I was always an outsider... and now you've let me know it
Warning(s): Language, physical abuse (adult against child), mentions of blood
Word Count: 1912
Character(s): Flynn Ryder, Amelia & John Ryder
Summary: One of the final interactions between Flynn, his mother, and his stepfather before he ran away from home.
Using the following prompts from @creativepromptsforwriting:
Prompt #443: “You’re always saying you want to hit me. Here’s your chance!”
Prompt #372: “Go on. I won’t stop you.”
Permission to reblog, @creativepromptfills.
Title credit to ajkanes
Flynn always dreaded his return home at the end of the school year, but the start of this holiday was especially hard. This time, he was getting back from his seventh and final year at Hogwarts. That meant that he would no longer be returning to the place he felt to be his true home, and instead, head into the adult world. No more learning and fun times messing around with his friends, just dull responsibilities and serious gatherings soon to be had. The thought made Flynn shiver, despite the early summer heat.
He shoved the front door of the Ryder Estate open with a shoulder, his foot nudging his trunk into the foyer ahead of him. As usual, Walter appeared almost immediately to take it for him. Flynn was still unsure of how to take the butler’s assistance even after living here for the majority of his life. He managed to awkwardly nod his appreciation as his things were whisked away and up the stairs to his room. Even so, he managed to feel a little bit better upon seeing Walter. If there was anything Flynn didn’t entirely hate about the lifestyle his mother had married into, it was the kind people that had been brought into his life as a result.
John Ryder, however, was not one of them. At least, Flynn felt that to be the case. His mother, Amelia, would forever argue (or deny, more likely) that her second husband was not as coldhearted and soulless as her son thought he was. To her, he was a “righteous” and “dedicated” Auror, always a man of “honor.” But her son knew that while she claimed to have married John because of his impressive resume, it was purely for financial reasons. Flynn and his mother had been extremely poor ever since he had been born, suffering even more so after Flynn’s father had died. Left alone with a very young child, she had become desperate, and capturing the heart of a suspiciously single, older, wealthy man had somehow been the answer to her prayers.
Flynn had been barely two when he and his mother had moved into the Ryder Estate. In the beginning, he spent all of his time with the hired nanny and his mother. John was scarcely around the small child, only offering a grunt or two of acknowledgment when he was forced to be present. Flynn wasn’t blind. While he may have appeared to have been a saint for taking him in, there was a reason John barely looked at him twice and hardly cared about anything his stepson did: he had never wanted children. That much had been evident from the start with his spotless and elaborate household, in addition to the lack of a previous marriage.
Then Flynn became a teenager, and John felt he was able to lower his parenteral barriers. And to John’s credit, he tried to start more conversations between them, but the discussions were awkward. He treated Flynn like an adult when they did engage. And while this could be considered flattering, it almost always made Flynn uncomfortable and irritated. In time, John began to constantly do nothing but talk about his rights as the man of the household, how important it was for him to make their Galleons, and his career of tracking down bad guys. He did his best to include Flynn in the conversation as the “next man in line,” blathering on about his future responsibilities as head of the estate and as an Auror. But in Flynn’s opinion, all of it was a bunch of bullshit. John’s job was nothing but violence and a ridiculous waste of one’s life. It was nothing he was interested in, dealing with endless paperwork and stalking potential criminals.
To his annoyance, the older he became, the more John seemed to work mostly at recruiting Flynn into his world. In the process, he never let the boy get a word in edgewise, which only frustrated Flynn further. Sometimes he managed to snap a smart remark here and there, which never usually boded well for him, but what else could he say? Flynn knew his stepfather didn’t care what he actually wanted to do with his life, and in the end he really just wanted John to leave him the fuck alone.
However, right now, Flynn didn’t like that he had been left to be on his own. No one had met him at the train station; a sight that had really saddened and bothered Flynn. Instead, they had just treated his last last day of school like it was any other day. The second person to greet Flynn home, after the fucking butler, was his mother. He was willing to embrace her, accepting her kiss well enough. But deep in his gut, he knew the conversation coming later that evening at dinner: what his next steps were and when would he be starting to work.
Therefore, Flynn made a choice to turn in early for the night. He did the same for nearly every evening afterward, to his mother’s dismay. Now back under the same roof as the man he despised, he wanted to keep his distance. When his mother did get Flynn to have a meal with them, he remained tightlipped throughout. As usual, John boasted constantly about his day. But when he noticed Flynn barely acknowledging him, something seemed to change quickly. His mood became soured even with his stepson’s silence. Oddly enough it was as if he wanted Flynn to fawn over and view him as some sort of superhero, which he had never done before. Each night this occurred, the tension building and building. As a result, John left the table one evening fuming, muttering something about needing to “slap some sense into that boy.”
