loficharm | rude awakening

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rude awakening

Martin wakes with a start and a quiet huff, not sure why. It's a little like waking up from a nightmare, only he doesn't remember what he'd been dreaming about at all — not even a sense of it. Instead, he's flooded by wakeful things: the feel of the sheets, crisp and wrong, like new, fresh sheets and not the ones with little stars on that he's had since he was practically a baby. The bed itself, much too big, the ceiling, the walls, the whole room, different, unfamiliar. Light coming in from the wrong window in the wrong place. And there's someone else here, with him, in the bed. A boy, his age, that he's never seen before.

All this happens very quickly, so quick that it isn't like he notices each of these little things independently, it's more like they flood him all at once, overwhelming and scary. The moment he realizes there's a boy beside him he sits bolt upright and flails back, kicking the sheets away with a little shriek.

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John has been told he's a heavy sleeper, and he knows he's a hard waker. His alarm clock is set on the far side of his little bedside table for that reason: he has to crawl halfway out of bed just to turn it off, and that wakes him enough that he's less likely to just roll over and doze off again.

But it's not the alarm that wakes him today. His bed is moving, the mattress dipping under someone else's weight, and John sucks in a breath and flinches, blearily indignant. The alarm hasn't even gone off, yet, and his grandmother's never roused him like this, and before he can even piece together what's happening, something collides with his hand and shrieks at him.

John eyes spring open, and his mouth soon follows. There's a boy in his bed! He scrambles back instinctively, far enough that he expects to topple off the mattress. But he doesn't, because the bed's enormous, even bigger than his grandmother's. It's not his bed and this isn't his room, and as he struggles to pull himself into a sit, he realizes this isn't even his shirt.

"What?" he squawks, fisting a hand in the fabric and tugging at it incredulously before looking back up at the other boy. "Who are you?" he demands, his voice scratchy and unsteady.

Martin yelps again when the boy wakes and startles right back at him, shrinking at once from the sharp question. He lifts his hands in an instinctive effort to hide himself and gets immediately distracted, realizing these aren't his pajamas, they're — they're someone else's. Some adult's.

He doesn't understand, and he feels like he might cry, but this strange boy's asking him questions like he's supposed to understand. He'll probably only get more annoyed if Martin starts to cry. He wishes he wasn't such a baby.

"I—" he stammers, clutching the unfamiliar comforter, trying to pretend it's own blanket. "I'm M—Martin. Who are you?" He tries to sound brave or demanding right back, but he can't do it; the question comes out in a stupid little squeak. "Wh-where am I? Where's my mum?"

The other boy — Martin — doesn't seem any less confused (or scared) than John is, and he turns away to survey the rest of the room, his lips pressed tight together so they won't wobble. Crying won't do any good. It never does. He needs to think.

His first thought is that maybe this is all a dream, but he recognizes that one as stupid. Wishful thinking. He's noticing things here that he never notices in dreams, like the someone-else's-house smell, and the uncomfortable looseness of the clothes he's wearing.

That might be the worst detail of all. If he didn't dress himself in this, who did?

John sniffs once, then grips the hem of the shirt and the waistband of the pants in one fist so he can sit up the rest of the way without getting tripped up on the extra fabric. "I don't know," he says, making an effort to lower his voice. "I think... I think we've been kidnapped." By some kind of pervert, he almost adds, but doesn't. Because what if whoever took them is still here?

"I'm John," he adds, almost as an afterthought, glancing back over at Martin. He's pretty sure he's never seen the other boy before, not at school or around the neighborhood. "Are you from Bournemouth, too?"

Kidnapped?! Martin barely manages to stop himself from crying out, only drawing a quick, shaky breath instead, but now he really can't stop the tears from welling up in his eyes. The other boy isn't looking at him anymore, at least, and maybe — maybe he'll know what to do.

Only then he does look back, and Martin quickly wipes at his eyes, determined to at least try not to look like a baby.

