Chapter 11: What We Say and What We Mean

The heels of Bart's shoes twitched against the ground, repetitively jumping an inch off the carpet as he waited impatiently for the person he'd been anxious to talk to all week. He sighed loudly and cracked his fingers with his thumbs. As soon as Bob walked past Bart's chair, headed for his own, Bart jerked upright in his chair.

"Hey," he said before the redhead had even had a chance to sit down.

Irritatingly, Bob didn't respond until he was fully seated, one leg lazily crossed over the other, fingers laced together in his lap. "Good evening, Bart."

"I have a bone to pick with you," Bart said. He realised too late that his tone was much too even and pleasant, and forced a frown onto his face in substitution.

Bob didn't have the decency to even look surprised. His face remained as passive as the tone of his voice. "Oh? Do tell."

"It's because of you that I know Colin's mum died," Bart said, and this time the words tasted just as bitter as he'd wanted them to sound. "It's because of you that I know she'd been sick for ages. And it's because of you that, now, I don't think I can ever punch that annoying shit in his shitty face ever again."

A small, sliver of a smile slipped onto Bob's face. At first, Bart thought it was morbid of him to be smiling after being informed that some kid's sick mother had died. But then he saw the resigned weariness in there, the slightest sympathetic touch to his eyes, and the smile no longer looked as light-hearted.

"I see," said Bob. "And you consider this my 'fault'? Assumingly because of what I said during our last meeting?"

"Damn straight. I wouldn't have given his moping a second thought if you hadn't put thoughts about it in my head."

Bob appeared to consider him for a moment, his head tilted slightly to the side, eyes searching, and Bart felt surprisingly uncomfortable under the not-so-physical pressure of his gaze.

"You can see, surely, how absurd that sounds?" Bob said. "You're berating me for 'making you' feel sympathetic towards your peer."

Scowling, Bart crossed his arms. "I don't want to feel sympathetic towards him."

"Bart …" Bob tapered off with a sigh and shook his head, his smile appearing once again. "This is a good thing." He looked at him, and Bart couldn't tear his eyes away. "It may not feel good, or even fair, for you to care about someone who has done you wrong. But it makes you a very big person indeed. Bigger, certainly, than myself. It has taken me a very long time to deny the anger, resentment, and hate that comes so much more easily than forgiveness does. You are already on that path."

Bob's mellow expression twisted only slightly as he looked away, seemingly lost in thought. Having been hanging onto every word Bob had uttered, Bart found his own frozen posture thawing in the absence of the man's direct attention. He squirmed in his seat, flexing cramped muscles, and stared down at the carpet.

He felt embarrassed. What the hell was up with that? Since when had Bob been able to make him feel embarrassed with just a few meaningless words? He had to ask himself, though, begrudgingly, really just how meaningless he considered Bob's words if they had that effect on him.

"I have news for you, too, coincidentally," said Bob after clearing his throat. He paused, swallowed, and then took a deep breath. "I might – … that is, there is a chance that I may not be here for our next meeting."

Watching Bob's strange behaviour closely, Bart rose an eyebrow. "Why not? Planning on getting thrown into the Hole again? Am I gonna get to talk to your little friend again instead? –oh yeah, what about that guy? You talk to him yet?"

Bob shook his head. "Yes, but I'll tell – …" he trailed off, his entire body language changing, cutting off the bizarre vulnerability he'd been displaying. "Yes, I did. He told me that Jace isn't his biological brother."

As riveting as that was, Bart was suddenly much more interested in whatever it was that had Bob acting so strangely cryptic.

"Uh-huh. So, what did you mean by not showing up next week?"

Gaze flicking up from the floor, Bob looked genuinely startled, like he'd honestly thought Bart would forget all about that line of conversation as soon as something potentially juicer was presented. Like hell.

"If it's not the Hole, then what oh what could possibly keep you away?" Bart asked, giving a sarcastic smile.

Bob licked his lips. "Only death, it would seem."

"… What?" Bart's attempt to lighten the atmosphere in order to get an answer from Bob had not earned the desired result – he didn't think.

The older man shook his head again, in an almost self-scolding way, and said, "I've been placed in a predicament from which I'm not sure I can wriggle out of. I thought you deserved to know ahead of time; we may not see each other again."

What the hell was he saying? That he might be going to die? A cold sheen of something slid under Bart's skin, unsettling him to the point of extreme agitation. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" he bit out, letting the words come without a filter. "Are you serious?" Bob nodded and Bart could hardly believe it. "You're fucking insane. You can't just casually tell people that you're gonna die!"