At the fifth agitation-filled supper, John officially rounded on Flynn. “I think you’ve been stewing over there for long enough. Do you have something to say, son?” he asked shortly as he lifted his wineglass to his lips. Flynn had to bite back a laugh, dropping his eyes to his plate. He could feel his mother’s gaze on him, telepathically indicating that he needed to watch himself as she always did in these situations. “Do you think you’re funny?” John went on coldly. “Think you’re a man now, better than me?”
Flynn lowered his fork slowly. His hand was starting to shake, even though the corner of his lips was perking upward in some sort of eerily amused smirk. He wasn’t quite sure what was coming over him at that moment. He had been holding himself together for so long and so well, now wasn’t the time to snap. But at the same time, maybe he too was reaching his breaking point. Flynn cleared his throat before forcing himself to look back over at John. “No,” he answered. He kept his tone and features light, but his eyes glittered furiously.
“No, sir,” John spat firmly.
“No, sir.” Flynn could feel his mother’s eyes practically burning holes in the back of his neck, but he kept his gaze focused solely on his stepfather. “I don’t believe I’m funny.”
“Bloody hell you’re not,” John grumbled in agreement. He paused for a moment to cut into his pork. “And?” John asked as he placed a piece into his mouth. The sound of silverware on the plates filled the silence. Flynn still did not drop his eyes, watching him. The other glanced back, waiting for him to say more. “And?”
Flynn shrugged. “I have nothing more to say,” he replied. He inclined his head in an obviously mocking way. “Sir.”
It took John a moment to register what he was saying, but his rage in response was instantaneous. He surged to his feet, but he only towered over Flynn for a few seconds as his stepson quickly did the same. This was not the first time they had fought, but it was not often that things became physical. The pair were soon inches apart, glaring into one another’s faces. Amelia gasped from behind Flynn, and he could distantly hear her scolding him. But both men ignored her, focused only on their hatred. “You little bastard,” John growled, spittle gathering on the corners of his mouth. “I should have made your mother dump you off at the poorhouse where you belong, you ungrateful little shit.”
“Tell me how you really feel, John,” Flynn snarled back. “I know you’ve hated me ever since we met. You’ve never given two shits about me, especially since I’m not like you and I’ll never be like you! I’ll definitely be better than you.”
John roared, shoving Flynn away from him. Flynn stumbled backward and against his chair. He did not fall, using the dining room wall to support himself. Finally, Amelia stepped in, placing herself in between the pair of them to try and hold John back. The gesture did protect Flynn somewhat, but the fact that she wasn’t trying to actually shield him hurt him to the core. His anger became frigid and more calculated.
“Come on, John,” Flynn taunted. He took a few strides closer, forcing Amelia to work harder at holding the larger man at bay. “You’re always saying you want to hit me. Here’s your chance!”
“John,” his mother pleaded, practically dangling from her husband’s arm as he gently but aggressively moved her out of his way. “John, please -”
“Go on,” Flynn went on when John strode towards him once more. “I won’t stop you.” Unsurprisingly, his stepfather took a swing at him. Flynn was able to dodge the first hit, being much lighter and quicker, but the second lower blow at his abdomen made its mark. He doubled over, the wind knocked out of his lungs, allowing John to land a punch across his jaw. Flynn fell to the floor then, stars dancing before his eyes. He tried to get at his wand in his back pocket, but he was too dazed to find it in time. John yanked him up onto his feet by the collar, shoving him onto the table. Glasses and silverware and food went flying. Flynn could hear his mother screaming and footsteps as the butler and serving staff hurried to the scene.
Blood flowed, thick and warm, from his nose and he felt the tip of John’s wand pushing at the base of his throat. “Who’s the man now?” John snarled through gritted teeth. “Huh?!” He pressed the wood harder against Flynn’s windpipe. Several red sparks flew, singing the younger man’s skin. “Huh?!”
“John, stop!” At last, Amelia managed to pull her husband off of her son. She and John gazed at Flynn as he sat up from the carnage that had once been the dinner table, gravy and porcelain covering his form. Everyone wordlessly stared at him, the room only filled with the sounds of John’s labored breathing and falling shards of glass. “Flynn,” Amelia said as softly and calmly as if she was going to ask him to pass her the butter. “Go get cleaned up.”
Flynn stared at her. He didn’t even bother to wipe his face, forcing her to look at him with blood dripping down his chin and the bruise forming on his left cheek. But it didn’t seem to matter, however, as his mother had already turned away to dote on John. So he left the room, his heart aching just as much as his body.