"Bournemouth?" he blurts. "N-no, I'm from London. Are we—"

John won't know anymore than he will if they're in Bournemouth or London or somewhere else entirely. Martin's breath hitches as he looks toward the window, though the idea of looking outside feels too scary to bear. If they've been kidnapped, then... they could be anywhere, and the kidnapper must be around somewhere.

Did the kidnapper put them in these clothes? Martin's breath shudders again and he just barely stops a little sob from sneaking out.

"I—I don't remember anyone," he says, trying to whisper, though his voice still cracks from the strain of trying not to burst into tears. "I don't remember..." He swallows thickly, scarcely daring to put his next question into words: "D-do you think we've been drugged or something?"

He's from London? He doesn't sound like it. But even London is still hours away by train, and John's stomach clenches like a fist. Are they both in London now, then? Or somewhere else entirely?

John swallows thickly when Martin asks if they've been drugged. It's getting harder to hold himself together. He's had plenty of practice, but usually against bullies: people who want to see you scared, which is why it's so important not to show them when you are. But Martin's not trying to scare him, and he sounds like he might start crying at any moment, and John really wishes he wouldn't.

"Maybe...?" he replies uncertainly. He doesn't feel like he's been drugged, but he doesn't know what being drugged is supposed to feel like. Sometimes medicine makes him tired, but he's wide awake now. Maybe whatever drugs they were given just wore off, and you feel normal once they have. "I don't remember anyone, either. It—it was just... normal."

John chews on his lower lip, his eyes fixed on the bedroom door. It's ajar, a little, and he wonders if it was left open so whoever took them could hear them when they woke up. Except he hasn't heard anyone moving around out there, yet, and it's not like they've been that quiet. Maybe the kidnapper's asleep in another room, though that seems stupid, too. Why go to all this trouble just to ignore them? Shouldn't they be... keeping watch, or something?

Moments after he thinks as much, the door starts to slowly push inward with an awful little creaking sound. John sucks in a breath, scrabbling back against the headboard.

Normal, Martin thinks, momentarily distracted from his own distress as he scrunches up in his face in an effort to piece his memory together. He feels okay, he thinks, but he doesn't quite remember what had happened just last night, which is a little funny. He supposes he remembers going to bed, but—

John gasps and Martin instantly follows his fixed stare to the door, his eyes widening in horror as it creaks open slowly, like in some movie his mum would be cross at him for watching. All he can think is it'll be either their kidnapper or a ghost, and Martin spasms back and grabs instinctively at John, unable to stop himself from that or from letting out a shrill, aborted scream.

John isn't expecting Martin to grab at him, and he's too on edge to do anything but twist away with a panicked grunt, as if it's an attack. If he thought about it, he'd realize Martin obviously didn't mean it that way, and he might even feel a bit bad for shaking him off. But his focus flies back to the door, which goes still, as if in response to the noise. Oh, god. The kidnapper is out there, and now he knows they're awake, and—

... And then a cat walks in. It rubs itself against the door frame, calm as anything, then looks up at them both with wide, green eyes and trills softly.

John glances between the cat and the doorway for a second or two, half-expecting someone else to follow. But no one does, and after a few seconds of staring up at them, the cat leaps lightly up onto the bedspread.

"I-it... it's a cat," John says stupidly. His heart is still racing, but he reaches out his free hand without a thought, his hand curled into a loose fist. "Just a cat." It even seems like a nice cat, which clashes awkwardly with what he'd expect from a mysterious, kidnapping pervert.

The cat's tail twitches, and then it picks its way across the bedspread to bump its forehead against John's hand. A heavy lump forms in John's throat, and he sniffles again, more annoyingly obvious this time, as he runs his hand over the cat's soft fur. It's so stupid — it's not like the cat is here to rescue them like some dumb movie — but he's still relieved it's just a cat. A nice one, even.