Bob immediately leaned forward and held a silencing hand out. "Shh." Looking around at the people surrounding them, he continued, "I hate to say it but you mustn't say anything about this to anyone. And it's just a possibility, not a certainty."

"You can't just tell me you might be going to die and then tell me not to say anything!" Bart hissed, pulling himself forward in equal proportions to bare his teeth at the infuriating man. This close, he could see Bob's hard, dark eyes clearly. Whenever he'd seen those eyes so close in the past he had always been terrified, and now was no exception. Except now his fear wasn't for himself. Realising this, Bart scooted back in his seat until his spine hit the backrest.

"I'm sorry," said Bob without moving, watching Bart like a hawk. "I am. I'm sorry. Perhaps I shouldn't have told you at all. But the truth of the matter … is …"

"You're scared," Bart whispered, his mouth producing the words before he'd even fully came to that conclusion. His mouth wasn't very connected to his brain today, it seemed.

Bob's expression remained the same, except for a slow tightening of his chapped lips. "I don't know about that -"

"-Bullshit. Why else would you tell me?"

"I believe it's called being mannerly."

Bart snorted. "And I believe it's called having no one else to tell."

"That …" Bob eased back into his seat. "That's preposterous."

"Oh really? it's 'preposterous'? Who else have you told, then?" For some reason, proving Bob wrong seemed especially important at that moment. His blood boiled with the need, though he wasn't completely sure why.

"No one. But that's beside the point. It hardly matters to anyone else."

Bart crossed his arms and said, "And what makes you think it matters to me?" Bob remained impressively passive, even as Bart could feel his own expression twisting slightly at his own merciless words.

"I only thought you deserved to know the reason for my possible absence," Bob said slowly, his tone sharp and inescapable, each word like being caught on rows and rows of teeth that never ended. "That hardly boils down to me being 'scared' and 'alone'. But if you're so eager to search-out and forcibly uproot my vulnerabilities, let's not waste time with trying to be subtle about it. God forbid I hold something back!

"Scared? Of course I am. I'm scared every day – perhaps not of the things you would assume me to be fearful of, perhaps so – but being scared is, by now, something I've come to understand and even count on. Not something that would drive me to a teenager that despises me to unload upon.

"And of my being alone and having no one else to tell my problems to? Well, gosh darn, you don't say! Who knew that prison was a solitary place for a murderer? I'm sorry if you're resentful of the fact I told you what I did, but, quite frankly, if it matters so little to you, simply forget I said anything in the first place."

Having remained perfectly still throughout his rant, Bob finally shifted, crossing his arms and raising his chin so he was looking down at Bart over his nose. "Is there anything else you'd like to discuss while we're at it? Anything else to heedlessly rip up from my innards and examine? I'd rather you dug this particular rabbit hole all at once and get everything out onto the table now instead of revisiting it again later, if you wouldn't mind."

Bart sat stupefied, blinking like the idiot he was, lamenting opening that can of worms and poking at the contents with a stick. Like a child. Bob had been so passive and meek during these visits that Bart had forgotten how spirited and strong the man truly was – worse, he'd been slowly starting to take advantage of it, leaving himself as stupidly open as that idiot in slapstick comedy movies who looked down the barrel of a loaded gun just because it wasn't firing.

But Bob's rant had at least answered the question of why Bart had felt like such a dog with a bone while chasing Bob's confession. Somewhat. Maybe. Actually, no, Bart was still confused. Had he been trying to hurt Bob? Find his weaknesses and use them against him? Dominate the man? Why?

A frown found its way on his face as Bart's mind tried too hard to understand his own actions, let alone Bob's mini-speech.

"Well?" said Bob, and Bart shook his head.

"I don't really know what just happened," he admitted lamely, running blunt fingernails over his scalp as he stared down at the carpet. "But I think it was my fault, so, I guess I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make this about me."

There was no reply from Bob, no sound apart from the usual chatter of the rest of the room in general. Eventually Bart shrugged, so confused with the situation that he didn't know what to say. He felt like he'd just been taken down a peg or two, but strangely didn't feel annoyed by it. He actually felt relieved.

With his earlier anger drained from his body, Bart was left feeling weak and dejected, but still buzzing with an anxiousness to find out more about what was happening with Bob back at prison. "So … why do you think you're maybe gonna, y'know, die?"

