Written as a pinch hit for @idnis as part of the @aftgexchange based on the prompt “You’re the cute nerd that keeps getting pushed around but you just punched your bully and I gotta save you.” I hope you like this high school AU I came up with! Happy belated Valentine’s Day, and have a great rest of your February 🙂

CW: some use of ableist language, violence

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The thing about Andrew is that he is always watching. Charles Darwin dubbed himself a machine that observed facts and ground out conclusions. Andrew is very much the same; he is a machine that observes facts and churns out hypotheses and scenarios, different permutations of how the core principles can mutate and evolve. The only difference is that he uses the word ‘machine’ in its literal sense. It’s what everybody around him thinks, anyway.

Call it paranoia, but Andrew likes to be meticulous, to be able to predict how the people around him will behave and act under normal and abnormal circumstances. He has always believed that it is better to be safe than sorry, but maybe that can be credited to the fact that he doesn’t believe in regrets.

His latest object of scrutiny is a five-foot-three redhead by the name of Neil Josten. 

He’s a scrawny little thing, all long limbs and overgrown, messy hair. He wears nothing but oversized hoodies that are either in grey or a lighter shade of grey, the hood almost always pulled over his head like he doesn’t want anybody to see his face, which is – a shame, if Andrew were to be frank. From the glimpses that Andrew has managed to steal, Neil has a nice face, with a delicate nose and chiseled cheekbones that could cut through glass. It’s an ironic thing to say, because the right side of Neil’s face is marred by two long, jagged knife scars. As if being a scarred runt isn’t pathetic enough, Neil is also part of the mathematics club.

The scars and failed attempt at blending in are mildly interesting, but what really keeps Andrew on his toes is the sharp look in Neil’s muddy brown eyes. He keeps his head ducked and his body curled like he wants to fit himself into the corner of the walls or merge into the shadows, but Andrew sees past all that; he sees the needlelike focus in Neil’s eyes, the firm set of his jaw like he’s biting his tongue, the vigilance in his shoulders like an iron rod, the jitteriness in his wiry frame like he will make a run for it at a moment’s notice.

Andrew has heard all the rumors about Neil Josten, extrapolations that the students make from the morsels of information they could pick out ever since he moved here in the middle of the academic year. Some say that he was sold to the mafia at a young age, others insist that he is the son of a crime lord from the east coast. Most agree that he is quiet, bland, which is how a few of the seniors started razzing him – he’s such an easy target, they like to boast. But what began as juvenile insults escalated into pure bullying when the ex-girlfriend of one of the dickheads asked Neil out and got publicly rejected during lunch at the cafeteria.

Another ridiculous thing about Neil is that girls find his enigmatic aura and brooding facade irresistible, but most of the boys find the whole thing aggravating, like they think that Neil is somehow limiting their own chances of fishing girls and getting laid. The fact that a mousy and unremarkable thing like Neil opened his mouth long enough to bluntly reject the advances of a senior cheerleader has sparked a mini storm in their little high school.

Andrew deems it all banal.

Today, like all the other days, Jefferson greets Neil good morning with a body slam that sends Neil careening into the lockers. As he and his buddies totter down the hallway, bumping each other’s fists and tossing their heads back in malicious laughter, Neil remains slumped against the lockers, chest heaving as he sucks in a deep breath, his eyes closed; he looks like he is trying to collect all semblance of patience and control.

Andrew wonders with detached curiosity if Neil will snap and burst into flames at some point, a match dropped into a tank of oil, or if he will continue to let himself be the resident punching bag.

His question gets answered later in the week when an unsuspecting freshman bumps into Jefferson at the cafeteria and spills the food on his tray over Jefferson’s jersey.

It’s one of the rare days that Andrew spends lunch period at the cafeteria; it’s snowing outside, which means that it is far too cold for Andrew to climb up to the roof for a smoke. But filching cups of pudding from other people’s trays can be a fun way to pass the time, so Andrew stays indoors and ignores the rest of his peers as he finds an empty corner with his stack of stolen pudding and shovels spoonfuls of the dessert into his mouth.

When Jefferson grabs the freshman by the collar and pins him to the table next to Andrew’s, everybody around them makes a noise of surprise, staring wide-eyed at them.

Andrew couldn’t care less; he knows how this type of situation normally plays out.

Hypothesis: People like to stick to the status quo.

