Chapter Text
It was the speed. The rush of air slicing past his face, trying to strip him down to bone. The way his heart kicked against his ribs when he picked up speed, the way instinct took over. The asphalt rattling through the board, up his legs, into his chest. The constant need to move, to push, to sway, to keep going, to keep shifting, because stopping meant falling, meant thinking, and thinking was a trap.
It was his stomach dropping as he bombed a hill, the sound of four small wheels rolling, rolling, rolling—until they weren’t, until the jolt hit and the world sharpened back into focus. It wasn’t just something he was good at. Wasn’t just a way to get around. It was control and impulse tangled together. It was luck, risk, skill, and thrill. A game where the stakes were skin, bone, and gravity. It was a high like no other.
It was him, the streets, his board, and his music. Nothing else. Thinking wasn't needed, not anymore, not after so many years on the board. Instinct was enough. And there was a wild freedom in that. A freedom he seeked like oxygen or water.
His building came into view, but he didn’t slow down. Pushed harder instead, legs burning, speed rising. He should stop, should head in. He knew that. It was past curfew, and his aunt and uncle had started riding his ass more lately. More than they had in the last six years combined. No surprise there. His little run-in with the NYPD ten months ago—back when he was still a minor—had put CPS on their doorstep. The social worker had feared Hunter was neglected and that his cousins might be too.
They weren’t. Those were his aunt and uncle’s real kids. The ones they’d actually wanted. The ones they gave a shit about. He was something else. Not hated, not abused—just an obligation. A problem dumped on them by a sister who could barely take care of herself, let alone a kid. His mom had driven him over one day, handed him off like an old jacket, and never looked back.
They weren't bad, his aunt and uncle. They were decent. Did what they were supposed to. Made sure he had food, clothes, a bed, even the basics for his hobbies . But that’s where it stopped. They never really tried beyond that, never reached past the surface. He was always a guest, not exactly family. Maybe they were too busy. Maybe three kids of their own were already too much. Maybe they just didn’t care enough to try.
Hunter didn’t blame them. He just didn’t care, either. He matched their effort—bare minimum. Pulled his weight. Cooked when necessary, watched his younger cousins when asked, handled his own shit. He let his grades hover at “good enough.” School was like everything else—he understood it in theory, but in practice, it felt like trying to give a damn about a language he’d never learned. He still did his best, kept his head down, stayed off the radar—till recently.
At school, at home, everywhere… He was there, but he wasn’t. Not really. He existed, but he didn’t matter. Not really. Story of his fucking life. It had been the same with his parents, back when they were around. His dad left first—walked out one morning for work and just never came back. Hunter was six. His mom had called his job late that afternoon, and they told her he’d quit months ago. His mom followed suit six years later, but at least she’d had the decency to say goodbye. And to drop one last life lesson on her way out the door.
"It’s not about you, Hunter. Stop being a damn baby about it. Not everything in this world revolves around you. Nobody is obligated to stay in your life forever if they don’t want to. And you’d better make your peace with that while it’s still early.Be good for your aunt and uncle. They’re kind enough to take care of you for a while. Make sure you don’t give them a reason to change their minds. I’ll call you soon and visit in a month or so."
She did call.
She never visited.
It had been six years.
Six years and her speech still echoed in his ears when things got too quiet. He’d heard a lot of bullshit in his life, but that one stuck. Stuck deep, like a shard of glass wedged under the skin.
His foot slammed against the pavement harder. His teeth clenched tighter. His pulse ticked up as the pedestrian light flashed red ahead. He kicked again, faster, closing his eyes as he shot across the street, horns blaring, brakes shrieking behind him. The noise, the speed, the thrill of a close-call—it all chased the image out of his head, his twelve-year-old reflection in the rearview mirror, eyes red-rimmed, puffy. Chest breaking apart. His mom hadn’t even bothered to step out of the car. His aunt had waited at the entrance, staring at the retreating vehicle with an expression Hunter still didn’t understand. Was she sad for him? For herself? Didn’t matter.
