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Title: Off the Court
Rating: Pg for injury and language
Characters: Julian, Miguel
Summary: The new guy doesn't like Julian. Based on this and this - both of which are Julian(Joe F) centered clips. You don't have to watch them to know what's going on in the story, but if you've never seen First Monday then I highly suggest you give these clips a look, as they're not long, and Joe is adorable as always:D.
A/N: Though edited many, many, many times, this story is not beta'd and I apologize for that.
Off the Court
The new guy, Liederman, wasn't the exaggerated six feet tall and built like a line-backer everyone – as in, mostly the women – kept talking about. He was tall, and broad, and shot hoops like he intended to go pro. He was one of those rabid sports fans that would probably kill you and hide the body if you so much as eyed a favorite team wrong. And whenever he fouled on the court, took away the ball and your personal space with it, it friggin' hurt, like being hit by a car.
But, hey, it was a small price to pay. He threw one hell of a Super Bowl party and had dragged Miguel to a bar where the women weren't so self absorb that they dismissed him after the first look. Even Ellie liked him, and that was saying something. Jerry, you could punch him in the face, steal his lunch money, and he'd still sit with you sans food. Jerry thought everyone was redeemable.
Julian rubbed Liederman the wrong way, but then Julian rubbed everyone the wrong way. Liederman took exception to whatever came out of Julian's mouth, so played favorites on the court, plowing Julian into a wall or pillar or another player whenever he had the chance. Hell, everyone thought about doing it, a few actually went through with it. Liederman made it like a sport unto itself. It pissed the chief of royally but if it didn't result in another twisted ankle then what was the big deal? Liederman knew better than to take it to the court where it would matter.
“He should be thrown off the team,” Julian said over the scrape of his stupid pepper mill. The guy was like a cockroach; you could hint or say outright that he wasn't wanted, and he'd still come scurrying back. He had invitation issues, in that he didn't know when to stop inviting himself.
“He gets the job done, man,” Miguel shot back. “If you can't handle it rough, maybe you should keep your damn mouth shut.”
Julian raised his hands, palms up, tiny pepper mill pinched between thumb and finger. “Hey, I hardly talk to the guy. Okay, so I correct him on a few vitally important facts. Is that so wrong?”
“It is when you do it just about every day,” said Ellie.
“He does hit unnecessarily hard,” Jerry said. He was stirring his salad instead of stabbing to spread the dressing, like the mere idea he might bruise a salad leaf was appalling to him.
Julian rubbed his shoulder for emphasis. “Exactly.”
“What's up, guys?”
They looked up at Liederman standing over them with a loaded tray, smiling white-toothed. “Mind if I join you?”
Miguel waved at the fourth empty chair, “Not at all.”
“So what were you all so eagerly discussing before I arrived?” Liederman said. “Don't stop on account of me, please.”
Miguel looked at Julian and smiled. “Julian? I believe you had the floor last.”
Julian, the only one of them not looking at Liederman (too busy glowering at his food) did something he had never done before – he picked up his tray and left before anyone else.
This was what Miguel really liked about Liederman. The guy managed the impossible.
On the court, he targeted Julian like a missile but moved as though any hit was by sheer chance. He body-slammed Julian into the wall with a lot of force. Julian wasn't exactly a big guy; Liederman was. Both of them fell, Liederman on top, shoving air out of Julian on a grunt. When Liederman helped Julian up (the chief wouldn't tolerate otherwise) Julian was standing on perfectly good ankles but favoring his right side. The chief had him lift his shirt to check it out. It was too early for a bruise, and when the chief pressed his fingers along the lines of Julian's ribs there was a wince without a yelp of pain.
All the same, Julian was forced to sit out for the rest of practice with an ice pack under his shirt and a lot of narrow-eyed hate aimed at Leiderman.
The ice-pack didn't do much. Yeah, it probably made it a hell of a lot less worse, but when Julian peeled off his shirt in the locker room, Miguel winced. The bruise was nasty, dark and taking up most of Julian's upper flank. Julian's every move was ginger as he checked out the damage.
He muttered, “Bastard.” Just not quiet enough.
“It's not my fault you're delicate, Lodge,” Liederman said. He tossed a washcloth at Julian and Julian flinched. To Miguel's surprise, Julian didn't respond. He threw his shirt into his locker, then bit his lip when he bent to remove his track pants.