John shakes him off, more like he's been startled than anything, but Martin still shies away instantly as if he'd been shoved, sucking in deep, panicked breaths, until...

Until a cat emerges.

"Oh," Martin says, a bit breathless, in response to John's statement. Just a cat, he says. And it's come up on the bed to them. Martin doesn't have much experience with cats — he's not allowed any pets, and the only neighborhood animals he's had occasion to meet are dogs — but he likes them. He's relieved when John reaches out first, like maybe he knows what he's doing. The cat walks right up to him, and he starts to pet it, and then he sniffles a bit. Martin looks at him, only for a second before looking away. It makes him feel a bit better not to be the only one near tears, but he's also sure John wouldn't want him to notice. Most boys don't.

The cat starts to purr, catching his attention easily. Martin holds his breath for a moment, then reaches out tentatively. The cat immediately presses into his hand as well, moving closer to they can both pet it more easily, purring all the more.

"He's so soft," says Martin, quietly delighted, his terror momentarily forgotten. "Er... she?" He's not really sure how to tell.

It's hard to stay scared when there's a purring cat in front of you. Or maybe it's just that no one else follows the cat, like the three of them really might be the only ones here. It's not something John's willing to believe so easily, but he is feeling a little better, and he takes a few deep breaths as he continues running his fingers down the cat's spine.

Martin's uncertainty surprises him a little — not that he can't tell, but that he's talking like it matters — and John blinks, thrown. It's sort of nice, though, to be handed a question that doesn't scare him. "Er." He tips his head, peering at the cat's backside with a little frown. "It might be a female, or a neutered male. It's hard to tell them apart when they're like that." Maybe a veterinarian could tell the difference at a glance, but John can't; most of the cats he's seen belong to the neighbors, and his grandmother doesn't like them in the garden, so he rarely sees them for long.

"The orange ones are usually male, though," he adds, remembering that detail from one of the random books his grandmother had bought him. "And calicos are usually female. Something to do with the genes." This cat is grey and white, so that's no help. John shrugs, small and a bit sheepish.

"Oh," says Martin, perking up a little. He hadn't expected John to answer him — if he really thinks about it, he supposes he was just trying to be polite to the cat. But that's silly, and he'd much rather pretend along with John's assumption. Besides, now he's learnt something new. "That's cool," he hazards, not sure he's using that word right. But he thinks it's cool.

After a moment he says tentatively, "Wonder whose it is." He doesn't want to return to all the scary questions about where they are and how they got here, but he can't go on petting a cat forever. Much as he'd like to. He looks nervously toward the door as though expecting someone to follow, though he doesn't hear anything out there now. "Sh-should we go... have a look?" he says, dropping his voice to a whisper, a bit like he's suggesting they raid a cupboard for biscuits.

Edited 2020-10-10 21:04 (UTC)

John glances over at Martin when he says that it's 'cool,' but he doesn't think it's meant to be sarcastic. People don't always like to hear about what he's read, other children especially. More often than not, he's met with rolled eyes, or called a know-it-all. Maybe Martin's not like that.

John wishes he was a know-it-all, like a proper one. Then he might know how to get them both out of here.

He follows Martin's gaze back to the door, then nods, trying not to look scared. It's the only idea that makes sense. Otherwise, they'll just be stuck sat here until whoever took them shows up, and he hates that idea even more than he hates the idea of running into them in the hallway. At least maybe — maybe — if they manage to surprise the person, they might be able to make a run for it.

"We'll just... be very quiet," he says, giving the cat one last pat before slowly, reluctantly sliding over towards the edge of the bed. "M-maybe, if they aren't expecting it, we could just... kick them hard, in the groin, and then run." That seems like a decent plan. Unless it's a woman, but he doesn't think anyone would enjoy getting kicked hard in the groin.

It's hard not to regret his own suggestion when John agrees to it. It feels much too frightening when he actually thinks about it. But he can't back out now, not when John is getting off the bed and coming up with a plan. It's not a bad plan, Martin thinks. He's pretty sure he could kick someone pretty hard if he really needed to.

