"Oliver Remembers" (OOTD, 1986)
May. 13th, 2010 12:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
riptide_asylumTitle: Oliver Remembers
Rating: PG
Summary: After the boys find Cody's long-lost treasure trove, Nick has a strange encounter.
Oliver can remember when it was just him and the boy.
The boy was skinny and blond and shy and clung to Oliver with small and sticky hands, and the two of them went everywhere together. They ran and jumped and climbed a tree in the backyard, where they would sit in the sun and watch the blue blue ocean. The boy loved Oliver, and Oliver loved the boy. The boy was pure of heart and when he smiled, Oliver's little terrycloth toes curled in on their stuffing.
But the boy didn't smile very often.
The boy's father smiled even less. Most of the time he yelled and the first time he ripped Oliver out of the boy's hands and threw him against the wall with a mighty thwock, Oliver hid his glass eyes and tried not to hear the sounds the boy made as he was hit, over and over again.
And it wasn't the last time.
The boy's father was very angry with the boy, all the time as far as Oliver could tell. The boy was too slow and too skinny and too shy, and these things were unacceptable. The boy got hit a lot, and Oliver was ashamed to admit how many times he hid his eyes. He was only a silly old stuffed bear after all.
But the skinny shy boy was loyal to a fault and after his father left, he always got shakily to his feet and retrieved Oliver from whatever corner he'd been flung in, and the two of them curled up under the covers and snuggled until morning. Oliver always explained that he was very sorry he didn't save the boy. The boy always nodded, sniffed back his tears and hugged Oliver tight, forgiving all, so long as Oliver held on tight.
Silly old stuffed bear.
Sometimes the boy went out to the blue blue ocean with a very old man indeed.
Now, Oliver did not trust the ocean. He did not trust how wide it was, and that it seemed to go on forever, and that it didn't hold still, not for a minute. But the boy loved the ocean and--more importantly--the very old man and his wife loved the boy, and never ever hit him. The boy was safe on their boat. And he was happy. That much Oliver knew, and he approved, very much so.
Then came the time--
Oliver stopped. There were things it hurt even a silly old stuffed bear to think about.
Then came the time the boy didn't get up afterwards.
The boy had been scared, Oliver knew, and he'd done his best to tell the boy it would be all right, even while his thick cotton tongue choked on the lie. But the boy was a good boy, even though he was still too skinny, and he very bravely went out of his room and into the day.
Oliver lay on the bed and waited. And waited.
And waited.
Far below, a door slammed, and Oliver heard footsteps. Small, light, terrified footsteps and then the boy came flying into the bedroom, eyes wide and scared. He grabbed Oliver to him and looked around wildly.
The closet, Oliver whispered.
The boy nodded and hugged Oliver to his chest.
But his father was too fast, charging into the room and ripping Oliver out of the boys arms. This time, Oliver tried harder than ever to scream, tried to make a sound to bring help running. The father's eyes were empty and narrow and his hands fumbled on his belt.
The belt came free with a quiet clink and Oliver redoubled his efforts. The boy whimpered.
Oliver screamed in time with the boy, each time the belt made contact, and when the father grabbed the boy's arm and yanked on it it made a very bad sound and Oliver felt sick. The boy made all the screams Oliver could not.
Eventually the boy lay still, not even crying anymore, and the father stood over him panting. Oliver didn't dare breathe.
Outside, birds chirped in the tree in the yard, and the sun streamed in through the high, narrow window of the bedroom. The boy lay still and after a few moments, the father stalked out and away down the stairs.
Boy?
Answer, boy!
Oliver tried very hard to roll over. He knew he must call for help. He must bring someone to help his boy. But after all, he was only a silly old stuffed bear.
The boy lay very very still.
Oliver tried to remain calm.
The next few hours passed in a blur: stinking of alcohol, the boy's mother came and wailed at him, shaking him until he screamed and passed back out (Oliver wished again he could put his paws in his ears), then the boy's sister came and stood over him, stoic; she ran away, and then another woman came, in a uniform, and put the boy on a board and took him away.
Oliver stared up at the ceiling and remembered better times. He remembered the boy holding him. He remembered how the boy hid him from the father in the space between bed and wall. He remembered the boy's wide, scared eyes and how sticky his small hands were.