Julian was a deceptively skinny SOB, even pastier under his clothes, but even Miguel had to admit he was pretty damn solid. The guy was lean muscle, and as much as Julian adored whining and bitching about body-bruising fouls, if he didn't twist his ankle again, then he was back on his feet and in the game as soon as the bitching was over.
Miguel also had to admit that that was a lot of bruising on Julian, front and back, not the usual amount after a couple of practice runs. Miguel honestly hadn't thought Liederman was hitting him that hard.
He told Liederman, during lunch when it was just the two o them, “Hey, maybe you should lay off of Lodge during practice.”
It made Liederman's grin. “Come on, he can take it. Besides, I'm just messing with him.”
“Yeah, about to mess with him right off the court. You take it too far, we're down a man and replacements last minute screw everything up. I'm justing thinking about the next game, man, that's all.”
Liederman brushed the possibility aside with a sweep of his hand. “Lodge can handle it.”
Julian entered; Miguel saw him out of the corner of his eye and looked up. Julian was standing in the entrance, staring their way with the same look on his face when Miguel had placed a rubber spider on his food while he wasn't looking. Julian's throat was of the kind where it was hard to miss when he swallowed hard. Julian then turned and left.
Liederman snorted, muttered “pussy” and stabbed his fork into a mountain of mashed potatoes.
Julian was absent at happy hour, the next three lunches, even the offices. Where ever Liederman was, Julian wasn't and it was awesome. Jerry thought it was weird, saying that it wasn't like Julian to not be where he wanted to be. Blondie wasn't stupid, was well aware Liederman had that kind of influence on Julian, but it was Jerry's opinion that Julian was an unstoppable force. The justices could band together to kick him out of a room and he would still find a way back in – probably through a window, maybe through the air vents; he was skinny enough.
Ellie agreed; the extent of her opinion on the matter and nothing beyond.
It pissed Miguel off that they were more weirded out by it than happy. For once in their lives, they were Julian free, and he could only hope it stayed that way for the rest of their lives.
Miguel liked to get to the gym early and get in some solitary hoop time as warm up; just him and the court, blowing off legal frustrations and the burden of deadlines with each basket he made. He walked into the empty locker room, headed to his locker.
He stopped when he saw Julian sprawled on the floor in his dress pants but no jacket, vest or shirt. There was blood on the edge of the bench between the lockers, blood all over Julian's face, more blood leaking out from under his head.
“Son of a...!” Miguel leaped over the bench and crouched beside Julian's body. He pressed along the neck until he found a pulse then, on finding it and sighing in relief, placed his hand on Julian's bare shoulder to shake him awake.
Julian snapped like an overstretched rubber-band, bolting upright with a gasp and slamming his back hard into the lockers. When Miguel grabbed him by the shoulders to calm him down, Julian fought, flailing his legs and trying to pull away without success. Miguel held tight.
“Julian. Julian! Calm down, man, it's just me, it's just Miguel. Come on!”
The violent struggles came to an abrupt halt. Julian went still, relatively speaking: his chest pumped in rapid breaths, his shoulders bounced with the shakes, his hands palsied. He was white as a sheet and those parts of his face not buried under blood were starting to bruise and swell. His eyelid could barely stay open under all that spreading black.
None of the justices had ever unnerved Julian enough to look as terrified as he did now, as though he thought Miguel was going to shoot him. Blood dripped off his jaw onto his shoulder, chest, stomach. He coughed, spraying a fine mist of it onto Miguel's white shirt, but Miguel ignored it; he was too busy trying not to be sick.
“Julian, what happened? Did you fall?”
Julian didn't answer. He coughed, choked, then started to gag. Swearing, Miguel grabbed the back of Julian's neck and forced his head between his upturned knees.
“Deep breaths, man. Don't swallow, just spit.” He looked in the direction of the gym entrance and called, “Hey! Hey! I need some help in here!” Julian flinched beneath his hand. “Hey! Can anyone hear me! I need help!” When the shakes got worse, Miguel moved his hand to Julian's back. He felt ribs and shuddering muscles with each big, heaving breath. “That's it, man, just breathe. You'll be all right.”
There were a lot of bruises on Julian, and sitting hunched tight over his thighs, bones pressed into his skin and every muscle a knot of quaking tension seemed to decrease him in mass. Miguel thought that if he tried, he could probably pick Julian up with one hand without effort. He could see the guy's pulse hammering in the side of his throat.