He cut down the back street. This time, as he neared the entrance, he snapped his back foot sideways, wheels shrieking as the board kicked into a power slide, stopping dead. He exhaled, chest tight, hands twitchy. The feeling never fully left—it just settled. He swung open the door, skateboard under his arm, stepping into the elevator like a free diver gulping his last breath before sinking under. He liked that line. Fishing his phone out, he quickly jotted down in his notes-app.
He hit the 8th-floor button. Maybe for the last time. Tomorrow, he was getting shipped off. Pay his own way through any college of his choice after doing his time in jail or his aunt and uncle paying his studies in RBU through the Probation Program. An exchange for his sentence. Those had been his options. Tough love, his aunt had called it. A new beginning, his uncle had said. They were both alumni. His aunt had even pointed out that maybe—just maybe—his mom would’ve turned out differently if she’d also gone there. Hunter had nodded. Muttered thanks. Played along.
In his head, he called it what it was—a non-choice. A dead end. He couldn’t afford college on his own especially not after two years in jail. RBU was the only place his aunt and uncle were willing to pay for after his legal adventures. The only place offering him an education in place of incarceration. The only place the high school consultant thought “fit his needs", all things considered.
All things considered.
All things except him.
He tried to focus on the positives. A degree. A chance to make something of himsel. Not living in a cell. Independence. Or some semblance of it. A chance to make something of himself. That was his first real lesson from his mom—you can’t count on anyone but yourself. Survival or living, whatever he wanted, he was the only one who could make it happen.
And he would.
Linkin Park blared in his headphones, rattling his skull. He unlocked the door and stepped in, shutting it behind him. Aunt Charlie and Uncle Ed were parked in the living room, wearing that same tired, well-meaning, guilty look they always had when they dealt with him. Their mouths moved, syllables formed. He didn’t bother listening. What was left to say?
He stared at them for a second—detached—then turned and walked to his room, shutting the door behind him. He leaned against it, head resting back against the wood, eyes sweeping across the room. His room. But not really. Not in any way that mattered. He didn’t belong here. Never had. His throat tightened—not because he’d miss it, but because he wouldn’t.
Board propped against the wall, headphones slipping down to hang around his neck, he moved to his bed, kicking off his shoes, folding in on himself. Knees up, head back, eyes tracing the ceiling trim like a map to nowhere. It felt like a cage, the walls closing in and the only thing louder than the music drifting to his ears was the part of him that wanted to bolt.
A knock. “Hunter?”
His jaw unclenched at the sound of her voice. “Come in, Nor.”
Nora slipped in, shutting the door again. She crossed the room and climbed onto the bed, pressing close. Her curls tickled his shoulder as she tucked her head against it. He felt the small hitch in her breath before she spoke.
“I don’t want you to leave.”
His lips tugged, but it wasn’t really a smile. “I’ll miss you too, Lil’ Riot.”
She huffed a breath that was almost a laugh. “Who’s gonna teach me to skate now?”
“Gus and Leah are solid.” His voice stayed low, the way it always did. Not loud enough to call attention, not quiet enough to be ignored, even enough to be easily forgotten. “They’ll cover for me.”
She didn’t answer right away. Then, “You won’t visit, will you?”
A question that wasn’t a question. Nora was sharp—too sharp. Saw too much, caught too much, never knew when to let shit lie. Always had. Even back when she was ten. He’d never forget the way she looked at him that first day, when his mom dumped him here like an old bag of clothes. No jealousy like six-year-old Shawn, no overexcited welcome like four-year-old Connor. Just quiet, steady presence. Like she saw him, all of him, and didn’t flinch. Didn’t expect him to be anything more or less than what he was. She was the first person he never had to fake it with. The first person he ever trusted. Less of a cousin, more of a sister.
His Lil’ Riot.
Fuck, he’d miss her.
“No, I won’t.” He exhaled through his nose. “But we'll be texting a lot. Video-calling, the works. And in two years, maybe you’ll join me at that glorified military school your parents like to call a college."
She snorted. “It’s not that bad. They had their fun.”
“Doesn’t matter.” His voice flattened, a dull edge. “Not like I had a choice.”