So he takes his hand from the cat and slides off the bed just as reluctantly, awkwardly clutching the much-too-big waistband of these silly pants up around him, both for security and to keep them from falling down and tripping him up. He just wishes he could find his own clothes. How can he kick someone and run dressed like this?

He inches toward the open door, staying as close to John as he dares without actually touching him. Part of him really wants to just grab onto him again, but he didn't seem to like that.

The room beyond still sounds quiet, but that's almost worse than hearing someone move around — what if they're keeping quiet on purpose, just lying in wait for them? Martin frowns tightly to stop his lip from trembling, though he doesn't dare speak, even to whisper; he just gives John a tiny nod to pretend he's ready.

The shirt John is wearing goes almost to his knees, and the pants almost drop right off until he grabs at the waistband and hoists them back up. He doesn't like it, not having both hands free, but even stupid, oversized clothes are better than nothing, so he bunches the fabric in his fist and edges towards the door.

Martin and he are both moving so slowly that it's the cat who ends up leaving, first. It jumps off the bed and trots out the door, and John freezes, holding his breath and listening hard. There's a distant meow, but no one responds to it; not by saying anything or moving about in a way John can hear. He glances back at Martin, who nods at him, and even though part of him wants to just get back into the bed and pull the sheets up over his head, John nods back.

And then he slowly, carefully peeks out the door.

There's a short, empty hallway leading to a larger space. On the left, there's a door to a loo, dark and also seemingly empty (unless someone is squished behind the open door, but they'd have to be pretty small to fit). John chews his lip, half-expecting someone to appear at the other end of the hall, but the only one who does is the cat, who stares back at them and chirps once before disappearing again.

Are they really the only ones here? It doesn't make sense. But it's so quiet.

John glances back at Martin again, then takes a deep breath and creeps out into the hall. The floorboards creak faintly beneath his feet, and he winces, going still. But nothing happens, and after a few tense beats, he takes another step, and another, until he's able to peek out into a living room and a kitchen: also, somehow, empty.

It doesn't make sense. Is their kidnapper hiding in a closet or something? Why would they do that? He's scared, but all at once he's angry, too: like it's not fair that whoever did this is trying so hard to be sneaky and weird on top of kidnapping them in the first place. The little hairs on the back of his neck prickle, like someone's watching, and John sucks in a breath before he can think better of it.

"We know you're here!" he blurts, his voice cracked and squeaky, almost a shout.

Martin holds his breath when John steps out, scarcely even able to hear the floorboards creaking over how loudly his heart is beating. He's almost frozen, but he forces himself to slip out after the other boy, refusing to let him do this alone. John keeps creeping forward, and Martin follows him on tip-toes, one hand gathering up his over-sized clothes and the other braced against the wall like he might topple over at any moment.

The flat seems empty, which isn't very comforting, but at least it gives them a little time to think. Martin's about to let out another held breath and suggest they try to find a phone when John suddenly challenges the silence, startling Martin so badly that he actually lets out a little shriek.

He immediately covers his mouth, flushing in embarrassment, and waits — but still there's nothing.

"M-maybe they went out," he offers, still looking around nervously like he doesn't trust his own guess. It looks like a perfectly normal flat, is the thing. Lots of books on the shelves, things for the cat. Everything tidy, but not too tidy.

"Has to be a phone somewhere," he says, though he doesn't see one — not on the walls or any of the end tables. "We could call our parents, or... or the police."

The only response to his outburst is a yelp from Martin, which startles John badly enough that he almost loses his hold on the stupid, oversized clothes he's wearing. But nothing else happens — unless you count the cat staring at him. For a moment, he almost considers storming over to the closet doors and yanking them open one by one, but the thought makes his stomach twist, and he pushes it aside. He doesn't think whoever took them is hiding in one of the closets on purpose, not really.