“Julian. Come on, man, what happened?”
Julian didn't answer. He wasn't home right now, or was too focused on trying to breathe. Miguel hadn't missed the sand-paper quality to Julian's inhales and exhales.
Miguel was at a complete loss as to what to do. When people tripped and fell, they didn't wake up in a panic. They didn't wake up terrified. Without really thinking about it except how weird it was, Miguel slid his arm across Julian's shoulders. He told himself he was just making sure Julian didn't fall on his side; that it had absolutely nothing to do with comforting the guy.
That was how Jerry found them, and despite the wide-eyed look of horror on Jerry's face Miguel still felt like he'd degenerated into a sixteen year old girl trying to comfort his emotionally distraught best friend. It was freaky, though; he couldn't seem to pull his arm away.
Jerry took off to get help, and not moments later the locker room had become a peep show and Miguel and Julian the exhibition. That was the problem with getting help; you always went to the first person you ran into, who went to another person, who told another person and so on. Somewhere along the way someone had the smarts to call 911, but by then the audience had gathered to stare and gawk or crowd trying to offer a lot of useless help.
The “helpful” ones were the worst. They closed in, hands out, like Julian was some kind of spooked dog they were trying to talk down. Miguel had to hold tight when Julian made a pathetic attempt at a break for it. When that didn't work, Julian puked – bile, lunch and a little blood splashing all over the floor between them. Crap, Miguel hoped there wasn't any internal bleeding.
It was Julian's boss to the rescue, getting everyone to back the hell off before he shoved his boot up every ass present – his exact words. Chief Justice Brankin lowered himself with a grunt and pop of old joints, putting him in close to talk to Julian, place his hand on his quivering shoulder, tell him that help was on the way and that everything would be all right. The old man's grandkids must love him; if you could use his voice to wrap fine china, it would never break. Julian's shaking decreased to light tremors and the occasional shudder. Someone handed the chief justice a towel that he and Miguel settled across Julian's bare back.
“Did someone beat him up?” Brankin asked, like a man that as soon as he learned the answer and found out who the culprit was would give them an ass-kicking to last them a life time. Miguel could only give him an uneasy shrug.
The paramedics arrived. Julian, exhausted, out of it or both, was incredibly cooperative, letting them manipulate his head to flash a penlight in his eyes. It took the chief justice coaxing Julian to let the medics get him on the stretcher, buckle him up and wheel him out. By then, Julian could barely keep his good eye open. The other eye had swollen shut.
Miguel had been close enough to have seen Julian's eye respond sluggishly to the penlight. Concussion. He answered the paramedics' questions, the Chief Justice's question, then marched out of the locker room.
He found Liederman standing with the crowd watching the paramedics wheel Julian away. Miguel pushed his way through, grabbed the bastard's arm and dragged him into the nearest unoccupied room.
“What the hell happened?”
Liederman gaped. “You're blaming this on me!” He looked pale, tense.
“Just narrowing down the possibilities, man. Julian breathes and he pisses people off but you're the only one who puts bruises on him. Did he say something? Take things too far so you took things too far?”
Liederman backed up until the back of his legs hit the polished mahogany conference table. Except Miguel hadn't moved, hadn't given Liederman a reason to move.
“It was an accident, all right?” Liederman said. “I didn't touch the guy. I was just messing with him. Giving him a hard time - verbally. I – I called him a few names, standing over him, that kind of crap. He starts breathing fast like he's gonna hyperventilate then he turns, tries to run and trips. He hit his face on the bench, that's all. I didn't touch him.”
Miguel glared in disbelief. “But you left him,” he stated. “You didn't think to get help? Make sure he was all right? Alive?”
Liederman's coughed a humorless laugh. “Yeah, like everyone was going to believe it was an accident. I was gonna get help I just... I stalled. I was out in the hall, then I saw you go into the gym and thought you could handle it. Look, Julian got help, I didn't touch him. Why can't we leave it at that?”
Miguel snorted. “You're an ass hole, man.” He left, trailing Liederman's protests behind him, to go talk to Julian's boss. Liederman would drown himself in denial but it wouldn't last. This was the supreme court, chalked full of supreme court justices. Liederman would lie, the justices would fold their arms and look stern, and the truth would spill like water from a busted dam.