When Bob again didn't say anything, Bart finally looked up at him. His mouth dried up at the sight of Bob staring at him with such intensity he truly worried the man might actually get up and punch him right in the mouth.

After a long pause, Bob swallowed and said, "I'm being serious, you know. I want you to give voice to whatever issues you still have with me. Get it off your chest. Beat my with my own limbs, so to speak, until you're satisfied, until it's all out. I'd rather we move on from this point without that sneaking up on the conversation."

That was interesting. Did that mean Bob wanted to … move forward in their … 'relationship'? Had he gotten so mad at Bart because they'd suddenly taken steps backwards? Because Bart had taken them backwards?

All this thinking was giving him a headache. Bob was giving him headaches. Still, Bart thought about what Bob was saying, and came up empty-handed. He shook his head again. "I got nothing, man," was all he offered, too mentally exhausted to scrap anything else together.

Bob pursed his lips together, but uncrossed his arms, lessening the closed-off body language. "Fine." He sighed and pressed a few fingers to his temple to rub small but firm-looking circles against his skull. Maybe he was getting a headache, too. "Look, about the possibly dying thing, don't worry about it, okay. Just … just forget I said anything."

Bart almost groaned out-loud in annoyance. "I said I was sorry."

"It's not about that." Bob dropped his hand and opened his eyes to stare into Bart's gaze with weary steadiness. "I'm actually not mad at you or anything. In fact, I'm kind of impressed that you took responsibility and apologised, even though you weren't exclusively at fault. It's just I realised that I shouldn't have told you in the first place. You were right about that. I was being selfish."

Stunned, Bart merely stared back until his brain slowly caught up with the conversation. "Maybe just a little," he murmured, then shook his head, "but not really. I guess I was just shocked." And scared. "I know you don't, like, owe me an explanation or anything – but seriously, you're gonna leave me hanging like that?"

"It's actually best you don't know any details. Mostly for my own sake."

A compulsion to demand answers rose up inside Bart, pulsating dark and ugly, the wronged, entitled side of him eager to lash out and control the situation. But today had shown him something he had been blind to until now. That side of him, the side that hated Bob, wanted to hurt him, that felt like it deserved some kind of power over him, existed because he ultimately saw himself as being above the man – better than him. And that thought gave him hesitation. Sure, he wasn't a murderer, but did one's actions define them as a whole person?

If it does, then what did that make him? And was there room for … changing that? Forgiveness? He didn't know for sure. But it gave him a lot of room for doubt when it came to Bob.

"Okay, fine. But how about giving me, I don't know, a percentage? like, how likely do you think you'll be okay?"

Bob scoffed at Bart's poor word choices, but couldn't hide the tiny tilt of a smile that lifted the corner of his mouth. "After statistics, huh? I thought it didn't matter to you."

"Aw come on," Bart exclaimed, rolling his eyes, "I said I was sorry. Get over it."

"So you do care?" A smirk replaced the tiny smile, and Bart wished life had an auto-save feature so he could just quit and jump back to the beginning of the conversation and steer it into a completely different direction. Or at least just take his last minute's worth of words back.

"Just forget about it," he grumbled.

Despite Bart's attempt to abort the topic, Bob soldiered on. "Let's see. I'd say there's about a seventeen percent chance I'll be 'okay', and a forty-one percent chance I'll survive. It depends, really. Not all the variables are accounted for as of yet. My chances of survival could go up to as far as seventy-five or so percent."

Those were shaky numbers. "Do you have a plan?"

"Somewhat. Things are still playing out, so it's difficult to say. But there are a few things set in stone."

A thought bobbed to the surface of Bart's thoughts. "Are you planning on hurting anyone?"

Bob's focus, suddenly sharp, visibly zeroed in on that. Eyes that were clear and calculating examined his face. "You'll have to be more specific, dear boy."

Blinking at the endearment Bart was sure had been meant to patronise, he decided to be blunt. Lowing his voice so the patrolling guards had no chance of hearing him, he amended himself. "Are you planning on killing anyone?"

Although he didn't give an affirmative, Bob didn't dismiss Bart's question, either, and Bart nodded, understanding what that meant.

"Don't," he said, surprising himself with how even and resolute he sounded even to his own ears.

Bob didn't miss a beat. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, don't kill anyone." He realised that he was back to giving demands, but this was something he was completely sure he was in the right about. Not even a tiny part of him disagreed, and that was a first when it came to Bob. "You can't do it."