Nora shifted, then tilted her head up at him. “What if I convince Mom and Dad to visit you?”
He let out a quiet laugh, humorless. “Not happening, Nor. They’re relieved I’m out of their hair, and I don’t blame them. They’re doing enough, putting me through college. But driving you six hours up North to visit me? Not likely. I'm the bad influence, remember?"
“That’s bullshit. You’re the best influence, I don’t care what they think. I'll miss you so much, Hunt.” Her voice cracked on the last word.
The knot in his throat pulled tight. He swallowed hard, then pulled her in, arms wrapping around her small frame. Kissed the top of her head, breathing in the familiar scent of coconut shampoo.
“Me too, Curls. You and the little shits.”
She sniffled. “Even Shawn ?”
He chuckled. “Even Shawn.”
The weight in his chest got heavier. If she stayed any longer, he’d lose the fight against the lump in his throat. So he cleared it, made his voice light, forced the moment to slip away. “I’m beat, Nor. Tomorrow’s gonna be long as hell.”
She sighed but nodded. “What time are you leaving?”
“Guy’s picking me up at nine.”
“Okay. I’ll save the waterworks for tomorrow then.” Her voice wobbled. “G’night.”
“Night, Nor.” He ruffled her hair as she scooted off the bed and slipped out the door.
He waited until he heard her footsteps disappear down the hall before letting himself sink down, flat on his back, yanking his headphones back over his ears. He stared at the ceiling, biting his lip hard enough to taste rust, blinking fast like that could stop the burn behind his eyes. The music swelled, drowning out the noise in his head, familiar lyrics scraping his mind raw. He exhaled, long and slow. Then shut his eyes and let the song take him under.
I know what it takes to move on
Oh, I know how it feels to lie
Oh, all I wanna do is trade this life for something new
Oh, holding on to what I haven't got
Sitting in an empty room
Trying to forget the past
This was never meant to last
I wish it wasn't so
Allan straightened his collar and smoothed down his RBU sweater, staring at his reflection in the elevator mirror. The lift slowed, and with a breath, he steadied himself. He didn’t expect nerves, but here they were. It wasn’t the first time he’d been an AP at RBU, but it was the first time he’d been assigned to a Probationer. And that was a whole different ball game.
It would be a challenge—more than anything else he’d faced so far. But it was exactly what he needed. Exactly what he’d been working toward: Psychodisciplinary healing dynamics. His focus for this coming year, his Master’s after that. Hunter was the perfect case to solidify his experience.
He grimaced at the sound of his own thoughts. It didn’t feel right, framing the kid as just a stepping stone. But he couldn’t lie—he was genuinely excited. Everything about this felt perfectly timed. His mentor, Professor Howls, had warned him that it wouldn’t be like the rest of his work, but Allan didn’t flinch. He was sure of himself. He’d excel here just like he had in everything else. It was what he was built for. He had the skills, the instincts, and the drive. He could do this.
A confident smile crept onto his lips as the elevator doors slid open. He stepped into the hallway, his stride steady. The fourth door on his right. He double-checked the name, rung the bell, and waited. Let’s go!
The door swung open to reveal a scowling teenager—wild curls tumbling around her face, arms crossed tight, and a piercing blue stare that told Allan she was not a fan. Allan realized this should be Nora. The cousin Hunter had listed as the family member he was closest to. By the looks of it, it tracked.
He held his easy smile, giving her a few seconds. When it became clear she had no intention of greeting him—or doing anything beyond burning holes into his skull with that glare—he extended a hand.
“Good morning. I’m Allan Lewis from RBU. I’m here to pick up Hunter.”
“Oh, I know who you are,” the girl muttered, voice dripping with attitude.
Allan’s eyebrows lifted before he could stop them, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from firing back. Luckily, a sharp, “Nora! You will welcome Mr. Lewis inside right this minute, young lady!” made the girl move.
Nora inhaled deeply, never breaking eye contact, then plastered on a smile so forced it was almost impressive. “Come on in, Mr. Lewis.” Her voice was all sugar and venom, and as she stepped aside, she added a dramatic flourish of her hand and a theatrical bow.