Miguel visited Julian that night at the hospital on the edge of visiting hours being over, but Julian was asleep. A nurse said he had a mild concussion and a broken nose. Miguel asked her about Julian's difficulty breathing. She was confused at first, then raised her eyebrows in realization and said that Julian did have difficulty breathing on the way over when he had a panic attack. She said, as though Miguel already knew and she was just reminding him, that Julian wasn't a stranger to panic attacks.
Julian prone to panic attacks. It would have been hard to imagine if Miguel hadn't seen it for himself.
As much as Miguel didn't want to think about it, he thought about it. He'd said it himself, once; Julian had been the kid he'd picked on in school... metaphorically speaking. But Julian was the type: smart and a smart ass, and kids weren't as restrained as adults who busted their butts to have a job in the supreme court. Kids thought hurting someone made a difference in life.
Two days of observation, and Julian was released. Three more days of bed rest, and Julian returned to work with two black eyes – one darker than the other – a taped nose, stitches along his hairline and cuts on his cheek, lip and jaw. All in all, he looked like the victim of a mugging.
He walked into the lunch room like a victim of abuse, shoulder's tense, eyes downcast and a perfect combination of nervous and humiliated. He only looked up when he had his food and needed a place to sit.
When he looked at Miguel, Miguel sighed (what the hell am I doing?) and waved Julian over. Julian, looking just as disappointed but resigned, joined him. Neither talked; it made things more awkward.
Then Julian said with much hesitation, as though it hurt, “Uh... thanks, by the way. For, you know...”
“Yeah,” Miguel said, all eyes on his fork mutilating his salad. “No problem.” He cleared his throat. “They fired Liederman.”
“Oh?”
“So, you know. You don't have to... worry about him any more. You gonna press charges?”
“Naw. He didn't touch me. I just... he didn't touch me.”
Miguel, pressing his lips, nodded. Nothing more was said. It was probably going to be a while before Julian felt it safe enough to go back to being an ass. It was just as likely he would remain subdued but Miguel doubted it.
“So, uh... how much longer 'til you're able to play again?” Miguel asked.
Julian shrugged, the rasp of his pepper grinder loud enough to be heard over the gentle din of the lunch room.
“You know it sucks trying to find a replacement. With Liederman gone, Jacobs on vacation and you out we've had to bring in guys who can't even throw straight let alone make a two-point shot.”
“So, in other words,” Julian smiled; it looked more like a grimace. “What you're telling me is, you miss me.”
“I miss winning, that's what I miss. Don't read into what's not there, Julian.”
Julian feigned perfect innocence as his pepper grinded away. In an uncharacteristic feat of restraint, Julian didn't push the matter. They returned to their silence, and it was comfortable this time.
The End
Rating: Pg for injury and language
Characters: Julian, Miguel
Summary: The new guy doesn't like Julian. Based on this and this - both of which are Julian(Joe F) centered clips. You don't have to watch them to know what's going on in the story, but if you've never seen First Monday then I highly suggest you give these clips a look, as they're not long, and Joe is adorable as always:D.
A/N: Though edited many, many, many times, this story is not beta'd and I apologize for that.
The new guy, Liederman, wasn't the exaggerated six feet tall and built like a line-backer everyone – as in, mostly the women – kept talking about. He was tall, and broad, and shot hoops like he intended to go pro. He was one of those rabid sports fans that would probably kill you and hide the body if you so much as eyed a favorite team wrong. And whenever he fouled on the court, took away the ball and your personal space with it, it friggin' hurt, like being hit by a car.
But, hey, it was a small price to pay. He threw one hell of a Super Bowl party and had dragged Miguel to a bar where the women weren't so self absorb that they dismissed him after the first look. Even Ellie liked him, and that was saying something. Jerry, you could punch him in the face, steal his lunch money, and he'd still sit with you sans food. Jerry thought everyone was redeemable.
Julian rubbed Liederman the wrong way, but then Julian rubbed everyone the wrong way. Liederman took exception to whatever came out of Julian's mouth, so played favorites on the court, plowing Julian into a wall or pillar or another player whenever he had the chance. Hell, everyone thought about doing it, a few actually went through with it. Liederman made it like a sport unto itself. It pissed the chief of royally but if it didn't result in another twisted ankle then what was the big deal? Liederman knew better than to take it to the court where it would matter.
“He should be thrown off the team,” Julian said over the scrape of his stupid pepper mill. The guy was like a cockroach; you could hint or say outright that he wasn't wanted, and he'd still come scurrying back. He had invitation issues, in that he didn't know when to stop inviting himself.