"You don't understand. This isn't an innocent person. He's not a good man by any standards."

"I don't care." Bart dug deep trying to scrape together words that could explain his reasoning, his certainty, in a way that, for once, would convey what he truly meant to the man sitting across from him. "I know that I'm not smart," he said, letting words flow freely to fill the silence of his thoughts, "and that there's not a lot that I understand completely to the point where I could possibly lecture someone else about it. Like, I get that. But this is different. I know that you can't kill any one else. That if you do, you'll be crossing some line, or something, that you can't cross back over from." He glanced up at Bob to make sure he was listening – following, even. "And that line exists not just for you, you know? It's my line, too. And probably others', I don't know.

"So just … don't." He took a deep breath and added, reluctantly, not even sure why he was saying all of this, "please."

They stared at each other for a while, Bob probably wondering why the hell Bart thought he could control his actions, and Bart berating himself for opening his big stupid mouth yet again. The air between them was so thick with Bart's words that he felt hot under the collar. He opened his mouth to say something, already regretting the words he hadn't even decided upon yet but desperate to cut the tension, when a social worker announced to the room that the session had ended.

Bob stood up without any hesitancy, but paused before leaving. "I'll see you next time," he said. "Stay out of trouble."

The redhead towered over him as he sat, so Bart stood up, too, wanting Bob to know that he wasn't backing down. Despite his growth spurt, sixteen still had him at Bob's chin, still having to crane his neck back to look him in the eye.

"You too," he countered, and stayed to watch as Bob walked away to be chained back up to the other criminals and led from the room.

-~X~-

Back in his cell after handing over his newest letter to be delivered to Bart, Bob was lying on his bed, amusing himself as best he could with picking apart the poor writing of one of the shoddier books he had access to in prison. As second-rate as it was he'd be ashamed to admit he'd still read the thing twice already.

Footsteps approached and Bob spared Gabriel's entrance only a confirming glance. Or he would have, had Gabriel's armful of book not made him do a double-take and stare.

"What's all this?" he asked.

Gabriel smiled at him. "W-what, don't recognise books when you see them?" he asked cheekily, flushing just a little in embarrassment. "Well, I uh, my family put some more money on my a-account so I could buy some stuff. I just thought you'd like some more books, since you've already finished the one I g-gave you before." He nodded at the book Bob held in his hands.

"You didn't have to do that."

Bob didn't want Gabriel to feel indebted to him in some way. That'd just muddy the waters of Bob's conscious even more for protecting Gabriel for his own selfish reasons. Gabriel didn't have to buy Bob's efforts to protect him; Bob would've done the same whether Gabriel appreciated it or not.

"I know. R-really. It's fine. The store doesn't have much, anyway, and I still b-bought myself some stuff."

Gabriel walked over to Bob's bed and sat down on the edge, carefully unloading his armful onto the ground. Bob set down Gabriel's last gift, less then hopeful that the kid had suddenly gained a better taste for books, and scooted down a bit to look at the selection.

"I'm really not sure w-what kind of books you like," Gabriel admitted, "so I got a bunch of different ones. I thought I could r-read some too. See what you like so much about them."

Surprisingly, among the titles were a few that stood out to Bob and gave him a little twinge of excitement. Call of the Wild and the Great Gatsby being a couple. He picked up Call of the Wild, then spotted another interesting one underneath it. He nodded at the collection of Shakespeare. "You should read that,' he said.

"Really? I thought you'd be into t-that one, actually."

"I love Shakespeare, but I'm very well versed with his writing. You on the other hand I'd hazard a guess haven't read anything from him. I'd also be very interested in which of his works interests you. Nothing more telling of a person than which Shakespearean play resounds with them most."

"Well, okay."

Perusing the first page of Call of the Wild, Bob said, "Thank you, by the way."

"You're w-welcome."

Satisfied, Bob was about to settle back into the dim corner his bed provided to get started with a book he'd always meant to read, when the growing sound of multiple pairs of heavy footsteps grew closer to their cell. Beside him, Gabriel stiffened.

At the front of his usual group of lackeys, Raymond walked lazily into view. He stopped at the entrance to their cell and fixed his gaze first on Gabriel, who didn't move an inch, then Bob, who met Raymond's stare with his own.

Raymond smiled, his thick lips stretching out over bulky teeth. "It's time, Bobby," he said. "You'd better come with me now."

And so it began.