Allan chuckled under his breath. “Thank you, Nora,” he said pleasantly, stepping inside just as a woman—who he assumed was Hunter’s aunt—rushed toward them, looking equal parts exasperated and apologetic.
“Welcome, Mr. Lewis.”
Allan took the offered hand, giving it a firm, polite shake. “Mrs. Smith.”
“Please, just Charlie,” she said with an awkward chuckle.
Behind her, Nora rolled her eyes so hard Allan was mildly concerned she’d strain something. Then she hit him with another murderous glare.
“Then please call me Allan,” he said smoothly, pretending not to notice.
Charlie smiled, but her gaze drifted down the hall, her posture tightening. “Nora, lead Allan to the living room. I’ll go get Hunter.”
“That’s okay, Mom, I can get Hunter,” Nora piped up, a smile snapping into place so fast it gave Allan whiplash.
“No, thank you,” Charlie replied, tone firm enough that Nora chose not to push it.
With an exaggerated sigh, she spun on her heel and jerked her head toward the opposite direction. “Over here, Allan.”
Allan followed, resisting the urge to smirk. If Hunter was anything like his cousin, he had his work cut out for him. And if he had to guess, Allan would bet Hunter would robably be worse . He was a Probationer after all. The file didn’t exactly paint a picture of a cooperative, eager-to-adjust new student. Not that Allan minded. He’d handled his fair share of unruly college students before. Nothing he couldn’t work with.
In the living room, sprawled across the couch and an armchair, were two boys—Nora’s younger brothers he imagined, whose names he couldn't remember. The older one, was lanky with glasses. In that awkward age that he was getting too tall too fast, and looked at Allan with a hint of suspicion. The younger, more relaxed, barely spared him a glance, eyes glued on the TV.
“Hey, guys. I’m Allan.”
“Shawn,” the older teen said, louder than necessary.
“Connor,” the younger muttered, voice pitching slightly.
“Connor, move your ass so Allan can sit,” Nora instructed without much zest.
“You’re not the boss of me.”
“I’m not the boss of anyone, runt. Mom is, though, and she’ll have opinions if our guy Allan here is still standing while your smelly feet take up half the couch.”
When Connor simply stuck his tongue out at her, she smacked his legs down, to which Connor flipped her off. Well, for Alumnis, the Smiths sure didn’t run a tight ship, Allan mused.
Connor huffed but sat up, properly, making room. Allan shot him a grin as he dropped onto the couch, stretching his legs out comfortably. His eyes flicked to the flat-screen, and his grin widened.
“Oh, hey, Young Justice. Love this show.”
Nora snorted. “Of course you do.”
Allan turned to her, raising an eyebrow. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
Nora just smirked. Damn, this kid had spunk. He didn’t envy her teachers. Or her parents, for that matter. “Anything to drink, Allan?” She asked him instead of answering.
“Coffee would be great, thanks.”
Connor’s assessing gaze stayed locked on him. “Who’s your favorite?”
“Season one? Gotta go with Aqualad. Natural leader, solid head on his shoulders. What about you?”
“Robin,” Connor said without hesitation. “Because he becomes the greatest leader of them all.”
Allan chuckled. “You got me there.”
A sharp voice drifted from the hallway, piercing through the sound of the TV. Allan didn’t turn his head, but he listened, trying to filter words through the background noise. He couldn’t make out specifics, just the cadence—a heated exchange. But...one-sided? He would have expected two angry voices, but it was only Mrs. Smith's he was catching. Aggravated and urgent.
Nora reappeared beside him, pressing a warm mug into his hands. He accepted it with a distracted thanks, his mind still half on the conversation down the hall. He brought the cup to his lips, only to nearly wince as the bitterness that attacked his taste buds.
Suppressing a cough, he cleared his throat. “Ah—sorry, Nora, mind if I get a little sugar? Just one.” He offered her an easy smile, shaking off the lingering grimace.
Nora pursed her lips but took the mug back. When she returned, he tried again—only to feel the distinct, grainy weight of far too much sugar against his tongue. He coughed for real this time.
