Fragment.
One.

For as long as could remember, there had been no father in his life. Granted, given that he was only six (and a half, as he liked to remind his mother whenever she forgot), that wasn't very long at all.

Still, he didn't mind very much, given that his mum was everything that he needed. She was smart, kind, funny, pretty (he overheard some of his classmates' dads saying so, when they thought he wasn't listening) and most importantly of all, she always had time for him, no matter how tired she was from work. In his opinion, he didn't need a dad at all.

When he was four, a group of boys in the preschool he attended had come up to him, spouting some loud lines about how he had no dad. It wasn't that he cared very much about not having one, but somewhere in the haziness of his half-formed consciousness he understood the implication that his mum just wasn't good enough. So he flipped his over-long chestnut hair out of his blue eyes and socked the leader in the face.

Later that afternoon, his mum having taken him home early, he stood obediently in her bedroom, trying not to flinch as she swabbed his bloody lip. Having done that, she put the first aid kit away before turning to face him, hands on her hips. Flinching from her stern gaze, he looked sullenly at the linoleum tiles, preparing himself mentally for the severe admonishing he was sure to get.

The better part of a minute passed in silence, however, without the expected scolding, and he risked a timid peek up through his bangs. To find her looking at, no, past him, with a faraway look in her brown eyes. He recognised the vaguely hurt expression on her face, and he hated it. It was the look she sometimes carried, when she would catch sight of him playing around the apartment, her task suddenly forgotten.

Without saying a word, he crossed over the small space separating them and, standing on tiptoe, wrapped his arms around her waist. Shifting slightly, she cradled his head as she knelt, stroking it absent-mindedly.

'Oh Denzel, what are we going to do with you?' she breathed into his hair.

He felt his heart jolt then, and tightened his hold around her.

'I'm sorry,' he said, voice muffled through the thick fabric of her clothes.

They stood like that for a few minutes, mother and son, clinging to each other in the middle of the tiny space.

'Mama..?' he dared to venture.

'..Hm?' she mumbled non-committally, still continuing with the soothing action across his scalp.

'..Why don't I have a dad?'

He felt her stiffen then, pushing him away from her body so she could look him in the face.

The look in her eyes had returned, with immeasurably more pain and sadness, as she struggled for words.

'..I..I..' she stumbled, before taking a deep breath to compose herself.

'..Your dad is..in heaven, honey,' she managed, voice strained.

Somehow, he didn't believe her, but he understood, at that very moment, never to bring the matter up again.

Even four year olds can recognise a lie when faced with one.

She was exhausted today, he could tell as she made her way across the school playground to pick him up. It was the way her eyes looked in the evening sun, despite the bright smile she reserved for him as she took his hand. He held on silently to her, as much for her support as his, even when bouncing across the city in the rickety public bus. Days like this made him wish she didn't have to wait tables the entire day at the busiest restaurant in town just to make ends meet.

His stomach was rumbling by the time they reached the drab apartment block they called home, and after making sure the door was latched securely shut, he waited patiently on their moth-eaten couch, flicking through a worn storybook, as she disappeared into her room to wash up and get changed. She emerged moments later, looking much the worse for wear, and his eyes shot up in concern.

'Honey, mummy isn't feeling very well today, so shall we order take-out instead?'

He nodded his head in agreement, before offering a hopeful 'pizza?'.

They must have fallen asleep together on the couch, his small form surrounded by her familiar scent as he woke with a start to the sound of knocking on their flimsy door. Her long hair was draped over his face, and it tickled his nose when he breathed. Squirming slightly to free himself of her hold, he shook her shoulder to rouse her. She really was tired.

'Mum? The food's here.'

Opening a bleary eye in acknowledgement, she extricated herself from the unruly tangle of limbs and smoothed her hair over with one hand while fumbling for her purse with the other. Still lying in the pleasant, warm imprint of their bodies, he heard the rusty hinges creak open noisily before it slammed shut abruptly, the sudden sound reverberating around the small space.

Curious, he poked a tentative head over the back of the couch to see his mother sitting on the floor, braced against the door. She had a palm pressed up against an eye, and another clamped securely over her mouth, as if to keep the tears in.

At this point, he was at a total loss.

Never before had he seen his mum cry. Not when the mean landlord had threatened to evict them, or when the neighbours had been whispering unkind things behind them, muttering hurtful words.

The true meaning of those words had eluded him, not having registered themselves in his limited vocabulary, but he understood that they had been directed to wound.

He might be six (and a half) years old, but he wasn't stupid.

Through it all, she had stoically held her head up high, meeting barbed words with dignified silence, and always, always offering him a kind, reassuring smile after.

As if to say 'everything will be alright'.

Alarmed, he scrambled haphazardly over the sofa, an endeavour made difficult by his still undeveloped limbs, and half-ran, half-crawled to her side.

She was shaking.

'Mum?'

Swallowing back a sob while brushing off his clumsy and well-meaning attempt at a hug, she struggled to her feet as the knocking behind them continued unrelentingly.

'Denzel..go to bed,' she whispered, choking on her tears.

Shaking his head fiercely, he clung even more tightly to her leg.

He wouldn't let anyone hurt his mum.

She was the only family he had in this world.

'Denzel..please..' she begged.

With great reluctance, he relinquished his hold on her, and turned for a final time as he trudged back to his room.

His mother forced out a smile, just for him, always for him, as if to say..

Everything will be alright.

A/N: Feels good to be writing again, after a break enforced by exams. Last time I uploaded something was 'Detention' and the idea for this just popped suddenly into my head (as most good ideas pop into anyone's head). This is the first part of a short story (I'm already halfway done with the second, but I think it's going to need some revision because I'm trying to do each part sticking strictly to a character's perspective) of which I'm planning three.

This chapter is mostly supposed to explore the relationship between Denzel (it's convenient that Square didn't assign him a last name, so I don't have to do any explaining) and his mother (no prizes for guessing who it is), provide some background information about their lives, and doing some basic characterisation. I hope I managed to portray the same idea (as in Advent Children) that Denzel is wise beyond his years and pretty damn intelligent for a kid. Also, he's supposed to be as protective of his mum as his mum is of him, so kudos to the people who caught that. Sprinkled some clues throughout as to who the dad is, but it's fairly obvious so again, no prizes for guessing right. Just bear with me while I indulge myself in my hobby of being mysterious.

Longish explanatory note aside, 'Broken' hasn't been discontinued. It's just that I've gotten really annoyed with myself about the next update (I must have rewritten it at least twenty times, I swear) so I'm really sorry about that (if anyone even reads that).

All that aside, comments? Reviews will be (extremely) welcome. Hell, I'm so desperate for feedback I'll even accept flaming.