Chapter Text
Dutch got home, ripped off his boarding school jacket and hurried to his room, throwing his jacket, not caring where it went, kicking his shoes off on the spiral staircase.
He didn’t care.
He was pissed.
“Hello you’ve reached the offices of the 36th district of California.”
“Can you arrest someone for hurting bugs?” Dutch asked, wiping his mouth.
He could still tasted dirt, dirt and the metallic taste of blood.
“Hey kid…no. You okay?”
“But you can for animals right?”
“Yes. Do you want their number?”
“No. It should be. Write that down. Are you writing it down?”
“Yes, I’m writing it down. I’m adding it to your list.”
“Yeah? What’s on it?”
“Pet parks for not just dogs.”
“Yes,” Dutch said nodding.
“Lower the walk sign buttons so kids can reach them.”
“They’re too high up,” Dutch said.
“Less school and let…kids leave teacher reviews so that teachers can be fired if there are too many negative reviews?”
“If they suck they shouldn’t be teaching,” Dutch said sourly. “And I learn enough from books. I should be able to do that myself.”
“Kids should be able to get…restraining orders against other kids?”
Dutch nodded. “Yes.”
He was surrounded by idiots.
He should be able to make them stay the hell away from him without needing to bite them.
“Did you add it? About the bugs?” Dutch said. “And not just bugs, spiders and stuff too. Arthropods. All of ‘em.”
“Kid, do you know how much these phone calls cost? Your parents—“
“They don’t care. They approve my…civic mindedness. It’s good…practice as a future con—stitch—u-ant,” Dutch said carefully trying not to trip over the word.
“You know, some kids like joining sports. It’s a good way to make friends.”
“And what chase after a ball? Get a con-kush-on?” Dutch asked. “Or break a bone?”
“Well there’s sports where you don’t run.”
“What sport doesn’t have running? Polo? Golf?” Dutch asked with a scoff.
He hated both.
“There’s…martial arts.”
“…I’ll think about it,” Dutch said. “Remember. One day. I vote, so work on that list.”
Dutch hung up his phone. He got up and went to his bathroom.
His face was covered in dirt. There was dirt under his nails. Blood on his shirt.
He glared at his reflection. He turned on the faucet, washed his hands well and rinsed out his mouth. Scrubbed his teeth with his toothbrush.
One day they’d pay.
One day they’d go home with more than bites.
One day he’d kick their ass and send them packing to jail.
He walked through the long hallways of the quiet house, pausing at the library, taking a deep breath, bracing himself for disappointment and slamming the doors open.
No one sat at the desk, no one sat in the chair. No one was wandering about.
He sighed.
They weren’t home yet.
He turned, heading down the spiral staircase, shoving his hands into his pocket.
He got some snacks and headed off the to conservatory.
Butterflies flitted about. He watched a few beetles. He went up to the boxes in the corner, around the buzzing bees and sat down, leaning up against them.
“I hate this school,” Dutch said.
The bees buzzed.
“Mom and Dad aren’t even home again. They said they’d be.”
He sniffed, rubbed at his face and stood.
Whatever.
It didn’t matter.
So what.
They weren’t there.
They never were.
He was used to it.
Since no one was there no one would care if he had an ice cream sundae for dinner.
Dutch stuck the small peafowl in the front basket of his bike, biking down the streets of LA.
He was bored.
Middle school was boring.
But he’d at least learned how to game the system.
People flocked to him because of his name. Because of his family. Because of the rumors.
And as a kid it’d pissed him off.
Now he knew how to use it.
How to get weed, if he wanted it.
How to just have a small army of boring yes men following him.
They were like piranhas, ready to bite him if he so much as fell or sneezed wrong, but he’d learned the tightrope, and they’d learned he would bite them back, harder.
They’d learned the hard way how quickly he’d snap at them. And it was somewhat better to have them fear him, then trying to befriend them. Because it wasn’t like they wanted to be his friends anyway.
They just wanted shit from him.
