Work Text:
Of Innocence and Empathy: The Impact of Innocence
by Frogg
Threading his way between the cars parked at the side of the road, Spencer leaned gingerly against the trunk of a rust-orange junker, scanning the afternoon crowd half-heartedly. The sounds and smells of a warm spring day assailed him: children's laughter, barking dogs, motors of every description, the steady rhythmic booming of a drum circle two blocks down; exhaust fumes, a profusion of flowers, cooking food from a dozen restaurants.
Filing it all away, he flipped open his satchel and carefully settled his purchase in his satchel, as much for the half-healed cuts on his back as for the ornament's fragility.
Without the weight of the bag holding it secure, the strap fell from his shoulder, landing limp at his elbow.
A horn blared off to Spencer's right; a woman screamed.
The entire satchel fell from numb fingers as Spencer's perception narrowed to the toddler in the street, the semi-trailer bearing down on him, its tires leaving thick black marks on the pavement, and the too-short distance between them.
He was moving before he gave it conscious thought, pain in his back and arm forgotten, running full-out towards the child and the truck.
There was no time to get out of the way.
Time slowed.
People screamed.
Thumb firmly in his mouth, the toddler turned wide, brown eyes to Spencer.
The horn blared again, too loud, too close.
Spencer sent up a quick prayer and hoped the driver would not -- would not -- swerve.
He would only have one chance.
Then he was diving, one arm knocking the child to the ground, other hand cradling the boy's head from the pavement.
"Lie very flat," he said as firmly as he could, panting for breath. "Lie very still."
A wall of heat rolled over them; Spencer felt the back of his shirt hit the bottom of the engine as it came to a shuddering halt just above them.
"Hold very still." Spencer caught the boy's gaze, held it, tried to put calm and reassurance in his own.
Above them, a door slammed. Voices rose in a confused babble. A woman -- the boy's mother, probably -- cried out for Charlie, begging him to answer.
"Stay quiet, stay still, I have you, it'll be okay, I promise." Spencer kept talking, kept Charlie's focus until the pain and fright faded somewhat.
"Sir? Sir!" The truck driver behind him, peering under the cab, frantic.
"We're okay." Spencer raised his voice to be heard over the engine. "Shaken up some, but we're ok. Could you--could you pull the truck forward about fifteen feet? We can crawl out from under the trailer. Straight forward."
"Yes, sir, right away!" He was gone, the gawking bystanders backing away from the truck a moment later as it shifted into gear.
Spencer bit his lip at the sharp burn of the engine as it came too close to his back. Then the truck was moving again, rolling slowly, almost too slowly, forward.
Cool air wafted over his back, but he waited, pinning Charlie to the ground with his injured arm until the truck came to another halt. "You okay?"
Charlie nodded, then pulled a soggy thumb out of his mouth. "I want my mommy." His eyes glistened with unshed tears.
"It's okay. You've got enough room to crawl out now. Go on," Spencer coaxed, hearing the bystanders surge back to the truck's perimeter, the cab door slam again.
"Thank you," Charlie said, clumsily rolling over to all fours, shakily getting to his feet.
Half-heartedly listening to the applause and cries of delight from the crowd and Charlie's mother, Spencer took a closer look at the boy, taking in the torn pants, skinned elbow and hand.
Allowing himself a moment to gather his wits, Spencer shut his eyes and sighed, then pushed off the ground with his good arm, pulling his knees beneath him.
Hands reached out, taking gentle hold of his arms, supporting him as stood.
Adrenaline wearing off, Spencer dazedly looked around at the crowd, seeing people with cell phones taking pictures. Others were clapping, broad smiles and tears on their faces; a beat cop pushing his way through the crowd; the truck driver, apologizing for the near-miss, tentatively offering a bottle of water; an ambulance pulling up to the curb down the block; Charlie, clinging to his mother's leg, peeking around the truck's cab.
A stranger held out his satchel, draping the strap over his arm as he reached out for it.
"Sir?"
Spencer turned towards the voice.
"Sir, you're bleeding."
"Oh my god." A woman's voice, then, not Charlie's mother.
Others spoke up then, adding to the cacophony.
Dimly, Spencer realized he must have torn his back open again. Or something.
Then pain crashed into him and swept him away.
~~~the end~~~