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summary: Ron’s never let anyone help. You’ve known about the bruises for a while, but this is the first time he lets you see them up close. The first time he talks about it. The first time he doesn’t pretend he’s fine.
warnings: mentions of abuse, injury descriptions, blood, wound kissing, hinting parental abuse, emotional distress, cursing, bad writing, long backstory
words: 1.2k
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Pete was already temperamental. Leaving bruises was rare, but yelling wasn't. Ron learned to be quiet and channel the anger. Sam cried. Jessie pretended. After the breakout, things became worse. Pete was angrier. Ron was cracking. Sam cried louder. Jessie smiled harder.
Every night, Ron would sneak out. It didn't matter to him where. Anywhere was better than being around his dad. He liked the comforting silence the night brung. Feeling the cold breeze tingle his wounds. He didn't tell anyone. He didn't plan on it. Until, he met her.
He had seen you before helping in medical center or helping unload after runs. Something about you left him curious. The way he'd see you and if he'd look away for a second he'd be gone. The way you seem to know exactly what to say or do in stressful situations. It always left him wondering and sometimes even wanting.
The first time you guys talked was at a welcoming party. You had stuck behind Carl the whole night, scanning the room as if walkers were going to break in at any moment and you HAD to be the one to jump in the action. When no one was looking, or at least when you thought no one was, you snuck out the front door. Ron followed.
He opened the door and saw you sitting on the porch stairs. He hesitated before slowly approaching. He cleared his throat, "Not much of a party person I'm assuming?" you rolled your eyes, not looking up. "No," You said dryly, "so go away." But he didn't. He sat next to you and talked to you for the rest of the party. Turns out you guys got along pretty well. You guys shared trauma, experiences with the outbreak, and a couple sarcastic jokes. You weren't as tough and mean as you looked.
As you're friendship grew, the more you'd find out about his home life. Often going up to his house with comics, only to leave because you heard thumps and crashes from inside. Seeing him wear long sleeves or hoodies when it's a million degrees outside. Then one day you wander into his room uninvited and find him shirtless with bruises all along his arms and stomach. He used the usual excuses, he fell down the stairs, got a little too rough when play-fighting Carl or Mikey, and the list goes on.
Until, one night he comes through your window scared, hurt, and sad.
You lay in your bed reading some book you found collecting dust in one of the basements. It was boring you to death. Until..
You wake up from your bored-like trance and sit up. You look around.
knock...knock..
You stand up and head to the window. What you can make up was a silhouette of a boy. Brown hair, bushy brows, a slouchy set of shoulders, Ron? You open the window, "Ron? What did you get a nightmare and wet the bed or something?" you tease with a slight smirk. He look's up at you. Your smile drops as you step aside and he slowly drops in. Blood was gushing out his nose and dribbling off his lip, he had a bruise on the side of his face, and you had a gut-feeling that wasn't all.
He limps toward your bed and sits down. You grab your chair and place it in front of him. "What happened...?" you ask softly. He hesitates, responses calculating in his head, but each answer seems odd to say aloud. "I-I'm sorry." he finally whimpers, keeping his head down, shoulders shaking slightly. "I’m sorry," he repeats, voice cracking. "I shouldn’t have come here. I just—" He swallows hard. "I didn’t know where else to go."
Your heart drops. "Ron… what happened?"
He shakes his head, wiping his nose with trembling hands. "He-he just lost it. He had too much to-" he lets out bitter laugh, "You know my mom- it's like she can't even accept or talk about it. She walks around with some stupid smile all the fucking time." His voice got slightly angry, words forced through his gritted teeth. "Then Sam-" he continues, "my mom just locks him in his closet all night, so all he knows is just to do what mom says or run away. Then my dad-" he paused and his head voice drops, sniffling and shaking. He shakes his head, "I hate him. I hate him so, so, much." Tears start to well his eyes.
You watch him silently, thinking of anything to say.
"I'm sorry," he repeats, "I didn't know where else to go." You hugged him. He fell into your shoulder and just cried. It felt like forever and your shirt was soaked with a mix of nose-blood and tears.
He finally calmed down a bit and lifted his head. "Can...can you help me?" he asks. You nod immediately and get a first aid kit from your desk drawer. You quickly clean off face.
"Is that all?" you ask hesitantly. He nods slowly then takes off his sweater, then his shirt. Bruises were traveled among his left arm, hand, and on the sides of his stomach. "Oh Ron..." you whisper sadly as you softly trail, your fingers among the bruises. Although he let out small winces at each touch, he let you continue. "It's nothing. It's just a scratch." he mutters. You grab his hand and run your thumb along his wounded knuckles.
You slowly lift his hand higher, brushing your thumb across his knuckles again. Without thinking too hard about it, you lean down and press a soft kiss against the bruised skin. Ron stiffens, startled, but doesn’t pull away.
Your lips linger for just a second before you whisper, “It's more than just a scratch.”
His breath catches, and he looks at you like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. You move carefully, kissing the inside of his wrist, then the bruise on his forearm. Each time, you’re gentle, as if the bruises might break under your touch.
When your eyes meet his, he’s trembling slightly, cheeks flushed, eyes glossy. It’s vulnerability, raw and unguarded, the kind of look he rarely lets anyone see. His chest rises and falls, fast and uneven. Then, almost without thinking, as if the words he can’t say are spilling out through his body instead, he leans forward.
Your lips meet his in a brief, hesitant kiss. It's soft, desperate, and trembling with everything he’s been holding in. You pull back slowly and meet his eyes once again. They have a sense of fear, he's asking for any sort of sign of reassurance. You grin softly and he follows. After, you quickly bandage his knuckles, then run some ointment on his bruises and cuts. Theres a silence during this, but not an awkward one. It's relieving. Calm. A break for Ron.
"Thank you." he whispers. You nod before getting up and tossing him a maroon knit crewneck and extra pjs.
"You're staying here tonight."
"B-but..my dad- when I'm not-"
"I'll wake you up before sunrise."
You give him a reassuring grin. He doesn't say anything and nods. You hand him the clothes, and he takes them with shaky hands. For the first time tonight, his shoulders drop, just a little.
“Thanks,” he says again, softer this time, like the word doesn’t even cover it.
You nod, sliding back into bed while he changes. When he finally crawls under the blanket beside you, there’s a beat of silence, only the sound of his breathing evening out. You let your eyes drift shut, but not before you feel him shift closer, just enough that your shoulders brush.
For once, he doesn’t seem afraid to fall asleep.
author's note: this was my first fic be nice pwease 🥹 i'm just a babeh. ok. sorry. but its probably not that accurate to real situations or anything and Ron might be out of character. apologies for anything triggering or misspells. also i lowk planned to do this like 2 months ago along with another fic with daniel matthews.
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