He heard a yell and slowed his bike looking towards the sound. There was a sign with a giant snake, a cobra on the sign.
A hamadryad, a ophiophagus hannah. King cobra.
Karate.
What had that politician lackey said when he was a kid?
It was a sport you could do with people but on your own?
His parents wanted him to be on a team.
Wanted him to find an outlet to get his energy out.
He knew they wanted him to do something boring as hell like golf.
Or fucking polo.
But this?
Oh if he could do this he could kick people’s ass without biting them.
Hone his limbs into weapons.
He parked his bike to the side, and adjusted the blanket in the basket.
“Mr. P. Mrs. P. behave and stay,” Dutch said. “Got it?”
Mrs. P just yawned, brown neck leaning over Mr. P’s who was already asleep.
He’d already worn them out, taking them to the zoo and showing them all the animals, secretly hiding them in his jacket.
He pushed the door open, watched a broad shouldered man walk through the rows of boys who listened and reacted to the words he said.
Dutch felt their eyes flick to him.
The man spoke to one of the guys who moved, leading the class and the man walked over, past a cardboard cut out of himself.
“Can I help you?”
“Can I sign up for classes?”
“Follow me.”
Dutch followed the man to his office and was handed a form. It asked for his age, address, his full name.
He frowned but sighed, grabbing a pen out of a mug on the mans desk.
Willard Cornell Dutch III.
“I go by Dutch.”
“Your last name?” the man asked raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah.”
“No problem, I call all my students by their last name, Mr. Dutch.”
“And you are?”
“John Kreese. You’ll call me sensei. We’ll do a few classes, see how it goes. There’s a first class after this one for your age range, if you wait.”
Dutch nodded taking the forms he’d have to take home and forge his parents signatures on and the check he’d have to sign for the class.
He found a spot, leaned against the wall and watched the class finish up, hands shoved in his pockets.
The class finished and another group came in. Kids his age.
Kreese gave him an outfit, a gi, and he changed then followed the group, waiting for class to start.
He was paired up with other students in the first round.
A lesson.
Survival of the fittest Dutch realized as he blocked punches, tried to block kicks.
He did okay, stayed on his feet for most of them.
Then a kid with shaggy hair stepped into the ring, the part of the mat where everyone stood around and watched.
He spun.
One minute Dutch was standing, ready to use all the fighting skills he knew from brawling at the school, the next he was staring up at the ceiling the air in his lungs knocked out, a pulled punch hitting his chest.
“Good job Brown!” Kreese called.
“Bobby Brown,” the kid said softly helping Dutch up with a smile.
“Dutch.”
If this was how Dutch was going to die, it was the shittiest fucking way to go out. To die by decapod. It wasn’t even cool death by decapod. Death by decapod via gastroenteritis was so lame.
Four concerned strangers had come by. He assumed because he was a minor. He assumed because they wanted to feel better about themselves. Because they were nosy and busybodies and they could mind their own fucking business. He clearly hadn’t picked the right color to scare adults off with the last dye job and needed to work on his glare.
But he had made the last one cry.
At least there was that.
This alley near the dojo was where he’d die. And it was fine. Unbefitting. But he had bonded with the bricks and cement and had decided this was a perfectly fine resting spot, even if it smelled rotten because of the garbage decomposing in the hot summer sun, and it fit.
He’d also add to the smell, in what, the next hour?
How long did gastroenteritis take to murder you?
Dutch didn’t know but he figured not long.
He watched the dojo.
He thought he could suffer through.
The damn things had been cheap. Too cheap. And maybe buying fried crabs from a guy with a cart for less than a dollar had been a gamble, but he liked to live on the edge.
And now that edge was carving sharp pains into his stomach.
The tenth brick up from the ground and fourth from the right was his favorites. That was his new best friend.
He turned to look at the dojo.
Sensei would be pissed.
What a dumbass way to die.
He watched people come and go.
Maybe he’d see Bobby Brown. That kid…that kid could save him. He was…kind. He’d been at the dojo before Dutch had started and when Sensei wasn’t paying attention he’d help with shit Dutch couldn’t get.