“He gets the job done, man,” Miguel shot back. “If you can't handle it rough, maybe you should keep your damn mouth shut.”
Julian raised his hands, palms up, tiny pepper mill pinched between thumb and finger. “Hey, I hardly talk to the guy. Okay, so I correct him on a few vitally important facts. Is that so wrong?”
“It is when you do it just about every day,” said Ellie.
“He does hit unnecessarily hard,” Jerry said. He was stirring his salad instead of stabbing to spread the dressing, like the mere idea he might bruise a salad leaf was appalling to him.
Julian rubbed his shoulder for emphasis. “Exactly.”
“What's up, guys?”
They looked up at Liederman standing over them with a loaded tray, smiling white-toothed. “Mind if I join you?”
Miguel waved at the fourth empty chair, “Not at all.”
“So what were you all so eagerly discussing before I arrived?” Liederman said. “Don't stop on account of me, please.”
Miguel looked at Julian and smiled. “Julian? I believe you had the floor last.”
Julian, the only one of them not looking at Liederman (too busy glowering at his food) did something he had never done before – he picked up his tray and left before anyone else.
This was what Miguel really liked about Liederman. The guy managed the impossible.
On the court, he targeted Julian like a missile but moved as though any hit was by sheer chance. He body-slammed Julian into the wall with a lot of force. Julian wasn't exactly a big guy; Liederman was. Both of them fell, Liederman on top, shoving air out of Julian on a grunt. When Liederman helped Julian up (the chief wouldn't tolerate otherwise) Julian was standing on perfectly good ankles but favoring his right side. The chief had him lift his shirt to check it out. It was too early for a bruise, and when the chief pressed his fingers along the lines of Julian's ribs there was a wince without a yelp of pain.
All the same, Julian was forced to sit out for the rest of practice with an ice pack under his shirt and a lot of narrow-eyed hate aimed at Leiderman.
The ice-pack didn't do much. Yeah, it probably made it a hell of a lot less worse, but when Julian peeled off his shirt in the locker room, Miguel winced. The bruise was nasty, dark and taking up most of Julian's upper flank. Julian's every move was ginger as he checked out the damage.
He muttered, “Bastard.” Just not quiet enough.
“It's not my fault you're delicate, Lodge,” Liederman said. He tossed a washcloth at Julian and Julian flinched. To Miguel's surprise, Julian didn't respond. He threw his shirt into his locker, then bit his lip when he bent to remove his track pants.
Julian was a deceptively skinny SOB, even pastier under his clothes, but even Miguel had to admit he was pretty damn solid. The guy was lean muscle, and as much as Julian adored whining and bitching about body-bruising fouls, if he didn't twist his ankle again, then he was back on his feet and in the game as soon as the bitching was over.
Miguel also had to admit that that was a lot of bruising on Julian, front and back, not the usual amount after a couple of practice runs. Miguel honestly hadn't thought Liederman was hitting him that hard.
He told Liederman, during lunch when it was just the two o them, “Hey, maybe you should lay off of Lodge during practice.”
It made Liederman's grin. “Come on, he can take it. Besides, I'm just messing with him.”
“Yeah, about to mess with him right off the court. You take it too far, we're down a man and replacements last minute screw everything up. I'm justing thinking about the next game, man, that's all.”
Liederman brushed the possibility aside with a sweep of his hand. “Lodge can handle it.”
Julian entered; Miguel saw him out of the corner of his eye and looked up. Julian was standing in the entrance, staring their way with the same look on his face when Miguel had placed a rubber spider on his food while he wasn't looking. Julian's throat was of the kind where it was hard to miss when he swallowed hard. Julian then turned and left.
Liederman snorted, muttered “pussy” and stabbed his fork into a mountain of mashed potatoes.
Julian was absent at happy hour, the next three lunches, even the offices. Where ever Liederman was, Julian wasn't and it was awesome. Jerry thought it was weird, saying that it wasn't like Julian to not be where he wanted to be. Blondie wasn't stupid, was well aware Liederman had that kind of influence on Julian, but it was Jerry's opinion that Julian was an unstoppable force. The justices could band together to kick him out of a room and he would still find a way back in – probably through a window, maybe through the air vents; he was skinny enough.
Ellie agreed; the extent of her opinion on the matter and nothing beyond.
