Comic booking it

[from_a_distance]

Clint was not one to frequent comic shops. In fact, he usually stayed as far away from them as possible--not because, like the other Avengers, he was afraid he might be recognized, but because he was pretty certain he wouldn't be, and that got a little old after a while.

But Coulson had been moping because he couldn't get in to get his Captain America comics for a couple months, and Clint didn't like to see Coulson moping, so he decided to stop by and pick them up for the agent. He'd probably just drop them on his desk when Coulson wasn't around, but at least he knew it would make the man smile.

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[mediumdrip]

Blaine was a small little child wearing a neat bowtie and sweater vest. He was looking through some of the action hero comics when he saw the man there.

"Are you a Captain America fan?" he asked, not minding talking to a stranger as much as he should. This place was one of the few places he felt safe enough to talk to people that he didn't know. After all, he was surrounded by heroes.

[mediumdrip]

It was Blaine's turn to help clean up the kitchen after lunch. He didn't mind it at all because it gave him a chance to make sure the dishes were fully clean, and it gave him time away from the other boys. Ms. Pillsbury was very, very particular about cleanliness, to a degree that made Blaine wonder why she had started a group home to start off with. Boys were so messy.

She liked him being her helper because he didn't complain about scrubbing clean counter tops and responded well to whistling Snow White songs to make the work go easier. In fact, he was really very good at that part. He always had had a talent for music, and had been allowed to indulge in it when his mother was alive. It had been a long time since he had been in a house where music was used to make the day better.

He really liked the adults here, but the other boys were horrible. They'd called him names and teased him. All he could think about was the way his father had told him that what he was was dirty and unnatural and how the other boys figured him out so quickly and sad the same things. He had to be wrong, if others could tell so easily.

It made him so angry. He hadn't asked to be created this way. It wasn't like he wanted to be different.

He reached up to get the toothbrush that Ms. Pillsbury used to clean the lines between the tiles when she saw the bruises from when one of the older boys had grabbed him roughly and twisted, calling him a faggot the entire time.

"Blaine, honey," she said with that earnest expression of hers. "Did someone hurt you?"

He denied it, but she knew better. She was just getting ready to coax the truth out of him when the door knocked and she realized who it must be. Blaine was being picked up today, after all.