Prediction: The bullied cowers in fear and sputters out apologies, the bully gets a few punches in, the spectators whip out their phones and murmur amongst themselves, and in the anticlimactic finale, the teacher arrives at the scene a little too late and ushers the bullied to the nurse’s office.

Conclusion: Same old, same old.  

As Jefferson draws an arm back in preparation for a punch, a penknife zips through the air and slices the side of his hand. He keens in a cry of pain as the crowd falls into stunned silence. The knife skitters onto the floor near Andrew’s feet, blood smearing a part of the blade, and his eyes snap towards the direction the knife flew from.

“Why don’t you pick on somebody your own size for a change?”

Collectively, everybody turns their heads towards Neil, who’s standing on the bench a few tables over. His hands are stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie, and his eyes are deceptively calm.

“What did you just say to me?” Jefferson demands, cradling his bleeding hand against his chest.

“I didn’t know that you were hard of hearing in addition to being stupid,” Neil says, head tilted to the side in mocking pity. A few students snicker.

“You little shit,” Jefferson snarls, “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

Neil grins, razor-sharp. “I would like to see you try.”

As Jefferson charges at him, Neil leaps off the bench, swerving from left to right to avoid getting punched. What he lacks in size, he makes up for in speed. It also helps that Jefferson’s movements are sloppy, his cheeks flushed from getting humiliated in public and his hand steadily dripping blood onto the floor. At one point, he slips over some of it and barely manages to hold himself upright.

Seeing an opportunity, Neil smashes his fist into Jefferson’s face.

Hypothesis: Rejected.

The crowd around them reacts with gasps and exclamations of astonishment.  

One of Jefferson’s friends – Ruiz – springs up behind Neil and twists his arms behind him. Struggling to free himself from the hold, Neil doesn’t manage to evade the oncoming hit from Davis, a different guy in Jefferson’s clique.

Andrew has an empty tray in his hands and is bashing it into Ruiz’s head before he realizes he’s even moving. As Ruiz crumples to the ground with a groan, Andrew swings a kick to Davis’s groin. Without wasting any time, Andrew catches Neil’s wrist, yanking him away from the scene and remembering to snatch the penknife before they book it out of the cafeteria.  

He hears the principal’s voice bellowing a “What’s going on here?” as he and Neil run through the hallways.

Impossibly, Neil laughs, delirious, and Andrew doesn’t think he’s ever heard a more addictive sound.

He leads them outside to his car, unlocking the doors with his key fob and letting go of Neil’s wrist as they hop inside the vehicle. Andrew cranks the engine and heater on after he locks the doors, trying to catch his breath. Beside him, Neil runs a hand through his hair, snowflakes clinging to the auburn strands. His hair is a crimson pharos against the grimy, snowing backdrop. There is the hint of a smile on his lips, and Andrew catches himself staring just as Neil turns to face him.

“I’ve wanted to punch that asshole since the first day I moved here,” Neil says. “Glad I finally did.”

“Took you long enough,” Andrew remarks, impassive.

Neil blinks, twice, expression pulled into mild surprise. But then it changes back into boyish delight. “So you do talk.”

When Andrew does nothing but stare at him, he gives a light shake of his head.

“Rumor has it that you haven’t spoken a word to anyone ever since you got off your court-mandated medication,” Neil says as if he’s reciting the words from a passage.

“You know who I am,” Andrew says, not a question.

“Everybody knows who you are,” Neil says easily.

Good, Andrew thinks. He has let the rumors surrounding his history circulate like wildfire for the past couple of years; it has built his reputation for him and kept others from venturing too close without him ever having to actually do anything. His perpetually blank expression and all-black ensemble have lent a hand in fortifying the forcefield around him, and he wants it to stay that way until graduation.

“And your locker is right across mine,” Neil continues.

Andrew meets Neil’s stare, twisting around in his seat and draping a hand over the steering wheel.

“How are you sure which twin I am?”

Neil raises his eyebrows. “Are you seriously asking me that question? You two are so different from each other.” He stabs a slender finger in Andrew’s direction. “First of all, you wear black all the time. Second, your armbands. Third, your face.” Neil passes a hand over his face as he says this, mouth and eyes a mimicry of Andrew’s flat expression. “Your face is like this all the time, but your brother’s isn’t. Fourth – ” he pauses, his eyes raking over Andrew’s upper body as he tips his head to the side and frowns slightly. “I think you might have more muscle than him, too.”  