It pissed Miguel off that they were more weirded out by it than happy. For once in their lives, they were Julian free, and he could only hope it stayed that way for the rest of their lives.
Miguel liked to get to the gym early and get in some solitary hoop time as warm up; just him and the court, blowing off legal frustrations and the burden of deadlines with each basket he made. He walked into the empty locker room, headed to his locker.
He stopped when he saw Julian sprawled on the floor in his dress pants but no jacket, vest or shirt. There was blood on the edge of the bench between the lockers, blood all over Julian's face, more blood leaking out from under his head.
“Son of a...!” Miguel leaped over the bench and crouched beside Julian's body. He pressed along the neck until he found a pulse then, on finding it and sighing in relief, placed his hand on Julian's bare shoulder to shake him awake.
Julian snapped like an overstretched rubber-band, bolting upright with a gasp and slamming his back hard into the lockers. When Miguel grabbed him by the shoulders to calm him down, Julian fought, flailing his legs and trying to pull away without success. Miguel held tight.
“Julian. Julian! Calm down, man, it's just me, it's just Miguel. Come on!”
The violent struggles came to an abrupt halt. Julian went still, relatively speaking: his chest pumped in rapid breaths, his shoulders bounced with the shakes, his hands palsied. He was white as a sheet and those parts of his face not buried under blood were starting to bruise and swell. His eyelid could barely stay open under all that spreading black.
None of the justices had ever unnerved Julian enough to look as terrified as he did now, as though he thought Miguel was going to shoot him. Blood dripped off his jaw onto his shoulder, chest, stomach. He coughed, spraying a fine mist of it onto Miguel's white shirt, but Miguel ignored it; he was too busy trying not to be sick.
“Julian, what happened? Did you fall?”
Julian didn't answer. He coughed, choked, then started to gag. Swearing, Miguel grabbed the back of Julian's neck and forced his head between his upturned knees.
“Deep breaths, man. Don't swallow, just spit.” He looked in the direction of the gym entrance and called, “Hey! Hey! I need some help in here!” Julian flinched beneath his hand. “Hey! Can anyone hear me! I need help!” When the shakes got worse, Miguel moved his hand to Julian's back. He felt ribs and shuddering muscles with each big, heaving breath. “That's it, man, just breathe. You'll be all right.”
There were a lot of bruises on Julian, and sitting hunched tight over his thighs, bones pressed into his skin and every muscle a knot of quaking tension seemed to decrease him in mass. Miguel thought that if he tried, he could probably pick Julian up with one hand without effort. He could see the guy's pulse hammering in the side of his throat.
“Julian. Come on, man, what happened?”
Julian didn't answer. He wasn't home right now, or was too focused on trying to breathe. Miguel hadn't missed the sand-paper quality to Julian's inhales and exhales.
Miguel was at a complete loss as to what to do. When people tripped and fell, they didn't wake up in a panic. They didn't wake up terrified. Without really thinking about it except how weird it was, Miguel slid his arm across Julian's shoulders. He told himself he was just making sure Julian didn't fall on his side; that it had absolutely nothing to do with comforting the guy.
That was how Jerry found them, and despite the wide-eyed look of horror on Jerry's face Miguel still felt like he'd degenerated into a sixteen year old girl trying to comfort his emotionally distraught best friend. It was freaky, though; he couldn't seem to pull his arm away.
Jerry took off to get help, and not moments later the locker room had become a peep show and Miguel and Julian the exhibition. That was the problem with getting help; you always went to the first person you ran into, who went to another person, who told another person and so on. Somewhere along the way someone had the smarts to call 911, but by then the audience had gathered to stare and gawk or crowd trying to offer a lot of useless help.
The “helpful” ones were the worst. They closed in, hands out, like Julian was some kind of spooked dog they were trying to talk down. Miguel had to hold tight when Julian made a pathetic attempt at a break for it. When that didn't work, Julian puked – bile, lunch and a little blood splashing all over the floor between them. Crap, Miguel hoped there wasn't any internal bleeding.
It was Julian's boss to the rescue, getting everyone to back the hell off before he shoved his boot up every ass present – his exact words. Chief Justice Brankin lowered himself with a grunt and pop of old joints, putting him in close to talk to Julian, place his hand on his quivering shoulder, tell him that help was on the way and that everything would be all right. The old man's grandkids must love him; if you could use his voice to wrap fine china, it would never break. Julian's shaking decreased to light tremors and the occasional shudder. Someone handed the chief justice a towel that he and Miguel settled across Julian's bare back.