He scanned the sidewalk for Bobby.
A shadow fell.
Nope.
Fuck off.
Keep walking.
The blonde stopped.
No, not you you bastard.
He turned pulling headphones off his ears.
Damn his fucking luck.
He managed his strongest glare as blue eyes took him in.
Piss off new kid.
Or at least, Dutch hoped, the kid had not fucking recognize him.
But there it was. A look of recognition.
“Dutch right?”
“Fuck off.”
“What happened?”
The kid was looking around like something had come out and attacked him. Like it wasn’t fucking cheap ass fried crabs wreaking havoc on his stomach. What did he think, fucking ninja’s had jumped him?
“I’m fine.”
The kid let his headphones fall around his neck and reached out for Dutch.
Dutch bit him.
Hard.
The kid didn’t flinch away.
Didn’t cry.
Didn’t curse.
“Where do you need to go?” he asked instead.
Dutch let go, watching blood well up, he cursed at the kid. His worst sailor lesson curses. Things he’d picked up at the club and from the sailors on the docks.
The kid didn’t budge, didn’t run off, tears didn’t well up in his eyes, he just reached for Dutch again, hooking an arm around him and throwing the other one around his shoulder like he was going to help Dutch walk out of a war zone.
Dutch was going to be sick.
He rattled off his address, mouth all dry and cottony.
The kid probably didn’t even know where the hell that was.
Or that’s what Dutch thought.
But he started walking, slowly, pulling Dutch along, one foot in front of the other.
The worst fucking day.
It was hot as balls.
He was sweaty.
It was sunny and blinding as hell.
And this dumb blonde was slowly dragging his sorry ass home. Skipping practice with him and the next damn time they had class he’d probably find that the kid told sensei what a weakling he was and then…well who knew what sort of lesson would be made out of that.
Well whatever.
At least he’d be home.
It was a long walk.
Brutally long.
Dutch had to push the kid away and dart into stores or just spill his guts on the sidewalk. But the kid just followed, just rubbed his back, gently brushing dyed orange hair from his sweaty forehead and waited, and then continued their walk once he seemed done. Buying him a water at one of the convenience stores so Dutch could at least rinse out his mouth.
Dutch made note of it.
He’d pay him back.
He assumed when they got to the gates that the kid would start blabbering. Start asking questions. Start talking and looking around wide eyed.
But he said nothing except, “Through the gates?”
To which Dutch managed a weak nod.
He’d never hated how fucking long of a trek that walk was more in his life.
Usually he had a goal. Something to look forward to, playing with Mr. And Mrs. P, checking on his hive, calling up the government offices to complain, to check the mail and see if any of his magazines had come in.
At the moment though, he just wanted to curl up and die. But the blonde kid kept him up, kept him moving and then stopped at the grand steps up to the house, for the briefest of pauses before adjusting his grip and getting a determined look on his face and heading up the steps, hand curled into a fist prepared to knock.
“No one’s home,” Dutch managed.
He’d fucked up.
He’d ditched his ride at the beach where he got his damn poisoned crabs. Gave the guy the day off. Thought he’d eat, enjoy the day, do karate, maybe wander around and then hail a cab at least part of the way back home.
There were very few people allowed through that door. The door that kid was unlocking after Dutch gave up on trying to get open it himself.
There were very few people even allowed past the gate. And the ones who came with Dutch, well they always had the same response.
He expected a gasp, a pause of wonder, like they’d just been allowed into a treasure trove. He braced himself for the awkward gawking in the foyer. He braced himself with poisonous remarks to volley at his companion as soon as anything remotely similar to greed cropped up.
But instead the boy beside him seemed to shrink a bit as he stepped through the door, not looking up or around but down at his feet and then, after a split second looked at him and asked.
“Where are you most comfortable?”
An odd question.
A very odd question, softly whispered in a quiet voice.
But Dutch had been tricked before.
