was special too.
"I know," his mum sighed. She always did when his dad said that, and his dad always kissed her as a punishment.
"I happen to like your side of the family," he said afterwards, like always, and John used his mum's distraction to stuff the skull into his bag and pull the zip closed. If she couldn't see it, maybe she'd forget about it. Anyway, he had to take it. He couldn't not take it. Not taking it would itch and hurt and maybe even make him cry, and he hated crying. Mum didn't like him crying, either, so she always let him have the things he needed, even if they were hers and expensive. Harry sometimes took them away from him and laughed when he itched and squirmed, but Harry was mean and not special at all. John didn't like her.
He gave the onions to an old woman on the train, who put them away with an odd expression. People always looked at him oddly when he gave them things, but most of them said thank-you and anyway, John knew they needed whatever he gave them. He never knew for what, and they almost never needed them right away so he almost never found out, but something in him told him what to give away when and he never fought it anymore.
The chewing gum he handed to a woman at the train station. She smiled at him and put it in her pocket, and he smiled back 'cause she was pretty. He saw her again later, sitting on a bench with one heel of her fancy shoes half-torn off, just as she was trying to fix it with the gum. He waved at her, and her smile this time was even brighter. His dad chuckled and ruffled his hair and called him a lothario, and John beamed at the compliment, whatever it meant. Harry just rolled her eyes at him, but she always did so he ignored her.
A businessman on the tube got the sock, and the third receptionist at the hotel got the ball of wool on Saturday. He hugged John and said that it was just the right colour, and John enjoyed London a little bit more 'cause he could give even more people what they needed than he could at home. And London was so big and so full of things, and Dad handed John a whole twenty pounds to get what he thought might come in handy later, and John followed the itch and bought and bought until Mum got him a second bag to take back home.
On Sunday, they all went to the park before they went back home, and John took the skull along 'cause he would give it to someone that day. Mum put it in a plastic bag so people wouldn't stare as John carried it around, but he didn't have to carry it long because as soon as they got to the park, he saw the boy.
It was a small boy, much smaller than John, sitting on a yellow blanket with an older boy and a woman. He had dark curly hair and pale eyes and looked a bit like the fairy boy in one of John's picture books. He also looked deeply unhappy. John walked right over to him.
"Here," he said, holding out the bag with the skull, "for you."
The boy looked at the bag, then up at John. "Why?"
John shrugged and gave the best answer he could. "Because."
"That's an odd reason," the older boy said, and John bristled. He knew that giving people things they hadn't asked for was odd, he knew it, and he'd heard it before, but something about this boy rubbed him the wrong way.
"It's my reason," he said loftily. "And it's not for you anyway, so shut up."
The smaller boy smiled suddenly and grabbed the bag. His eyes went wide as he looked inside.
"Oh!"
"What is it?" the woman wanted to know.
"A skull!" The boy looked like a whole different person as he smiled and John stared, fascinated. The boy frowned again quickly, though. "It's mine!"
"I believe we've all learned not to try and take things from you after Mrs. Pauls had to get her second tetanus shot," the older boy said. He looked at John. "Thank-you for this… highly questionable gift."
The small boy stuck out his tongue and clutched the bag to his chest. John shrugged again. The small boy's scowl was fierce now, and his eyes were really very pale as he turned them on John. He didn't say anything, though.
"Uh. Welcome," John mumbled, suddenly uncomfortable. He'd just handed a skull to a child. Hopefully the boy wouldn't get nightmares. John coughed, and turned away.
He tried to ignore the feeling of pale eyes doing their best to drill a hole into the space between his shoulder blades through the force of their gaze as he walked back to his family. He desperately wanted to know what such a small boy would need a skull for, but he couldn't guess and didn't dare to ask. It didn't really matter, anyway, he told himself.
After all, he'd never see that boy again.