365Okay, so here we are. New year (almost, might as well be) new fic!
For anyone who read my Squeaker story then it's going to be kind of similar to that, with lots of hurt comfort and family support vibes only starring Dean and Roman this time. Lots of teddy bear Big Dog in this one and when I say lots I seriously mean lots.
I'll post every three days as usual although might possibly throw the second chapter out tomorrow if anyone's interested. Let me know what you think.
Happy New Year all (nearly!)
One.
The kid jumps Roman as he's locking the gym up, although in hindsight maybe jumps isn't really the right word.
They're in a pretty rough part of the city however – the worst in terms of crime according to a report he's just read, which his mother had sent over in the post three days earlier with the relevant article highlighted in red – so it isn't unlikely that someone will try and rob him but he's been working there five months and it hasn't happened yet.
His size helps – he figures – since he's pretty much all muscle and at twenty three years old is already inching over two hundred and thirty pounds. Then there's tribal tattoo sleeve down his bicep which protrudes from his shirt at both the neck and the wrist. In short he's pretty much a walking poster for don't mess with me but he still sort of stiffens at the sound of the feet, soles crunching over the September dampened asphalt as someone steps in close.
Roman curls a fist.
It's dark already – winter fast closing in on them – but the chill across his shoulders isn't entirely from the breeze and nor is the prickling of hairs on his forearm down to just the temperature.
Roman's working on dread.
He turns around slowly, preparing to do battle but the person stood behind him doesn't look very mean and nor does he have any visible form of weapon or a balaclava covering his face. Instead the newcomer looks kind of awkward which is hardly a surprise since he's just a teenage kid. Blue eyes dart up and then drop again quickly and following them Roman can't help but notice the feet. There's a great big hole in one of boy's sneakers that exposes a blue striped sock covered toe. The rest of the youth isn't dressed a lot better, with clothes that make him look a lot bigger than he is. They're wildly oversized and probably goodwill threads and the noodle arms are starkly devoid of a coat. Frowning a little in concern and bewilderment, Roman blinks across at him,
"There something you want?"
The kid looks up.
"Uh, this place yours man?"
"The gym?"
"Yeah, do you – like – own it an' stuff?"
The answer is complex and so Roman pauses briefly, thinking it over before shrugging,
"I guess."
Of course the truth is it belongs to his father and has done since he snapped it up six months before. Adding it to his lengthening portfolio of businesses in a tentative foray into the health and fitness world. Still, Roman runs it which is what the kid is asking, so it isn't a lie.
The boy nods,
"Okay, cool."
"Cool how exactly?" Roman fires back at him, because it's late and there's somewhere else he has to be. Chatting is not on his list of priorities and especially not with some kid he doesn't know.
"Just, uh – y' know,"
The teen drops his gaze again and scratches at his hairline with a loose and somewhat absent hand. His locks are overgrown in copper blonde colorings that are somewhere in the middle between dull blonde and brown.
Roman sighs,
"Look man, if you need something – ,"
But the teenager starts talking ridiculously fast, the words falling out unabated and jerky along with disjointed and sort of clumsy as well.
"I wanna job – work here I mean. Wait, that didn't – that didn't come out right. Uh, m' not always good with – like – words an' stuff sometimes. But I'll work crazy hard, I promise you I will."
Roman blinks, realization dawning slowly as the mile a minute sentence slowly curls around his head, unfolding like some sort of origami sculpture and unravelling into something more coherent,
"You want a job?"
Relief floods the poor kid's face like a storm drain and the blue eyes and a quirky little smile light up.
"Uh huh," he nods, "I mean, if you'll have me."
Roman blinks again.
Where the hell has this come from? He can barely afford to keep paying the staff he does have, most of whom still resent his father's sudden purchase and subsequently regard him as some harbinger of death. The last thing he needs is some precocious little street kid pissing off the workforce or – even worse – the clientele. Of course it doesn't help that the kid looks so damn earnest. The big pleading blues burning in through his soul. Roman squints at him and –
Wait, is that a shadow? Yep. The kid has a bruise around his eye. It's mottled and fading but he's taken a real hook to it, even though he doesn't really seem the fighting type. Not that Roman knows him or anything, it's just a sort of feeling that he can't seem to avoid. It looks like someone has picked on him at some point and for whatever reason that makes Roman mad.
"You got a name?"
"Dean."
"Dean what?"
