Missing Scene: How Nico di Angelo got his Aviator Jacket
Fuck, I hated the cold.
No matter how much I bundled up, the frigid wind forced open a gap to bite into what little warmth I managed to find, chilling me down to my bones. It was going to be a rough night, that much was obvious. Still, nothing for it but to get up and start moving. No sense in wasting daylight while I still had it.
I bundled myself in my layers of jackets and pants, my old Air Force uniform on the very bottom, and headed off.
I spent the sunlight hours the way I had for years now—digging through trash barrels for cans and bottles, and panhandling during the rush hours for a little extra dough. I’d had a little extra money since the holiday season, but that wouldn’t last forever. The generosity of strangers always waned when the seasons changed, and I hoped this would be the year I built enough of a nest egg to make it somewhere it was warm, year-round. My old bones creaked far too much in the snow.
As the light faded and day turned to night, I stopped by the local soup kitchen. Dozens of men and women, each bundled as heavily as they could be. I kept my eyes wary as I ate—I’d learned that lesson long ago. There was no honor among the refuse of society like us—after all, it wouldn’t keep you warm at night, or your belly full.
When I finished my meal, I left. There were never enough beds to go around, and even if there had been I didn’t much want to be preached at about a bunch of religious hooey or go through another drug screening just to lie down. Besides, I had my own spot to rest. It wasn’t much, just a back alley at the end of another back alley, but it kept out the wind nice enough. And really, what more could a man ask for?
I grabbed my barrel drum and arranged the little burnable fuel I had after dragging it over to my little bedroll. It was a risk, sleeping that close to a fire, but the clouds hung overhead, thick and grey—there’d be a storm tonight, and better that risk than freezing to death. I grabbed a match, set the barrel alight, and finally let myself relax with a smoke. I’d gotten the pack trading with some young kids—little knuckleheads that were going to get themselves killed one day if they didn’t shape up—but it was a cheaper vice than most, and lord knew I wasn’t going to live forever.
I let the smoke fill my lungs, my body finally relaxing enough for me to feel all the pains and sores on me before the nicotine high covered that right up.
It wasn’t warm, even with the fire, but it wasn’t too bad either. A bit of white fluff danced across my vision, and I realized I had spoken too soon. The snow fell, soft and unyielding. It would be hours for there to be enough to pile together for a makeshift igloo, and until that happened I’d have to do my best to survive.
I got up, and went out to grab whatever fuel I could manage to buy. Enough to make the fire last the night, if I was lucky, though my nest egg would be feeling it in the morning. Still, needs must. When I returned, I found a brat asleep in the corner, the waning firelight illuminating pale skin and chattering teeth.
Well, ain’t that just swell.
I dumped a bit of fuel into the guttering flame, watched and felt it roaring back to life, the cold fading away ever so slightly. With new light, I caught my eyes drifting over the boy in the corner. He wasn’t dressed for the weather, I noticed with a snort. An orange t-shirt and jeans, no wonder the kid’s teeth were chattering even in his sleep. Probably a runaway, or maybe just a dumb kid who didn’t know better than to not wander off from home and now didn’t know how to get back.
Either way, not my problem.
My problem, was the same as it was every cold, snowy night. Surviving until morning. To think, once upon a time, I’d enjoyed the snow. The way everything turned a beautiful, crisp white, and the whole world went quiet, if only for a moment. But, that was a time that had long since passed me by. Now, it was just another thing that might kill me, if I let it.
I set up a shelter, a little makeshift awning to keep the snow off of my bedroll. I counted my nest egg—counted it again just to be certain—and then stashed it back where it belonged—deep inside my Aviator Jacket. A bit small for me, now, from back when I’d started my service at just 16. I’d been such a skinny little thing, then, no damn meat on my bones. Still, it was the only sign I’d ever had that I’d done anything right.
Blood sucking leeches could take my health, my wealth, my honor, but they ain’t never getting my dignity.
Shame dignity wasn’t enough to keep an old man warm at night. Memories weren’t neither, but I kept letting my mind rummage through the past as I poured fuel into the flame. How long had it been, now, since the war? Well over six decades, I suspected. Which meant it had been a little over three since I caught my wife cheating on me.
I poured more fuel and wondered if that was where it all went wrong.
Should I have just let her carry on? Not confront the man, my own partner’s son of all things, and just quietly let it all be? Not attacked the man, when he’d threatened me to stay quiet? Well, it certainly hadn’t helped. She’d turned on me, called the pigs and told them I was violent, insane—that the war had made me that way.
The snow fell heavier, and I poured more fuel in the barrel to combat it.
They’d locked me up, and not a single friend of mine had taken me at my word. She’d gotten to them first, made them believe her. I’d noticed, at the time, that we were getting distant, but I’d thought it was just life. But it wasn’t life, just her. When I got out, with a court date set the following May, I’d already lost my job. My partner came and told me personally, a lawsuit in hand for the assault on his son.
I’d lost everything, then. My wife, my business, my reputation—all dust in the wind. They’d taken everything they could from me, but not a damn bit of it was worth keeping if it were so easily taken. I’d survived it all, and I would keep surviving—
The wind blew, strong enough to gut the flame.
In the silence, empty of the sparking flames, I heard the boy’s chattering teeth—deafening.
There was no point in trying to relight it. Even if I could, another gust like that would just kill it dead again. As the cold crept into my old bones, I knew—only one of us was making it outta this alley tonight.
I looked at the boy—really looked, for the very first time. He was small. Scrawny. Like he hadn’t had a good meal in too long. His features were delicate. Like a painting from back when I was a boy.
He looked young.
Young enough, to live a long, long time… if he survived.
I looked up at the sky.
Well, I guess I would go out knowing I’d done two things right. Damn sight better than most.
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When Nico di Angelo woke up the morning after the coldest day of the year, he found himself laying on a bedroll wrapped in layer after layer of old coats, a too large Aviator Jacket curled around his shoulders on the very bottom.
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This ficlet is part of my Myriad Blossoms of May anthology on AO3, it features 30 (31 by tomorrow) one shots of various pairings (or non pairings, as in this one); if you enjoy my Percico writing, please check it out!
https://archiveofourown.org/works/84058681/chapters/226933016#workskin
