Safe

-36- Captain America

Holt Jacobs

I can't believe I'm going to do this.

Or well I'm going to try to that is.

My hands are shaking so hard I shove them in the pockets of the joggers I have on as I quietly make my way to his office.

This is a bad idea.

His voice echoes through my mind, screaming at me, reminding me that this isn't real, the basement is real. The basement is where I belong. Not in this house, with the name brand clothes I have on, and the clean floors, and the food in the fridge, and the Lincoln's who for some crazy reason haven't given up on me.

My chest tightens and I swear I can smell his cigar as I spin around, knowing I'm a strangled breath away from a panic attack. And even though the Lincoln's have seen what a mess I am, I still feel the need to hide it.

To keep face.

I make it to the stairs, my eyes searching for something to ground me, to remind myself of where I am when they land on a photograph that Mrs. Lincoln put on the wall beside a photo of her and Mr. Lincoln.

It's weird to see myself in a framed picture hanging perfectly straight on the wall. It's even weirder to see me smiling in it, or well almost smiling in it. I remember the moment vividly, it was after a game, the Lincoln's invited Coach Mo and Birdie out for dinner. We were sitting at a table and Birdie leaned over to tell me that her dad couldn't stand Thai food because it was too spicy and he'd definitely be complaining afterward. It was even funnier because he ate his whole dinner and there was no way it wasn't coming back to haunt him the next day.

I didn't realize that Mrs. Lincoln had even taken our picture until it appeared on the wall a few days after.

Either way he would never hang a picture of me on his wall let alone take one and that thought settles my mind enough that I'm able to push the panic aside.

Somehow I convince myself to continue on with the task that brought me down here, so with one last glance at my picture I turn back toward his office.

I try to focus on what Mrs. Lincoln has said. They way she talks about Mr. Lincoln. I trust her. Mostly. I think he's okay. He at least was kind to me at their family's thanksgiving dinner when I tried to run. And again later that night when I asked him not to do anything about Brody and Ian.

And these thoughts enable me to make it to the door where I suck in a breath and rap my knuckles against the wood. The door creaks on its hinges, not fully closed and I shudder.

This isn't the basement.

"Come in!" Mr. Lincoln calls.

But I can't seem to move from where I am. Fear overrides any sensible thing I've been trying to hang on to.

"Holt?" I jump back, slamming into the wall of the hallway, efficiently knocking the remaining air out of my lungs. "Hey, it's okay."

Mr. Lincoln watches me warily but I can't find enough air to say anything so I just shake my head back and forth because it's not okay. I'm not okay.

"Come here, sit down." He waves me into his office, a room I've never even seen yet.

He's waiting for me. A memory of him flashes through my mind so real I can feel my skin tingle from the impact of his hand hitting my face. But it's enough to remind me to listen, to remind me of what happens when I don't.

I scoot past Mr. Lincoln, head down, waiting for the click of the door to solidify that I'm stuck but it never comes.

"Have a seat son."

My eyes snap open just as fast as they had shut and I drop to the seat obediently. I'm expecting Mr. Lincoln to return to the opposite side of the desk, dominantly peering over the massive wood desk that separates us just to remind me that I'm nothing but he doesn't. Instead he perches himself in the windowsill, something that looks uncomfortable but I'm not complaining because he's far enough away that he can't touch me even if he stretches.

"Is everything okay?" He asks.

I nod my head, staring at the ground below his feet. He has a pair of backless grandpa slippers on with gym shorts and a Captain America shirt, it's so far from what he would ever wear. It makes me feel safer.

He's waiting for me to say something. I've made it this far. There's no way I'm okay right now but I haven't thrown myself into a full panic attack yet and I haven't gone running so maybe Mrs. Lincoln is right. Maybe I have made progress. Maybe I'm still a mess but a slightly smaller one than I was before.

"Y-you play.." I try to swallow down my fear but it doesn't help. "Basketball."

I mean to ask it but it comes out more like a statement.

Mr. Lincoln laughs quietly, I watch his head bob out of the corner of my eye. "Not like you but yeah. Played all through high school, wasn't good enough to play in college. But I've recently hit the gym again, been working on my game."

The air feels stuffy around me, my hearts slamming in my chest.

"Can we?" My words come out no louder than a whisper and all distorted from my looming fear.

Mr. Lincoln doesn't answer immediately and I'm scared stiff. I'm waiting for this to turn. For Mr. Lincoln to be just like him. My vision blurs from tears as my mind starts to convince me this was a mistake.

"I'd love that." Mr. Lincoln breathes the words out, filled with emotions. "I'd love that more than anything Holt."

His voice, the softness of the tone, reminds me of Mrs. Lincoln's and I risk a glance at him. He's smiling, eyes glassy as he nods his head.

"Whenever you're ready bud, I'm there. I promise."

                            ————————

Rhett's the best.

Also guys I've been writing so much. Our buffer hasn't increased a whole lot because while I tried to stay focused on this I may have started another long book and that little something I mentioned a few chapters back. Naughty I know.