Work Text:
It was his second week out of juvie, and he rolled into his new foster home at three in the morning. His foster mother of the month looked up from the kitchen table and grinned at him, her mouth oozing red from the box wine she was demolishing.
“It’s late! What trouble you been getting up to lately, my little delinquent?” That’s what she called them all, probably because she had trouble remembering their names. He shrugged.
“Nothing.”
She gave a hiccuping giggle. “That’s bullshit if I ever heard it.” She pulled out the chair next to her. “Sit for a minute, hmm?” He shifted, but didn’t come any closer. “Alright, boy. You don’t have to sit. But keep your ears open. You come in here with those wolf eyes, smelling like a girl broke a bottle of perfume over your head--I’m telling you this, and you’re not gonna listen, I know, because none of you ever do--but you’ll remember it someday, and you’ll know your old mama Didi was right. You’re not going to find what you’re looking for if you stay here all your life, in this little neighborhood, with these same people, stealing cars and chasing girls. And if you don’t pull your act together soon, you’re never gonna get out of it. You think about that, little delinquent, hmm?”
And it wasn't anything he hadn't heard before, it wasn't anything that social workers and police officers hadn't said to him a million times, but somehow it sounded more real from Didi with her lined face, the smoker's wrinkles around her mouth and the tiredness in her eyes. Travis didn’t reply, but he went and sat outside on the stoop until dawn, and looked hard at himself and the world around him.