"Ambrose."
"How old are you Dean Ambrose?"
The blue gaze flickers,
"Eighteen."
Roman snorts in response to that bullshit and rolls his eyes, grinning a little more than he would like.
"Come on dude, I ain't falling for that one. I got milk that's been 'round longer than you. How old are you really and don't lie to me this time. I ain't good at working with people who lie."
He realizes perhaps a millisecond after it's out there that he's probably managed to say the wrong thing, because those damn blue eyes grow eagerly wider and the kid shuffles forward,
"So, there is a job then?"
No.
That's what Roman wants to say anyway because realistically he needs to be shooting the boy down, but for some strange reason that isn't what comes out of him because instead there's that same demanding question on his tongue,
"Age?"
"Fifteen."
Which is even younger than he banked on and brings another question.
"What about going to school?"
Dean gazes back at him, his shoulder vaguely twitching which triggers yet more anxious scratching from the hand. Briefly Roman wonders if the kid has got bed bugs but then settles on it being more a nervous sort of thing. In fact he's so busy debating different reasons that he almost straight up misses the muttered response,
"I – uh – don't go."
"What, you mean never?"
"Well, not lately. Figure m' kinda done with it, y 'know? I mean, it's not like I ever got a lot from it anyway 'cept readin' an' writin' an' all that stuff I suppose. But m' not real good at – like – sittin' still an' everythin' so I mostly got thrown out for distractin' the class."
He air-quotes the last part like he's heard it pretty often and doesn't believe so much as a word. Roman however, winces in response to it and pin-points the moment that the interview goes wrong. Not that it actually is a proper interview and –
God damn it all, he needs to be strong.
"So you wanna enlighten me on why you wanna work here?"
Dean shrugs roughly,
"Need the wages, y' know?"
It's pretty refreshing in terms of standard answers and Roman can't help but smile wryly once more. There's no doubt the kid makes one hell of a first impression but whether that's a good thing he's struggling to tell. There's something else too though – beyond the brutal honesty – and Roman can see it in the hesitant blues. Dean looks kind of haunted about something and it makes him frown,
"You owe money?"
"Uh, no,"
"So then why do you need it?"
Roman realizes he's pushing, but he's curious and in reply to him Dean shrugs,
"Just do."
For a second or two there is a hesitant silence in which Dean almost seems to fold in on himself. His shoulders rise up around his neck as the wind blows and he suddenly appears a very vulnerable fifteen. Roman's eyes draw back up to the bruising and he falters. What harm can it do to throw the kid a bone? It's not like he needs to offer him a fortune and if push comes to shove Roman can fund it on his own.
He heaves a breath out,
"Look, if I agree to this, we're gonna need to lay some ground rules out here."
The kid's eyes grow suddenly larger like saucers, his head snapping up from the damn hole in his sneakers and flooding with excitement that makes Roman warm inside.
"Uh, sure – yeah – I'll do whatever you want dude."
"First, call me Roman."
Dean nods,
"Can do."
"Second, this is not a job – not right off the bat here. We'll call this an apprenticeship and see how you go. You come in for the next week, work hard and keep your head down and when you've done seven days, maybe we'll talk taking you on. That sound fair?"
Dean nods again violently, to the point where Roman fears his head might roll off,
"Uh huh, great, whatever you say boss."
Roman bites a snort back, finding the boss thing not so cute.
"I'll need you in at eight sharp tomorrow morning, think you can handle that?"
He's almost hoping Dean says no. In fact he's damn near willing the kid to look at him and complain about his lie-in, although that's not how it goes. Instead Dean merely gazes back like a puppy and keeps on freaking nodding.
"No problem bro."
Okay, so maybe in hindsight boss is better and Roman shuts his eyes.
What the hell has he done?
He's employing a minor – which he isn't sure is legal but then again he's only been in management five months – to work at a gym which is basically failing and may not be around a whole lot longer as it is. But damn it the kid looks totally ecstatic, like Roman's just reached up and hung the whole moon. He can't take that back again now that it's been offered and he has to make his peace with it.
"Don't let me down."
Dean shakes his head so hard the bangs flutter and sling back and forwards like loose threads across his eyes. Roman even wonders how the kid can see through them but then stops when he realizes he sounds like his old man,
"Don't worry du – uh, oh, I mean Roman. I'm gonna be the best worker you ever had."
So, there we have it, chapter one, thoughts?