Then the boy was back. His eyes were no less wide and scared, and his arm was in a white tube, and his sister had to help him into the bed.
"You want Oliver?" she asked.
The boy nodded.
And then they were back together. Oliver and his boy.
The boy didn't say anything. Nothing at all. He picked at Oliver's fur with his good hand angrily. He hummed tunelessly, breathing hard, hurting, and finally he plucked one of Oliver's eyes out and threw it hard against the closet door!
Oliver wholeheartedly approved. He had failed the boy, and deserved no better.
After that, the boy lay very very still, and he said soft things to Oliver. He talked about the boat they went on, and the ocean. His sister came and brought him things, but most of the time the boy was alone. Just him and Oliver.
But! But but but! One day, the very old man came, and from the moment he walked in the room Oliver's soft cotton heart lifted. The very old man told the boy they were going to the blue blue ocean and Oliver--this is very important now, Oliver said, this is very important indeed--Oliver could feel the boy's heart lift when the very old man said these words.
And they went.
Oliver and the boy went to the boat on the blue blue ocean with the very old man and they stayed there, and the father never came and the boy held Oliver in his new small bed on the boat, and told Oliver how happy he was.
He told Oliver how sorry he was about the eye thing but Oliver assured him that all was forgiven. He told the boy he loved him, no matter what. He would always love his boy.
That was what the very old man said too, and the boy grew a little bit. He was still too skinny, but he was a little less shy and more importantly, the boy was happy with the very old man and his wife on their boat on the blue blue ocean. For the first time that he could remember, Oliver was content to be just a silly old stuffed bear. It was enough.
But then...
Oliver paused. You know this part of the story, he said. The boy told you. I heard him.
I know part of it, came the answer. But I don't get what happened to you, you know?
Oliver nodded. This is his story. His and the boy. He doesn't have to talk about what happened to the old man.
After--after, said Oliver firmly, his boy took all his favorite things and put them in the very old man's sea chest. The boy was tall now, still skinny but kind of stooped. He wrapped everything in plastic and put it in the sea chest and with very old eyes that looked just like the very old man's, he said goodbye.
Oliver lay in the chest and he waited.
Around him he heard the blue blue ocean, pushing in at the sea chest, poking at him, and he curled himself deep in the plastic and he waited for his boy. He worried about his shy and skinny boy; flashes came to him of large, wet green leaves and explosions. Flashes came to him of his boy, crying, and Oliver's little cotton heart hurt so much he thought it might burst.
But it did not.
There were other flashes. There was someone new holding the boy. Someone with olive skin and pale blue eyes, eyes that told Oliver the boy was loved. Someone was keeping him safe, even while Oliver waited and worried and listened to the boy cry sometimes. Be safe, boy, he thought. You be safe. You come back to this blue blue ocean some day.
...Boy?
There were times Oliver thought he had been forgotten. He thought sometimes that he had been left in the chest forever, and he'd never see the boy again. He contented himself with memories of the skinny, shy boy he'd loved so well, the one who'd held him so tight with sticky little hands. The boy he'd let down. The boy who'd left.
And now...
For a minute there was no answer, then the olive-skinned man with the pale blue eyes nodded. You're back.
Oliver stared at him with his one good eye. And you can hear me.
After a moment, the olive-skinned man with the pale blue eyes nodded again. He needs you, you know, man? I don't think he realized how much he missed you. ...You wanna go see him?
Oliver nearly leapt up in the air. He wanted nothing more than to see his boy again. It had been the thing he'd dreamed about the whole time he was sleeping in the sea chest, listening to the ocean. He wanted the boy to hold him one more time. He had thought it would never happen, had thought it was simply the silly old wish of a silly old stuffed bear.
C'mon, said the man, let's go wake him.
Oliver's heart lifted again. It had not moved in a long time.
When the sea chest had finally opened again, and the boy--now a man, Oliver reminded himself, he'd gone away and become a man through the green wet leaves that exploded--had looked at Oliver and Oliver had looked at him and the boy had collapsed, wide scared eyes fluttering closed.
Oliver had panicked then. He was not too proud to admit that.
The olive-skinned man with the pale blue eyes carried him very gently. Oliver appreciated that.
But he appreciated more being put back in his boy's arms. It felt right. It felt like home.
Boy?
The boy stared at him through a man's eyes and made no attempt to hold Oliver. Oliver did not know if this man's hands were sticky like the boy's had been. He began to worry.
