Chapter Text
When Wesley woke up at exactly 6:45 the next morning, he immediately heard the sound of the car outside. It wasn’t the Baker’s, and it certainly wasn’t the Penter’s bikes. It sounded smooth and well oiled like someone was in a rush to get there, do their business, and leave.
He hurriedly put his glasses on his nose and crept to the old window facing the street. Sure enough, in front of the Baker’s house, was a navy blue pickup truck. Mr. Baker came out from the house with a swing of the front door and walked down the long stone path to the road.
Wesley watched as a boy stepped out of the passenger seat. He was too far away to get a good view, but Wesley could see him pull a large, leather suitcase out of the back of the truck. He seemed almost frozen in time like his limbs were moving through honey and his brain too foggy to catch up.
A woman got out of the driver’s seat, his mother, Wesley assumed from the way she pushed his back towards Mr. Baker. She made some hand gestures to the man, hugged her son and whispered something in his ear, and as soon as she had come she was gone, the car driving off back down the main road.
Mr. Baker was gentle with the boy as they walked up the path. He treated him like the way Wesley had treated the Penter’s dog, like a wild animal that was traumatized and dangerous. An animal that could lash out in fear of being harmed again.
When he came downstairs, his mother was making pancakes on the stove. He walked to her and kissed her cheek, “Good morning, mother,” he said, nodding his head.
“Good morning, Wesley,” her eyes were as distant as they usually were and Wesley gave her a side smile that didn’t quite reach his own.
His father was already at the table, steaming a cup of coffee in his hand with the paper.
“Sir,” Wesley said to him, placing his hands behind his back as he had been taught.
“What is it?” he didn’t look up from his paper.
“Do you know anything about a boy staying with the Bakers?”
“No, I don’t,” he looked at his son as if searching for a hidden meaning to his question.
Wesley nodded and sat at the seat across from the window. Bruce was still in bed, he never woke in time for breakfast, and their father was never too pleased about it.
“Sometimes I wonder if you’re worth the trade-off,” his Father usually said when he finally came upstairs. Bruce would scoff. He didn’t believe in the trade-off theory.
“Don’t listen to em James,” he said after their father had first told him about his economics theories. “Love exists, alright? True love. The kind that isn’t about trade-offs and bargains.”
Wesley wasn’t sure who to believe, he figured he had time to solve that puzzle.
Breakfast was silent, as it usually was, and so was the afternoon and dinner. The next day was much of the same thing and the next. Every day Wesley would check out of his window for the boy at the Bakers, and every day he was not to be seen.
It was a week after the boy arrived that Wesley saw him. He was sitting on a rock near the Baker’s mailbox, staring blankly at the dirt under his feet. Wesley straightened his glasses and went outside.
The closer he got the more he saw what the boy looked like. His hair was blonde, and his belly round. His face was pudgy and blank, expressionless except for a squint to keep out the sun.
“Hello,” the boy said when Wesley approached.
“Hello,” Wesley replied.
“What do you want?” the boy asked. This took Wesley off guard. What did he want? Why had he been so interested in the boy across the street? He honestly didn’t know.
“I saw you come in last week,” he kept stiff, but shrugged with his neck, “I was curious.”
The boy blinked at him, “I’m Wilson,” he said. Wesley smiled, the same one he gave his mother every morning.
“I’m Wesley.”
Wilson looked at him for a long moment, a piercing gaze that didn’t suit his soft features. Wesley shifted uncomfortably, “I live in the house across the street,” he pointed for emphasis.
There was silence, and Wesley was starting to regret his decision to come over, but Wilson spoke again, “You don’t want to be friends with me.”
Wesley raised an eyebrow. Wesley had no idea how to determine if he should befriend Wilson. He had no good reason to be here, there was nothing in it for him. Not only that, but he had no idea how to be a friend, or talk to people normally.
Wilson kicked the dirt at his feet, and Wesley took the opportunity to squeeze next to him on the rock. He noticed immediately that the boy smelled like sunscreen and something sweet like apples. Ever since he was little Wesley always picked up on the smell of people.
His father smelled like alcohol and sawdust, sometimes the wisp of cigarette smoke. Bruce more often than not smelled like horses and grass from working in their stable all day. His mother always smelled like chamomile and rubbing alcohol, a smell Wesley took much comfort in.
“I think I can determine that myself,” he finally replied, and saw the hint of a smile of Wilson’s face.