More times than was allowed. So he gave directions to his room and they began the ascent up the spiral staircase and through the long hallways, quiet and wordless until they made it to Dutch’s room.
“Do you need the bathroom?”
“Fuck off.”
The kid seemed to get that that was a no and Dutch was hauled to his bed and pushed towards it.
It was very gentle.
Weirdly gentle
His shoes removed and his legs lifted up and onto the bed, blankets gathered and a pillow adjusted.
Dutch bit him again.
Just as a warning.
Just because it was a habit.
A go to.
A defense mechanism.
Possibly a coping mechanism.
The kid was looking around his room and that was it. Taking in all the things, probably calculating how much he could ask for in return for this gentle care. He’d probably ask if he could have something and Dutch didn’t give a shit at this point.
Whatever would buy his silence.
“Can I borrow this?” the blonde asked picking up a ball of yarn Dutch had gotten because his mom thought learning some traditional crafts was useful and would get him to sit still.
Dutch thought it was a waste of time.
“Whatever.”
It was a weird choice.
The kid tucked him in, picked up the yarn and left.
Not a word.
Dutch settled into his bed glaring up at the ceiling.
This was going to suck.
This was going to be the worst fucking thing.
His parents were gone.
The staff was gone for the day.
It was just him and a kitchen far away and him too weak to really make it down those stairs without having to shuffle slowly the whole way.
He’d rather die.
He should’ve bribed the kid to stay.
But he couldn’t.
His pride wouldn’t allow it.
He’d just waste away in bed.
He shut his eyes, fell asleep, exhausted and drained and woke up to a hand shaking him gently.
“Dutch,” the boy said, gently helping him up.
“What the fuck do you want?”
“You should drink some water, eat something, I brought up a variety, saltine’s maybe? I also found some medicine, should hopefully keep it all settled.”
Dutch blinked at the kid, at the things he’d found. A tray filled with stuff.
He glared at the kid who didn’t shrink back.
He took the medicine, drank the water and juice, ate some saltines and let the kid check his temperature.
He waited for the kid to leave.
But he didn’t.
Dutch watched him out of the corner of his eye, sitting on the floor of his room listening to his Walkman to pass the time, eyes shut, dozing. After the tape reached the end, he’d wake up and rewind it or flip it and look around the room, check on Dutch, ask if he needed anything, would carry off anything he finished with that ball of yarn and come back with more. More water. More juice. More crackers which eventually became oatmeal and bananas and toast. Bland shit.
But the kid didn’t leave.
And Dutch didn’t thank him.
Even though he was grateful. Grateful as hell that he wasn’t alone in that big old house by himself.
And then when he was better, up and walking around and no longer feeling weak and sick, no longer pale the kid left. A quiet, “See you at the dojo Dutch.” And then he was gone. Walking off back down the long driveway and through the gates.
The ball of yarn back where it’d been before.
Dutch waited for the other shoe to drop.
He waited for the request.
He phoned his parents and waited in the large library for them to answer and quietly explained the situation. The debt he owed. The rules he’d broken.
They didn’t yell, just sort of sighed in disappointment. They’d await the request. Whatever it was. Because it was owed.
Reminded him to be careful. To not be as foolish. To not eat cheap street food at the beach any more.
And he waited.
He went to school.
He went to the dojo.
But the snickering laughs weren’t about him.
No one seemed to know.
The blonde boy smiled at him when he saw him.
A genuine smile.
It made Dutch nervous.
He sat down by Bobby, leaning over close. “Hey, whose the blonde new kid?”
Bobby blinked, studying Dutch for a moment before smiling, “Johnny Lawrence. He’s pretty cool huh?”
Pretty cool.
Dutch supposed.
Possibly the only angel Dutch had ever met. But he also knew most angels were actually demons pretending and he’d just keep waiting to see Johnny Lawrence’s true colors. If he was truly an angel then…then he’d have to actually figure why his heart fluttered when Johnny looked at him and smiled, why he couldn’t stop watching him in the dojo, why his hands got clammy and why he cared so damn much.