Answer me, boy!
The olive-skinned man with the pale eyes got into bed next to the boy and held him and Oliver both. He held the boy tenderly, and Oliver watched the boy's eyes light up. He waited. He'd gotten good at waiting.
"I can't believe it, Nick," the boy said. "After all these years, he's...he's safe. I can't believe it!"
"'Course he's safe, baby. You packed him in there really well," Nick said. "What's his name?"
Oliver looked at Nick. You know my name. I told you it. Nick looked at Oliver.
The boy's breath surged out of him in a rush. "Oliver, Nick. His name is Oliver." The boy tightened his grip on Oliver, crushing him against a man's chest. Nothing had ever felt as good. Not ever ever ever.
Nick cuddled closer to the boy and kissed his temple. "S'a good name."
The boy smiled at Nick but looked straight at Oliver. "It is a good name, isn't it?"
Nick kissed his--their--boy again. "Perfect." He wrapped his arm tighter around them both and looked Oliver square in his eye. "Nice to meet you, Oliver. Welcome back."
The boy's face lit up, and he kissed Nick, a real kiss, one that lasted.
Oliver approved.
His boy had found someone with the right kind of eyes, someone who would keep him safe. Someone who understood that Oliver's place was between the new, small safe bunk and the wall, and that the boy was no ordinary boy. That the boy was special, even if he was now disguised as a man. Someone who understood how hard Oliver had tried when this boy was skinny and shy, and how important it was that the boy was safe and happy.
Oliver had tried, a long time ago, but there it had been so hard. The boy was so small, and Oliver was too, and the forces arrayed against them were so large. He'd tried his hardest though, Nick needed to know that. Oliver had tried so hard to keep his boy safe, and now he knew the boy had become a man, and had found someone stronger than them both to keep him safe, Oliver felt like maybe he could rest. He was back with his boy, and there was someone else to help him with his very, very big job.
After all, he was only a silly old stuffed bear.
Rating: PG
Summary: After the boys find Cody's long-lost treasure trove, Nick has a strange encounter.
Oliver can remember when it was just him and the boy.
The boy was skinny and blond and shy and clung to Oliver with small and sticky hands, and the two of them went everywhere together. They ran and jumped and climbed a tree in the backyard, where they would sit in the sun and watch the blue blue ocean. The boy loved Oliver, and Oliver loved the boy. The boy was pure of heart and when he smiled, Oliver's little terrycloth toes curled in on their stuffing.
But the boy didn't smile very often.
The boy's father smiled even less. Most of the time he yelled and the first time he ripped Oliver out of the boy's hands and threw him against the wall with a mighty thwock, Oliver hid his glass eyes and tried not to hear the sounds the boy made as he was hit, over and over again.
And it wasn't the last time.
The boy's father was very angry with the boy, all the time as far as Oliver could tell. The boy was too slow and too skinny and too shy, and these things were unacceptable. The boy got hit a lot, and Oliver was ashamed to admit how many times he hid his eyes. He was only a silly old stuffed bear after all.
But the skinny shy boy was loyal to a fault and after his father left, he always got shakily to his feet and retrieved Oliver from whatever corner he'd been flung in, and the two of them curled up under the covers and snuggled until morning. Oliver always explained that he was very sorry he didn't save the boy. The boy always nodded, sniffed back his tears and hugged Oliver tight, forgiving all, so long as Oliver held on tight.
Silly old stuffed bear.
Sometimes the boy went out to the blue blue ocean with a very old man indeed.
Now, Oliver did not trust the ocean. He did not trust how wide it was, and that it seemed to go on forever, and that it didn't hold still, not for a minute. But the boy loved the ocean and--more importantly--the very old man and his wife loved the boy, and never ever hit him. The boy was safe on their boat. And he was happy. That much Oliver knew, and he approved, very much so.
Then came the time--
Oliver stopped. There were things it hurt even a silly old stuffed bear to think about.
Then came the time the boy didn't get up afterwards.
The boy had been scared, Oliver knew, and he'd done his best to tell the boy it would be all right, even while his thick cotton tongue choked on the lie. But the boy was a good boy, even though he was still too skinny, and he very bravely went out of his room and into the day.
Oliver lay on the bed and waited. And waited.
And waited.
