A Home For Timmy (boyxboy)

Chapter 1: The Pickpocket.

Chapter 1

I pulled up the collar of my jacket, and tucked my chin closer to my chest as I walked. It was a bitch of a night; cold and wet after the sheets of rain we’d gotten only minutes before. Around me, couples and families poured out of the restaurants that lined the boulevard in droves, hoping to make it home before we were hit by another shower. 

I navigated through the crowd and crossed the street, heading for my car. So much for a refreshing night out on the town.

Just a little past 7:15 and I was already forced to run back to the quiet apartment that offered nothing in the way of comfort, when all I wanted to do was kick some ass with my buddies down by the bureau.

I stepped into a puddle, managing to drench my jeans, then cursed when I almost slipped on the slick asphalt. High above, I could hear the rolling of the thunder which promised one hell of a night.  When I spotted my car at the end of the lot, I pulled out the keys and quickened my pace, looking forward to the warmth from the heater.

In the cold, the uncomfortable twinge in my shoulder felt more pronounced, and I could already imagine the night ahead; a warm beer, aching shoulder and whatever crap I could find to watch on the TV. I shook my head. A month ago I was chasing criminals through the streets, now one stray bullet had me relegated to house cleaning and an early bedtime.

Cars drove past on their way out of the lot, and not far behind me I could still hear people’s voices, sounding excited in the shitty weather. A gust of wind ruffled my hair just as something slammed into me from behind, sending blinding pain erupting through my shoulder.

 I stumbled, and the voice of the offender sounded beside me, apologizing as he held my arm to steady me. I shouldn’t have felt it when the hand slipped into my pocket, not between the pain and general ‘excitement’ of the situation, but the thief’s hand trembled as he went in for the steal, and I spun, latching onto his arm before he could make his escape.

He exclaimed in surprise, fighting desperately against my grip and for a second I caught the glimpse of wide, frightened eyes, before I twisted his arm behind his back and shoved him to the ground. He cried out when his chest made impact, but I held him still before kneeling to look at him.

“Stealing from an FBI agent, kid? Not your best move.” I said.

On the ground, the boy trembled beneath me, and I realized for the first time, that he only wore a thin shirt. It was streaked with dirt, much like the rest of him.

“I’m gonna pull you up now, you make one stupid move and you won’t like what happens next, got it?”

The kid nodded as best he could with his face pressed against the asphalt, and after only a brief pause, I pulled him to his feet, holding his arm securely in a grip he couldn’t hope to break.

I spun him to face me, and I was greeted by a dirty, gaunt face slightly masked by long, curling black hair.

“What are you doing out here kid?  Where are your parents?”

He glared up at me, his eyes glinting. “I look like a kid to you? And I aint got none.”

I continued to stare at him, my eyes travelling from his head to his feet, taking in the shirt with a few missing buttons, the filthy ripped jeans and ratty sneakers. A street kid.

Just what I needed tonight, some starving kid, stealing from people.

“How old are you?”

“What’s it to you?”