But he still feels like someone's watching them.

John huffs out a breath, then nods. "There should be a phone somewhere," he agrees, starting to poke around with a little less hesitation. He didn't see one in the hall, but there's usually one near the kitchen. John shuffles towards it, his eyes searching the walls until they land on a familiar, square jack.

There's a spot where a phone should be. But there's no phone attached to it.

John swallows, then nods up at it. "Look. It's like they just... took it away."

As John moves toward the kitchen, the cat wanders back over to Martin and rubs against his legs, purring loudly. Martin stops and bends down to pet it some more, taking the momentary comfort while he can. It doesn't last long, though, as he looks up and realizes what John must mean.

"What?" he squeaks in dismay, and hurries over to look. Sure enough, there's the phone jack, and no phone — no wire, even.

Whatever hope he'd put into the idea of calling for help shatters, and he clutches his clothes closer around himself, struggling once again not to cry. "What—what do we do?" he babbles.

Martin sounds like he's about to cry again, and John watches him uneasily. He knows he doesn't want Martin to cry, but he isn't sure what he might say that would help. There's no phone — well, there might be one hidden somewhere, but there's loads of places it might be. Finding it would take ages. And even if they could call the police, he realizes with a little jolt, they don't know where they are. They wouldn't be able to tell the police where to come to.

"We have to think," he says, as much for his own sake as Martin's. "We just—we have to be smart." He turns away from the useless phone jack to scan the rest of the flat, his gaze soon alighting on the door. For a moment, his heart skips a beat — there are so many latches, they'll never be able to get out of here — but then he blinks, shaking his head a little.

It's like a riddle. The latches are on the inside. That means they're to keep things out, not in. Maybe there are more latches on the outside, but if there aren't... what's to stop them leaving?

Then he takes a closer look at the latches, and his blood runs cold. Because the ones on the inside, some of them high enough to be out of his reach, are still latched.

You can't do up latches from the outside. So whoever last shut that door has to still be here.

John turns back to Martin, motioning for him to be quiet, and then to follow him. Then he tiptoes over towards the door as quickly as he dares, stopping by one of the chairs at the little dining table. He curls his free hand around one of the wooden arms, then looks at Martin.

"Help me lift it," he says, his voice so soft it's barely even a whisper. "Quietly."

"O-okay," says Martin, though he's not really sure how to be smart about this. He's all right at maths and he likes reading enough that he gets good marks for it, but this... he's pretty sure they don't teach this kind of thing in school. Maybe they should.

Part of him wants to steal back to the bedroom where they woke up, not to hide, but to look for clothes in their size. Their clothes must be somewhere around here. And maybe there's something else, too? He isn't sure what, but it feels good to have a proactive thought, at least.

But before he can do any such thing, John's motioning him over, moving from the front door to a chair at the table, and it doesn't take Martin long to piece together his plan. He feels a fresh spike of fear as he notices all those latches — what are all those for? He's pretty sure that's not normal. But at least it's all on the inside. They might be able to slip out, if they can reach them all.

So he helps John lift the chair, quiet as he can. Neither of them are very strong, and it's much harder to manage with only one free hand each. But he doesn't want to be a burden, or to be found out or left behind, so Martin just grits his teeth and does his best to keep quiet as they awkwardly carry it toward the door.

It's only when the chair's finally sat down that Martin finally realizes what all those horrible latches — and that they're done up inside really means, and he jolts, covering his mouth again to stop from crying out. He'd just done all that without realizing their kidnapper must still be here.

He turns around, surveying the flat frantically for any sign of them. They must be watching, ready to jump out and grab them. Or is there some secret exit they don't know about? None of this makes any sense. He just wants to go home.

"Hurry," he whispers, barely audible, as John clambers up and works on the locks.