Far below, a door slammed, and Oliver heard footsteps. Small, light, terrified footsteps and then the boy came flying into the bedroom, eyes wide and scared. He grabbed Oliver to him and looked around wildly.
The closet, Oliver whispered.
The boy nodded and hugged Oliver to his chest.
But his father was too fast, charging into the room and ripping Oliver out of the boys arms. This time, Oliver tried harder than ever to scream, tried to make a sound to bring help running. The father's eyes were empty and narrow and his hands fumbled on his belt.
The belt came free with a quiet clink and Oliver redoubled his efforts. The boy whimpered.
Oliver screamed in time with the boy, each time the belt made contact, and when the father grabbed the boy's arm and yanked on it it made a very bad sound and Oliver felt sick. The boy made all the screams Oliver could not.
Eventually the boy lay still, not even crying anymore, and the father stood over him panting. Oliver didn't dare breathe.
Outside, birds chirped in the tree in the yard, and the sun streamed in through the high, narrow window of the bedroom. The boy lay still and after a few moments, the father stalked out and away down the stairs.
Boy?
Answer, boy!
Oliver tried very hard to roll over. He knew he must call for help. He must bring someone to help his boy. But after all, he was only a silly old stuffed bear.
The boy lay very very still.
Oliver tried to remain calm.
The next few hours passed in a blur: stinking of alcohol, the boy's mother came and wailed at him, shaking him until he screamed and passed back out (Oliver wished again he could put his paws in his ears), then the boy's sister came and stood over him, stoic; she ran away, and then another woman came, in a uniform, and put the boy on a board and took him away.
Oliver stared up at the ceiling and remembered better times. He remembered the boy holding him. He remembered how the boy hid him from the father in the space between bed and wall. He remembered the boy's wide, scared eyes and how sticky his small hands were.
Then the boy was back. His eyes were no less wide and scared, and his arm was in a white tube, and his sister had to help him into the bed.
"You want Oliver?" she asked.
The boy nodded.
And then they were back together. Oliver and his boy.
The boy didn't say anything. Nothing at all. He picked at Oliver's fur with his good hand angrily. He hummed tunelessly, breathing hard, hurting, and finally he plucked one of Oliver's eyes out and threw it hard against the closet door!
Oliver wholeheartedly approved. He had failed the boy, and deserved no better.
After that, the boy lay very very still, and he said soft things to Oliver. He talked about the boat they went on, and the ocean. His sister came and brought him things, but most of the time the boy was alone. Just him and Oliver.
But! But but but! One day, the very old man came, and from the moment he walked in the room Oliver's soft cotton heart lifted. The very old man told the boy they were going to the blue blue ocean and Oliver--this is very important now, Oliver said, this is very important indeed--Oliver could feel the boy's heart lift when the very old man said these words.
And they went.
Oliver and the boy went to the boat on the blue blue ocean with the very old man and they stayed there, and the father never came and the boy held Oliver in his new small bed on the boat, and told Oliver how happy he was.
He told Oliver how sorry he was about the eye thing but Oliver assured him that all was forgiven. He told the boy he loved him, no matter what. He would always love his boy.
That was what the very old man said too, and the boy grew a little bit. He was still too skinny, but he was a little less shy and more importantly, the boy was happy with the very old man and his wife on their boat on the blue blue ocean. For the first time that he could remember, Oliver was content to be just a silly old stuffed bear. It was enough.
But then...
Oliver paused. You know this part of the story, he said. The boy told you. I heard him.
I know part of it, came the answer. But I don't get what happened to you, you know?
Oliver nodded. This is his story. His and the boy. He doesn't have to talk about what happened to the old man.
After--after, said Oliver firmly, his boy took all his favorite things and put them in the very old man's sea chest. The boy was tall now, still skinny but kind of stooped. He wrapped everything in plastic and put it in the sea chest and with very old eyes that looked just like the very old man's, he said goodbye.
Oliver lay in the chest and he waited.
Around him he heard the blue blue ocean, pushing in at the sea chest, poking at him, and he curled himself deep in the plastic and he waited for his boy. He worried about his shy and skinny boy; flashes came to him of large, wet green leaves and explosions. Flashes came to him of his boy, crying, and Oliver's little cotton heart hurt so much he thought it might burst.
But it did not.