“Did someone beat him up?” Brankin asked, like a man that as soon as he learned the answer and found out who the culprit was would give them an ass-kicking to last them a life time. Miguel could only give him an uneasy shrug.
The paramedics arrived. Julian, exhausted, out of it or both, was incredibly cooperative, letting them manipulate his head to flash a penlight in his eyes. It took the chief justice coaxing Julian to let the medics get him on the stretcher, buckle him up and wheel him out. By then, Julian could barely keep his good eye open. The other eye had swollen shut.
Miguel had been close enough to have seen Julian's eye respond sluggishly to the penlight. Concussion. He answered the paramedics' questions, the Chief Justice's question, then marched out of the locker room.
He found Liederman standing with the crowd watching the paramedics wheel Julian away. Miguel pushed his way through, grabbed the bastard's arm and dragged him into the nearest unoccupied room.
“What the hell happened?”
Liederman gaped. “You're blaming this on me!” He looked pale, tense.
“Just narrowing down the possibilities, man. Julian breathes and he pisses people off but you're the only one who puts bruises on him. Did he say something? Take things too far so you took things too far?”
Liederman backed up until the back of his legs hit the polished mahogany conference table. Except Miguel hadn't moved, hadn't given Liederman a reason to move.
“It was an accident, all right?” Liederman said. “I didn't touch the guy. I was just messing with him. Giving him a hard time - verbally. I – I called him a few names, standing over him, that kind of crap. He starts breathing fast like he's gonna hyperventilate then he turns, tries to run and trips. He hit his face on the bench, that's all. I didn't touch him.”
Miguel glared in disbelief. “But you left him,” he stated. “You didn't think to get help? Make sure he was all right? Alive?”
Liederman's coughed a humorless laugh. “Yeah, like everyone was going to believe it was an accident. I was gonna get help I just... I stalled. I was out in the hall, then I saw you go into the gym and thought you could handle it. Look, Julian got help, I didn't touch him. Why can't we leave it at that?”
Miguel snorted. “You're an ass hole, man.” He left, trailing Liederman's protests behind him, to go talk to Julian's boss. Liederman would drown himself in denial but it wouldn't last. This was the supreme court, chalked full of supreme court justices. Liederman would lie, the justices would fold their arms and look stern, and the truth would spill like water from a busted dam.
Miguel visited Julian that night at the hospital on the edge of visiting hours being over, but Julian was asleep. A nurse said he had a mild concussion and a broken nose. Miguel asked her about Julian's difficulty breathing. She was confused at first, then raised her eyebrows in realization and said that Julian did have difficulty breathing on the way over when he had a panic attack. She said, as though Miguel already knew and she was just reminding him, that Julian wasn't a stranger to panic attacks.
Julian prone to panic attacks. It would have been hard to imagine if Miguel hadn't seen it for himself.
As much as Miguel didn't want to think about it, he thought about it. He'd said it himself, once; Julian had been the kid he'd picked on in school... metaphorically speaking. But Julian was the type: smart and a smart ass, and kids weren't as restrained as adults who busted their butts to have a job in the supreme court. Kids thought hurting someone made a difference in life.
Two days of observation, and Julian was released. Three more days of bed rest, and Julian returned to work with two black eyes – one darker than the other – a taped nose, stitches along his hairline and cuts on his cheek, lip and jaw. All in all, he looked like the victim of a mugging.
He walked into the lunch room like a victim of abuse, shoulder's tense, eyes downcast and a perfect combination of nervous and humiliated. He only looked up when he had his food and needed a place to sit.
When he looked at Miguel, Miguel sighed (what the hell am I doing?) and waved Julian over. Julian, looking just as disappointed but resigned, joined him. Neither talked; it made things more awkward.
Then Julian said with much hesitation, as though it hurt, “Uh... thanks, by the way. For, you know...”
“Yeah,” Miguel said, all eyes on his fork mutilating his salad. “No problem.” He cleared his throat. “They fired Liederman.”
“Oh?”
“So, you know. You don't have to... worry about him any more. You gonna press charges?”
“Naw. He didn't touch me. I just... he didn't touch me.”
Miguel, pressing his lips, nodded. Nothing more was said. It was probably going to be a while before Julian felt it safe enough to go back to being an ass. It was just as likely he would remain subdued but Miguel doubted it.