Andrew doesn’t know how Neil could say that in such a straightforward, non-sexual manner, but he pushes this thought to the side and says, “I know who you are, too.”

Neil goes stiff, his expression shuttered. “Is that so?”

Huh, Andrew thinks. The kid’s secrets might just be as big as the rumors suggest.

Andrew holds one finger up. “You are a lousy fighter,” he says, sliding his gaze to the blossoming bruise on one side of Neil’s face. He holds up a second finger as he continues his list. “And you have an atrocious fashion sense.”

“My clothes help me blend in,” Neil snaps. “And I may not know how to properly throw a punch, but I can at least -”

“Throw knives?” Andrew interrupts, bored. When he plucks the penknife out of his pocket, Neil’s eyes widen, just a fraction.

“You picked it up,” he says. “Thanks.”

Andrew flips the knife over in his hand, studying the shape and weight. It looks quite expensive, and extremely sharp.

Neil swipes it off his palm, and Andrew seizes his wrist just before he could pull away. Neil tries to wrench out of his grip, but Andrew holds on even tighter, until he can hear bones creaking.

“Why did you help me?” Neil asks in a vicious tone, teeth bared. “What do you want from me?”

Andrew gazes at him. He has never gotten a close, proper look at Neil, but now that he has, he notices the ring around Neil’s irises; he is wearing contact lenses. Andrew wonders if brown is even Neil’s real eye color.

“I want nothing,” he informs Neil. “But you are puzzling, and I intend to figure you out.”

Neil’s mouth flattens into a terse line. “I’ve never done anything to you before. Leave me alone.”

“Not to me, no,” Andrew allows. “But after what I have seen today, I will not take any chances.”

Neil scowls deeply. It’s a good look on him, if Andrew were to be honest.

“It’s a one time thing,” Neil insists, “do you really think that I’m going to slash everyone with my knife just because they’re acting like an asshat?”

Andrew gives the ghost of a shrug. “Better to be safe than sorry. Fool me once, strike one. Fool me twice, strike three.”

A huge frown overtakes Neil’s face. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Pop culture references fly over his head. Great.

“That is what makes it funny,” Andrew says.

Neil rolls his eyes. “Are you a comedian now?” Then: “Let go of me.”

Andrew lets go of him, watching unsympathetically as Neil rubs his wrist and pockets his knife.

“Look, it’s nice of you to lend a help and all, but I would really appreciate it if you just leave me the fuck alone after this.”

“They are going to make your life a living hell,” Andrew says, matter-of-fact.

“I think I can handle a bunch of high school bullies,” Neil says coolly. “I’ve handled worse.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“I thought you knew all about me?” Neil says, faux-confusion gracing his features.

“How about a deal?” Andrew proposes, ignoring Neil’s little dig.

“Oh? Do tell,” Neil says, a perfect imitation of Andrew.

Andrew’s only response is an unimpressed look.

Neil eyes him skeptically. “What would you even offer me?”

“Protection.”

“Like I said, I’m perfectly capable of -”

“I will teach you how to fight.”

Neil narrows his eyes at him. “And in return?”

“You will teach me how to use knives.”

Neil fidgets with the end of his sleeves, pulling them over his knuckles. “How do you know that I’m even good enough to teach you?” he says quietly. “And why should I take your words seriously?”

“I observe people, and I listen,” Andrew says plainly. “And I only speak the truth.”

“So you’re basically saying you’re a watered-down, counterfeit version of the Lorax,” Neil quips. When all Andrew does is stare stone-faced at him, he shrugs. “I know some pop culture references. I haven’t been living under a rock, you know.”

“What is your answer?” Andrew presses.

Neil looks out the windshield as he mulls it over.

Hypothesis: Neil, like everybody else, thinks that Andrew is a soulless machine.

Prediction: Neil refuses the deal, and he will never speak to Andrew or associate himself with him ever again, and they pretend that this conversation never happened.

Conclusion: Andrew should really know better.

“Alright,” Neil says, turning towards Andrew again. “I accept.”

Andrew looks at the fake color of his eyes, at his busted pink lips, at the stubborn lines of his face, at the way he meets Andrew’s gaze unflinchingly.

Hypothesis: Rejected.    

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Buy me a coffee 

ETA: click here for part 2 to this AU 🙂