There were other flashes. There was someone new holding the boy. Someone with olive skin and pale blue eyes, eyes that told Oliver the boy was loved. Someone was keeping him safe, even while Oliver waited and worried and listened to the boy cry sometimes. Be safe, boy, he thought. You be safe. You come back to this blue blue ocean some day.
...Boy?
There were times Oliver thought he had been forgotten. He thought sometimes that he had been left in the chest forever, and he'd never see the boy again. He contented himself with memories of the skinny, shy boy he'd loved so well, the one who'd held him so tight with sticky little hands. The boy he'd let down. The boy who'd left.
And now...
For a minute there was no answer, then the olive-skinned man with the pale blue eyes nodded. You're back.
Oliver stared at him with his one good eye. And you can hear me.
After a moment, the olive-skinned man with the pale blue eyes nodded again. He needs you, you know, man? I don't think he realized how much he missed you. ...You wanna go see him?
Oliver nearly leapt up in the air. He wanted nothing more than to see his boy again. It had been the thing he'd dreamed about the whole time he was sleeping in the sea chest, listening to the ocean. He wanted the boy to hold him one more time. He had thought it would never happen, had thought it was simply the silly old wish of a silly old stuffed bear.
C'mon, said the man, let's go wake him.
Oliver's heart lifted again. It had not moved in a long time.
When the sea chest had finally opened again, and the boy--now a man, Oliver reminded himself, he'd gone away and become a man through the green wet leaves that exploded--had looked at Oliver and Oliver had looked at him and the boy had collapsed, wide scared eyes fluttering closed.
Oliver had panicked then. He was not too proud to admit that.
The olive-skinned man with the pale blue eyes carried him very gently. Oliver appreciated that.
But he appreciated more being put back in his boy's arms. It felt right. It felt like home.
Boy?
The boy stared at him through a man's eyes and made no attempt to hold Oliver. Oliver did not know if this man's hands were sticky like the boy's had been. He began to worry.
Answer me, boy!
The olive-skinned man with the pale eyes got into bed next to the boy and held him and Oliver both. He held the boy tenderly, and Oliver watched the boy's eyes light up. He waited. He'd gotten good at waiting.
"I can't believe it, Nick," the boy said. "After all these years, he's...he's safe. I can't believe it!"
"'Course he's safe, baby. You packed him in there really well," Nick said. "What's his name?"
Oliver looked at Nick. You know my name. I told you it. Nick looked at Oliver.
The boy's breath surged out of him in a rush. "Oliver, Nick. His name is Oliver." The boy tightened his grip on Oliver, crushing him against a man's chest. Nothing had ever felt as good. Not ever ever ever.
Nick cuddled closer to the boy and kissed his temple. "S'a good name."
The boy smiled at Nick but looked straight at Oliver. "It is a good name, isn't it?"
Nick kissed his--their--boy again. "Perfect." He wrapped his arm tighter around them both and looked Oliver square in his eye. "Nice to meet you, Oliver. Welcome back."
The boy's face lit up, and he kissed Nick, a real kiss, one that lasted.
Oliver approved.
His boy had found someone with the right kind of eyes, someone who would keep him safe. Someone who understood that Oliver's place was between the new, small safe bunk and the wall, and that the boy was no ordinary boy. That the boy was special, even if he was now disguised as a man. Someone who understood how hard Oliver had tried when this boy was skinny and shy, and how important it was that the boy was safe and happy.
Oliver had tried, a long time ago, but there it had been so hard. The boy was so small, and Oliver was too, and the forces arrayed against them were so large. He'd tried his hardest though, Nick needed to know that. Oliver had tried so hard to keep his boy safe, and now he knew the boy had become a man, and had found someone stronger than them both to keep him safe, Oliver felt like maybe he could rest. He was back with his boy, and there was someone else to help him with his very, very big job.
After all, he was only a silly old stuffed bear.
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no subject
Date: 2010-09-04 03:53 pm (UTC)Very intense and I thank you for sharing this.
no subject
Date: 2010-09-05 12:16 am (UTC)I do really like looking at what made Cody who he is when we meet him in canon, and when Nick meets him. And I think a lot of it is just what you pointed out: he is that scared little boy a lot of the time, hiding from real life, hoping it leaves him alone real soon.
At least until he gets his Oliver back.
Thank you very much for reading.