Across from him, Nora leaned back in her seat, a picture of perfect innocence. “Enjoy, Allan.”
Before he could quip back, Mrs. Smith entered the room, smoothing down her blouse in a way that looked more like a fidget than an actual adjustment. “Hunter will join us in a few minutes,” she said. “His alarm didn’t ring, apparently, so he’s still getting ready.”
Allan nodded, unfazed. He had expected some resistance, and a late start wasn’t the worst form it could take. Especially considering he was actually the one picking up the kid and driving him to college. Standard practice with flight-risk Probationers, and, apparently, Hunter was one of those.
“That’s completely fine,” he said pleasantly. “Actually, I’d love to have a quick chat with you and Mr. Smith before he joins us.”
Just me, I’m afraid. My husband’s working.”
“On a Saturday morning?” Allan lifted a brow, not accusatory but curious.
“Yes,” she said, a little too fast. “He runs his own company. No weekends, no time off, you know how it goes.”
From his armchair, Shawn muttered, “We sure do.”
Allan clocked the shift immediately. A slight tightening in Mrs. Smith’s jaw. Shawn’s deliberate lack of eye contact. Connor's leg suddenly jiggling. Nora’s huff.
Allan kept his posture open, careful to project ease. “I appreciate you taking the time, Charlie. I know this has probably been… a lot.”
Charlie’s whole body shifted—her arms crossed, her shoulders tightened, fingers started tapping against her bicep. Defensive and irritated, but mostly, exhausted. She let out a tired laugh. “You could say that.” She shifted her weight, like she wanted to sit but couldn’t quite allow herself to relax.
“I’ve read Hunter’s file, but I’d like to hear about him from you. What’s he like? Outside of what’s on paper.”
Mrs. Smith exhaled hard through her nose. “What’s he like?” she repeated, like it was a trick question. Her gaze flicked toward the hallway before settling on Allan. “He keeps to himself. Always has. He’s… self-sufficient. Does his part around the house. Doesn’t ask for anything.”
Allan noted the way her fingers clenched against her sleeve. That sounded like a compliment on the surface, but the guilt in her posture said otherwise.
“That must’ve been a relief, with how busy things are,” Allan said carefully. “The work, four kids to raise.”
“Yes. No.” She shook her head. “It’s not— Look, I know he thinks we don’t care. That we just let him fend for himself, and maybe in some ways, we did. But we never wanted to.” Her jaw tightened. “We just didn’t know what to be to him. He never really let us in.”
“Between the ripe age of twelve to eighteen?” Nora asked through gritted teeth and that alone told Allan that she and Hunter were at least close.
Mrs. Smith's eyes narrowed at the girl. “If you can't be civil, go to your room and stay there,” she snapped. “I swear to God, Nora!”
Allan cleared his throat. “You mean he kept his distance?”
Mrs. Smith nodded. “From the start. Even when he was a kid, before—” She stopped herself, lips pressing together.
“Before his mom left?”
Something flashed across her face. Not just anger—hurt. “Yes,” she said after a pause, voice quieter now. “Even before that.” She hesitated, then sighed. “My sister—Hunter’s mom—she could be… a lot. And she—” Mrs. Smith shook her head again. “I shouldn’t be saying this.”
Allan didn’t push, just stayed quiet, letting the space be there if she wanted to fill it.
She did.
“She was selfish,” she said bluntly. “Not just for leaving, but before that too. Always making everything about herself. Her problems. Her drama. And Hunter… he was always trying to keep up. To keep her together. To not be a bother. A twelve-year-old acting like an adult because his mother wouldn’t. Then she left, and suddenly, we were supposed to be the parents he never really had, twelve years too late.” She rubbed a hand over her face. “I know I wasn’t enough. I know we weren’t. But I swear, it wasn’t because we didn’t care.”
Allan let that sink in. That was an entirely different angle than what he’d gotten from Hunter’s file. The kid thought they never gave a damn, and here was his aunt, struggling with the weight of knowing she hadn’t been what he needed.
Before he could decide how to approach that, a door creaked open down the hall, followed by quiet footsteps.
Then—Hunter.