“So, uh... how much longer 'til you're able to play again?” Miguel asked.
Julian shrugged, the rasp of his pepper grinder loud enough to be heard over the gentle din of the lunch room.
“You know it sucks trying to find a replacement. With Liederman gone, Jacobs on vacation and you out we've had to bring in guys who can't even throw straight let alone make a two-point shot.”
“So, in other words,” Julian smiled; it looked more like a grimace. “What you're telling me is, you miss me.”
“I miss winning, that's what I miss. Don't read into what's not there, Julian.”
Julian feigned perfect innocence as his pepper grinded away. In an uncharacteristic feat of restraint, Julian didn't push the matter. They returned to their silence, and it was comfortable this time.
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no subject
Date: 2009-09-06 04:04 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-09-06 04:12 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-09-06 08:17 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-09-08 10:30 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-09-06 03:24 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-09-08 10:32 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-11-21 02:43 am (UTC)From:I've wanted to read some Julian h/c whump fic for months. I can't find any fic anywhere for First Monday. I didn't see the series only a few clips on youtube. I wish they would release it on DVD. Joe's portayal of Julian is just irresistible. He's so cute. The character 'begs' to be whumped.
Speaking of whump, you did a wonderful job! Your OC bully is very realistic and Julian is smart but I can see where he'd have a target practically painted on him for certain personality types.
Poor Julian. The emotional whump had to be as bad as the physical. This guy knew exactly how to hurt him and appear blameless, at least at first. (Even if Liederman was just a heavy handed bully he definitely knew how to push Julian's buttons.)
It had to be difficult for Julian to face his tormentor at work every day while his coworkers sided (at least at first) with the abuser (subtle mental/emotional whump) and then having to deal with the physical abuse after hours during his recreational time.
One incident alone does not a problem make. Cumulatively over time however........Julian had to be terrified; feeling isolated, alone, and unsure how far Liederman was going to go. He had, after all been getting away with some significant abuse right under everyone's noses.
Great story with realistic situations. Excellent characters and details. I liked how his peers were slowly coming around to see Julian's side of things and Miguel comforting Julian despite himself. Julian can be a smart-ass when he wants to be, but he's not a bad guy. (Nice job btw revealing the severity of the abuse as Miguel observes the number and severity of the bruising on Julian)
Loved Julian's boss--Chief Justice coming to the rescue; threatening to kick some a** if people didn't get out of the way and then the promise of a special butt-kicking to whoever hurt Julian. I tend to see him as a tad fatherly where Julian is concerned. (Awesome whump descriptions too.)
I hope I'm not reading too much into this but it's a well written story with rich characters and a believable story line which leaves so much to squee about. :D (IMHO)
no subject
Date: 2009-11-21 03:07 am (UTC)From:I wish there was more First Monday fic, but all I've been able to find is slash :P I'm hoping the muses will inspire more fic, as I would like to expore Julian's character more.
no subject
Date: 2009-11-21 06:35 am (UTC)From:IMO, from the clips I saw, the character voices in your fic are perfect. I believe you have a good feel for who these people are and what their reactions could conceivably be in a given situation.
It amazes me to no end how Joe can take dubious character traits and turn them into something endearing lol. Despite any faults he may have, I still just want to squish Julian in a hug lol.
Sometimes he reminds me of a little kid who is always into something. He means well but seems to find trouble (then can't figure out how it all went wrong. lol)
My 'google-fu' is made of fail and I don't read slash. Maybe this will be the fic that gets things rolling for the gen, h/c, whump crowd :)
Here's hoping your muse cooperates :) I'd love to read more.
no subject
Date: 2009-11-24 10:38 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-11-25 12:04 am (UTC)From:Oh Julian, why are you so whumpable! Any ideas on how I should whump him next? ;) I'm very open to suggestions at this point.
no subject
Date: 2009-11-25 07:08 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2010-08-19 02:46 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2010-08-19 03:58 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2010-08-19 04:02 pm (UTC)From:I never saw the original, but I have to agree that the new one was pretty bad. Oh well, I guess I'll just have to be satisfied with the YouTube clips of Joe. :)
no subject
Date: 2009-11-25 07:09 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-11-25 07:23 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-11-25 06:27 pm (UTC)From:So that's a couple things that have been kicking around in my mind...
no subject
Date: 2010-08-19 02:43 am (UTC)From: