Archive of Our Own

I. Aidos - duty; responsibility

Pulling a blazer on in the morning for the first time, rather than taping his knuckles and binding his fists, is bizarre.

Brendan stares at himself in the mirror. He looks white collar. Professional. Professorial. Like a teacher. Because he is a teacher.

Right?

Sharp, all-consuming moment of panic where he thinks: No, no. No he’s not, and he can't do this-- what the fuck is he doing, thinking he can do this? No matter the clothing, he’s just a dumb ass kid from Marshall-Shadeland, Pittsburgh, whose closest claim to teaching -- until now -- is showing another guy at the gym how to do a proper kneebar.

He's twenty eight. He has a Bachelor of Science in Education from Cal U Pittsburgh that he’s never used before, along with a teaching certificate so fresh he thinks the ink might smear if he touches it. He has a wife, two baby girls, and he doesn't know what the fuck he's doing.

And then Tess' arm winds around his waist, though it's a little difficult for her, given that she’s still got Rosie cradled in the crook of her other arm.

"You look good, babe," she murmurs into his shoulder, quietly so that she doesn’t startle Rosie into waking. Her comment sounds glib. But it’s not, because she’s moved her hand away from his waist to rest between his shoulderblades, rubbing his back in smooth circles. Brendan can feel his muscles relaxing involuntarily.

He huffs out a small self-deprecating laugh. “Yeah?” he says, turning a little to look at her. “Stuffy high school teacher look -- that’s what gets you going?”

“Maybe it’s just the thought of getting disciplined that’s got me hot for teacher,” she says, waggling her eyebrows ridiculously.

“If you wanted to get something started, coming to me smelling like sour milk and baby puke is working against that.”

She laughs, still quiet, and swats him with her free hand. It makes him grin stupidly wide to hear that laugh. He probably looks foolish, but he doesn’t care; he loves her with all that he is, and it delights him that he can make her laugh. Nerves temporarily quelled, he leans in to press a quick kiss to the side of her head, at her hairline, at the spot where her hair grows with that funny curl to it that she can never tame.

There’s a noise at their bedroom door.

Brendan turns to find Emily standing there, still in her pyjamas, hair sticking up at the back and to the sides of her face like fine webbing.

“Where’re you going, daddy?” she whispers. She’s still half-asleep, but she’d felt the need to crawl out of bed for some bizarre reason. He walks over to her, smiling.

“I’m going to work, sweetheart.”

Emily stares up at him, suddenly wide awake now, her face acutely distressed.

And Brendan stops smiling, as he remembers the last time she’d been standing in a doorway, asking him where he was going, and he’d replied that he was going to work.

Because the next time he’d seen her, he’d been laid out in a hospital bed, bandages swathing his ribs, and his face so bruised and swollen that Emily had cried because she hadn’t recognised him. That wasn’t her daddy, she’d said -- sobbed, really -- hiding her face in Tess’ neck, and the plain, uncomprehending fear in her voice was something he never wanted to hear again.

“Oh, sweetheart, no,” he says, heart seizing up even as he gentles his voice. “It’s not like that. It’s not like that at all. I’m going to be a teacher, remember? Like Ms. Petersen, at your pre-school. I’m teaching. I’m not--” he stops, voice caught around the lump in his throat. He picks her up instead, because he can’t not pick her up when she’s upset.

And his baby girl clings to him, arms tight around his neck. He presses a kiss to her cheek, his heart feeling somehow simultaneously heavy and light, because he’d never thought he could love someone so much -- or be so terrified at the thought of leaving them behind.

“I’m going to go to work,” he says finally, “but I’ll be back, probably at the same time you come back from pre-school. That’ll be good, right? It’ll be a bit of a change.” He waits until she nods against his shoulder. “And I’ll tell you all about my day, and I’ll definitely want to hear about yours. So you do lots of fun, interesting things today, so you can tell me about it when we’re both home. You’ll do that for daddy?”

She nods again and the arms around his neck relax a fraction. But she doesn’t raise her head, still doesn’t look up. She doesn’t believe him, not entirely.

All right. Okay. He’ll just have to show her that things won’t be like that again. Just-- he’ll take it day by day.

Brendan hugs Emily tighter; tucks her head under his chin and meets Tess’ suddenly solemn eyes. He’s half-nervous again, and a lot terrified, but determined all the same. Things are going to be different now. They’re not going to go backwards.

II. Phronesis - practical knowledge

Tap tap tap. Pause. Tap. Taptaptap tap tap. Pause. Tap tap tap--

Brendan reins in a sigh, although the tapping is dancing with amazing precision on his burgeoning headache. "Keep the rhythm for drumline practice, Chris, and put your pencil back to the paper."

A few smiles around the classroom; an unspoken 'ooh, you're in shit with Mr. C', along with the general amusement that comes whenever a teacher delivers a joke rather than an outright reprimand. But Chris doesn't smile and return to his work.

"This is stupid,” he says instead, with all the careless aggressiveness of a certain brand of troublemaker. “Why should we even care about this?" It’s not loud enough to start something, exactly, but it’s loud enough for his surrounding classmates to hear. And that's still starting something, when you really get down to it.

Regardless, Brendan keeps it light.

"Nouns are actually really great at facilitating conversation," he says dryly, quirking an eyebrow. "You want to tell me what you think is stupid, so I’ve got a better chance at explaining why you should care? Or should I just guess?"

"This... stuff," Chris says, gesturing at his textbook. "Why're we even learning about, like, angles of trajectory and stuff? It’s not like we’re actually going to use it after we graduate.”

The quick, lazy way of shutting this down would be to tell Chris that no one is, in fact, forcing him to take eleventh grade physics. However, Brendan’s never been keen on the lazy way. He thinks briefly of listing the number of college courses and occupations that rely on having a knowledge of physics then quickly dismisses that too. Chris isn’t dumb -- far from it -- but he has no interest (yet) in forming long term plans for his future. He’s only interested in knowledge if it can net him something in the immediate short term.

And if Brendan stays quiet any longer, he’s going to lose control of the class.

Coming to a quick decision, he claps his hands together; raises his voice above the low buzz of conversation. “Okay. I want you to pack your books up. Leave your bags here, but take any valuables with you. I’ll lock the door behind us when we go.”

He doesn’t explain further, waving their questions aside easily -- just grabs a pad of paper and a Sharpie marker, and waits at the door as they pack. He still doesn’t say anything as he leads them out of the classroom and down the halls, all the way to the school gymnasium.

Dyer, North Hills’ basketball coach is there, along with a ninth grade PE class, but he’s got them doing fitness test relays that only take up one end of the large hall. Brendan leaves his kids sitting on the bleachers and jogs over to him.

“Can I ask a favour?” he says, once he’s in range. Dyer raises an eyebrow at him, but simply says,

“Shoot.”

“I need to use the basketball hoops on the other end of the gym. And I’ll need some basketballs, of course. It’s just for a couple minutes. We’ll be out of here in fifteen minutes, tops.” When Dyer’s eyebrow inches higher, Brendan adds, “Ad hoc practical demonstration. For the benefit of one Mr Belfort, especially.”

And that gets a snort out of Dyer. “That kid,” he mutters, but he unslings his lanyard from around his neck, and hands the keys over to Brendan, equipment locker key pinched between thumb and forefinger.

Brendan grins in thanks and goes to the equipment locker and unlocks it, fetching two basketballs from its depths.

“All right,” he says, tucking one basketball under his arm so he can wave the kids over. They approach in a gaggle, and Mickey calls out on the way,

“Yo, what’re we doing here, Mr. C?”

“We,” Brendan says, “are going to have a practical demonstration on the application of stupid physics principles.” He grins and tosses a basketball at Chris, who’s standing slouched at the back. Chris catches it, bobbling the ball a little until he’s holding it securely. He doesn’t quite glower.

“This gonna be the part where you show me your awesome ball skills?” he sneers.

“Nope,” Brendan says cheerfully. “This is the part where you show me your awesome ball skills. Then we’ll see about mine.” He points at the free throw line. “Take your shot.”

Chris scowls openly this time but complies. He stands at the free throw line; aims, and shoots. The ball hits that awkward spot between the backboard and the ring before bouncing off, which gets a round of simultaneous clapping and jeering from the other kids, and Chris snorts. He goes to flip them the finger, but the gesture turns into an aborted jerking motion at Brendan’s look.

“Not bad,” Brendan says, his voice milquetoast mild when the kids have settled again. He has his basketball in hand, but he has Michelle toss him Chris’ just thrown ball as well; sets that on the ground beside him once he’s at the free throw line.

Brendan lines up his own shot carefully, aiming two inches down from the top of the backboard. He throws the basketball, releasing it in one smooth motion, ensuring he puts a bit of backspin on it as he lets go.

The ball hits the top of the ring, spins for a moment--

--and drops neatly in.

There’s an explosion of cheering and clapping from the kids, but Brendan just stoops to pick up the second ball. Coils himself in a little, aims for the same spot; uncoils and throws at the apex of his jump this time.

Another successful shot -- a swish shot even -- and there’s disbelieving laughter amidst the cheers and applause now; Michelle calls out, “Damn, and they say white men can’t jump!” as she tosses him both balls again. Brendan doesn’t bother to hide his grin as he gets both those through the hoops too.

“You’re a hustler,” Chris declares, eyes wide. Brendan can see the speculative gleam in his eyes.

“Not at all,” Brendan says, and he tosses the ball to Chris again. “Never hustled ball a day in my life--” he’d had other ways of making fast money, after all, “--that was just a little physics knowledge and some practice.” Well, that’s underplaying quite a bit. He’d had a lot of practice, something he’d done to keep himself moving whenever he wasn’t training with Paddy (and, later, Frank) or beating on men (or getting beat on by men) in the cage.

It was something physical he could do that didn’t have anything to do with fighting. Had far more to do with intellect and practice, and he’d wanted to try it ever since he’d read a paper about the physics of the perfect swish shot -- test the scientific rigour of the paper a little, although his sample size of one was hardly credible.

Still, the knowledge that he was more than just a fighter -- could do more by combining his physical ability with his theoretical knowledge -- had been heartening. A simple joy, even if it hadn’t given him anything beyond that.

“Can you--” Chris starts, then trails off. Doesn’t want to seem too eager.

“Can I teach you to throw like that? Maybe. Will I teach you how to hustle some guys on the courts at Denny Park? No. But what I will teach you is the physics behind it. What you decide to do with that knowledge, well,” Brendan shrugs, “that’s not up to me.”

He claps his hands together, calling their attention to him. Grabs the pad of paper and starts writing.

“Right, so, the physics of a hoop shot. That’s really the physics of projectile motion and trajectories. Trajectory is the path that an object -- a projectile -- follows...”

III. Dikaiosyne - justice

When the school bell rings, all the kids get up with a clatter and a scrape of chair on linoleum, sweeping books into bags, talking a mile a minute. Amidst the flurry of activity, though, Brendan picks out Jada -- looking sombre, distracted -- which is completely at odds with her usual focused self. She’s one of his best students, she’ll have a great future in astrophysics -- that’s what she wants to do, she’d told him, with a certainty that’s unusual for teenagers -- when she gets into college.

If she gets into college now. That’s what he wants to talk to her about.

He points at her and beckons her over. She approaches him warily as the classroom clears out. There’s no one in the halls, either, as everyone makes their way to the cafeteria for lunch. Brendan walks over to the door to check anyway, before walking back to his desk.

“Everything been okay for you, Jada?” he says, not looking straight at her, to give her time to gather her wits. He fusses with packing away his own notes and pens into his satchel.

“Yeah,” she says finally. “Everything’s cool, Mr. C. Why?”

Brendan looks up then, peering at her. She’s not looking at him, but over his shoulder, at the whiteboard. Nothing for it but to be blunt, he supposes. “I’ve noticed your work has been slipping a little, over the past two months. Your homework’s coming in late, or not at all. And your performance on your last two tests... well, it’s not your usual.”

Jada hunches her shoulders against the perceived criticism, her grip on her backpack strap tightening, and Brendan hurries to add:

“You’re not in trouble, Jada. I’m not saying all of this to make you feel bad. I just want to know if there’s anything going on, so I can see if we can work something out for you. Maybe arrange sup exams for you, or some extra credit work. You’re slipping, and that’s not like you. I’m worried, not annoyed.”

Jada’s expression has been mulish the entire time, until his last statement. She bites her lip then, suddenly hesitant and anxious. She glances at him, then away, then back again. Brendan doesn’t say anything else, just hopes his expression conveys how sincere he is in his concern.

And suddenly it’s like a floodgate opening, the way her words tumble out -- so quickly, it’s like they’re falling over one another. She’s all over the place, repeating herself and speaking in disjointed phrases, and Brendan can’t help but frown as he tries to keep a track of her speech.

“I don’t-- I don’t if I should. I don’t know if this is right, I can’t-- don’t-- I just don’t know what to else do. But you’re such a good listener, Mr. C, and everyone knows you’re one of the best teachers in school--” and Brendan feels a strong flare of pleased pride at that, because he loves these kids, he does; he puts in all of himself for them, and he’d do it whether they recognised his efforts or not. But it’s still a brilliant feeling to have that effort recognised. The pleased feeling dies, however, when Jada says,

“I thought-- I think maybe, it’d be okay then, if I-- tell you? Because there’s not-- I don’t know what to do now, my daddy’s-- he’s getting worse, and my brothers-- they're only in grade school but that don’t matter to him--”

She’s rubbing at her sleeves nervously -- long sleeves, even though it’s been warm this whole day -- and Brendan feels his body go cold, then hot with reflexive anger.

Jada’s still going, saying, “My brothers don’t want nobody to know. Hell, I don’t want nobody to know, but I don’t know what to do, Mr. C, our mama ain’t around half the time, and we try to keep out of his way, but--”

Blood in the carpet and broken crockery on the table, and his mother’s voice murmuring into his hair:

Don't worry about it, sweetheart. You shouldn’t-- you don't need to say anything. Your Pop-- your Pop and Ma, we just had a little argument, all right? It’s nothing, don't worry about it, just stay out of your Pop’s way for a bit--

Brendan breathes in sharply. Takes a deep breath. Then another. Breathes past the memory.

"It’s okay. It’s okay, Jada, I-- I get what you’re saying. And you're doing the right thing by telling me. And you’re-- incredibly brave for doing it," he says, as evenly as he can manage -- speaking past the part of him that wants to pull Jada's address from her student file, drive to her home, and beat the living fuck out of her father until the man can't move.

"I believe you," he adds, because isn't that always part of the problem? You don't say shit because you don't think anyone will believe you. Not when Ma won't say anything and Pop's everyone's favourite man in the neighbourhood, and it's your family, your family, you can't ruin your family by opening your mouth--

He can see that same thought process going on in Jada’s head, even before she actually starts backpedalling. "It's not-- I get that we deserve it sometimes--"

"No. No you don't," Brendan cuts in, and if his voice is a little too vehement, hopefully she'll take it as concern, not distress. "It is never, ever your fault," he says more quietly. "I want you to remember that. Whatever you may say to your father, whatever you do-- he never has the right to beat you or your brothers. Never. Do you understand?"

"It's not that easy--"

"It is. It is with this. It is never your fault. Tell me you hear me on this, Jada."

Jada's eyes are wide, wet with tears though she hasn’t shed them, and they look nothing like Tommy's eyes, not a bit, but the plea and the fear in them is exactly the same. Make it better, they say (just like Tommy's had back then) and I don't know what I'm going to do if you can't.

And Brendan had fucked up once, when he was sixteen and didn't know better -- couldn't have known better -- but he's twenty nine now and he's not going to fuck up again.

"Tell me you hear me," he says again, softly.

Jada swallows twice, before saying, "I hear you."

"Good. Okay,” he says, genuinely relieved. He leans forward a little, catches her wandering gaze and does his best to hold it. “So, we need to talk about what's going to happen now..."

IV. Kleos - renown

His students are startled -- and then delighted -- when he shows up again, a month after Sparta. They sit up suddenly, all exclaiming and talking at once, the minute they see him framed in the doorway. It makes Brendan pause mid-stride so he can grin at them, wide and pleased.

“Yo, Mr. C, you blow through all that prize money already?” Tito laughs, his voice loud above the rest of the students. “You pimp your ride out then go all high roller in Atlantic City?”

“My ride,” Brendan replies, “is still a 2003 Nissan Sentra. And no, I didn’t gamble my money away.” He’d used it to pay off his mortgage; set aside enough for the girls’ college funds; paid Frank enough that Frank no longer has payments due on his gym. Put some more aside for Tommy, another lot aside for Pilar Fernandez -- and still he has more money than he knows what to do with.

“Aww, shit no. You should at least buy a Lexus or a Lambo, sir.”

“Language,” Brendan says mildly, as he walks into the classroom proper. “And I didn't buy a Lexus or a Lambo because the car I've got works just fine.”

Disbelieving noise followed by, “Still, sir, what’re you doing here, man? We thought for sure you’d be, like, partying it up in Dubai or somethin'.”

Brendan quirks an eyebrow at Tito as he deliberates on how to answer. He’s a practical man, he wants to say, and he loves what he does. And he’s not going to give the kids the idea that, just because you’re loaded up with cash, the people who were in your life before then suddenly cease to matter. That's not the sort of thing he wants them to learn from him. But-- teenagers. Show them a bit of sentiment, and they’re all groaning and complaining, hiding their faces because you’re being embarrassing.

“I was sure you were all missing my face,” he says finally. “And I couldn’t leave you in that kind of agony. Plus, I’m sure you all missed my quizzes--” he holds up a stack of papers. They’re not actually quizzes -- it’s his first day back, he has no idea what they've been learning -- it’s just his notepad, but it succeeds in pulling a collective horrified sound from the kids.

Still, his sentiment seems to filter through because Tito shakes his head and says, “Damn -- you just like a Philly version of Jenny from the block, ain’t you, Mr. C?”

Brendan nods. “Don’t be fooled by the rocks that I got,” he says solemnly.

He thinks the slight dent to his dignity is worth the volume of hooting laughter he gets.