Shoulders slouched, head up but eyes down, expression blank—not the easy kind, but the forced one. A mask, locked in place. He barely spared his aunt a glance before his gaze landed on Allan—steady, unreadable, sizing him up. The oversized duffel bag slipped from his grip, hitting the floor with a dull thud. In his other hand, a skateboard hung low by his hip
Allan stood, smiling warmly and offering a hand. “Hunter. I'm Allan. Nice to finally meet you.”
Hunter’s gaze lowered slowly from Allan's eyes to his hand and back up to his face. Then he shoved his free hand in his oversized hoodie’s pocket, never breaking eye contact with Allan. Silent.
Alright. So that’s how it was gonna be.
Allan kept his smile. “Cool, cool. Solid start.”
Nora snorted in the background and Mrs Smith pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Alright. I'm gonna let you say your goodbyes and then Hunter and I should get going. We got quite the ride ahead of us.”
Now it was Hunter that snorted, but it was humorless. Resigned. Allan almost wished it had been challenging instead.
Allan lingered by the door, keeping his presence unobtrusive. This wasn’t his moment—this was Hunter’s. But he observed discreetly, taking in the details and interactions.
Surprisingly, Mrs. Smith was the first to step forward. She hugged Hunter. A real, loving embrace. Her face was tense and she lingered a bit too long, maybe hoping it would be returned.
It wasn’t.
Hunter stood stiff, one hand around his skateboard, the other still in his pocket. Allan could only see his profile from where he stood, but the kid's expression was distant.
Mrs. Smith's voice came out trembling slightly. “I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but I promise you, Hunter—”
“Thanks for everything, Aunt Charlie,” he cut her off, tone flat. Clipped. Not biting, not sarcastic. Just… done. A wall so thick that whatever she’d been about to say had no chance of getting through. Mrs. Smith pulled back, with a nod and sad expression.
The boys went next—Shawn and Connor. A quick, casual exchange. A fist bump, a pat on the back. Hunter smirked at something they said, a brief smile of amusement before it faded again.
Then came Nora.
She threw herself at him, arms tight around his ribs like she could hold him in place if she tried hard enough. And for the first time since Allan had had set eyes on him, Hunter reacted. His whole body responded to Nora’s embrace. He let his board slide down to the floor with a clutter and hugged her right back, as she sent her tears in his hoodie.
“I hate this,” she muttered, voice thick. “Fuck, Hunt, I’ll miss you.”
A slow exhale from Hunter. His chin dropped against the top of her head, his arms tightening around her protectively.
“I know, Curls.” His voice was still quiet, but there was feeling in there now. A sadness and softness that hadn’t been there with anyone else. “Hey, stop the waterworks. Not getting shipped off to war or anything.”
She pulled back just enough to glare up at him. “Might as well be. Two fucking years, Hunt?”
Allan’s brows lifted slightly. So he had no plans of coming back, then. Not even for a visit.
Hunter swallowed, forcing a smirk. “We’ll be talking all the time. And You’ll send me your skating videos in between.” He wiped a thumb over her cheek, brushing away a tear. “Keep being a Riot for me, yeah?”
Nora sniffled, but her lips twitched. “Yeah. Duh.” She pulled him into one last tight squeeze, and Allan could see the tension coil in Hunter’s shoulders.
Letting out a breath, Allan gathered himself. He’d witnessed many first-day-of-college goodbyes through his years in RBU. But it was different here. They weren’t on campus, there wasn’t any excitement. Just a nervous sadness and brokenness.
Allan finally stepped forward, clearing his throat. “Alright. We should probably hit the road before Nora makes me cry too.”
That earned him a teary glare from the girl, but Hunter nodded, stepping back from his cousin. He didn’t say anything, just simply grabbed his skateboard and his bag and turned on his heel, walking right past Allan and heading to the elevator.
Allan offered a last smile and wave to the Smiths, before rushing to catch up with his new charge.
“Can I help? Bag? Skateboard?” He offered, but Hunter simply shook his head, keeping his eyes trained on the elevator's doors.
Allan kept his expression pleasant, even as his stomach tightened with nerves.
Because, this just got real.