As soon as the chair's in place, John awkwardly clambers up onto the seat. He can reach the latches easily now. His hand is shaking, though, and it feels like it's taking years for him to undo them. Every time a bolt catches instead of sliding, his stomach twists, and his shoulders creep up under the dreadful conviction that if he doesn't do this fast, now, then he'll hear Martin scream and then a pair of hands will grab him and then... he doesn't know what then. He doesn't want to think about it.

He fumbles the last of them open, then hops down off the chair, his eyes raking over the still-empty living room in astonishment. It doesn't make sense, and he doesn't trust it — the longer it takes their captor to show themselves, the more horribly convinced John is that they're just biding their time, waiting until the last possible moment to pounce.

He no longer cares how stupid they look in these oversized clothes; he doesn't even care that they don't have shoes. All he cares about is wrenching the door open and running as fast as he can. "Come on," he says in a shrill whisper, dragging the chair aside to make room for the door to open. It judders and thumps against the floor, but the noise doesn't matter. He knows with a sick certainty that they're not fooling anyone, that someone has had their eyes on them this whole time.

Martin watches with building frantic nervousness, the kind of energy he always tries to tamp down around his mum, struggling not to hurry John any more or make any sound at all. Even though each time he sees John struggle with the latches, a little part of him just wants to shriek.

But the door opens, and John hops down and hauls the chair aside with a scrape and a thud that renders his whisper pointless, and while a small part of Martin wants to balk, to object — they don't know where they are, they don't have their own clothes, they don't even have shoes — none of that matters when he is so certain someone is going to erupt from somewhere behind them and drag them back inside. He scrambles out, the oversized waistband of his pants gathered up in one arm to allow him to run, and the door falls shut behind them. No one follows, but he doesn't feel safe, he won't feel safe, until they make it somewhere far away.

They run down the hall, past the other flats, toward the front door. He hadn't even realized they were on the ground floor or they might've tried escaping through a window instead. But it doesn't matter. Martin struggles not to trip over himself as he runs, struggles against the urge to reach out and grab John's hand, struggles to silence his own panicked whimpering — until finally they reach the front doors, push them open and burst outside.

Outside is a rush of too much information. City streets and noise and smells, so this has to be London, though not a part he knows — but before he has any time to try and get his bearings, he lets out a startled squawk as his bare feet touch the ground.

"It's bloody freezing!" he yelps, flushing a bit as the swear just tumbles out. That's not right, is it? He can't remember. He realizes with a terrifying jolt that he has no idea what month they're even meant to be in. He stops short, stuck and too frightened to go on, trembling and shivering in the sudden cold.

It seems impossible that no one catches them, that they make it out into the chilly daylight without anyone even trying to stop them. But they do, and John hisses in surprise as his bare feet land on the cold pavement. He hadn't even thought about what the weather might be like. But the door has already shut behind them, and he wouldn't go back to that awful flat for anything, anyway.

He looks around in vain for any familiar landmarks, then turns back to Martin, who looks like a frightened rabbit, wide-eyed and frozen. "Come on," he says, wavering for a moment before reaching out with his free hand and grabbing Martin's arm. He's not just going to leave him behind, and if that means dragging him down the pavement, that's what he'll do. "We just have to find a shop. Ask someone to call the police for us."

It's not a perfect plan, but it's not a bad one. He's pretty sure that whoever took them doesn't work at any of the nearby shops, so it should be safe enough to go to one and ask for help. A shop will be sure to have a phone, if nothing else.

He hikes up the stupidly long pants he's wearing with one hand, then tugs on Martin's arm with the other. "Come on," he says again, starting down the street.

"O-okay," Martin stammers, stumbling along as John tugs him by the arm. He doesn't like the idea of going into a shop dressed like this, with no shoes on or anything, but he knows it's better than being out here in the cold. He's just glad John is managing to keep his head on straight — not like him, too overwhelmed to have any good ideas.

John ends up pulling him into what looks like little cafe, and Martin is caught between relief at the warmth and immediate paralysis between the overwhelming smell of coffee and the looks everyone is giving them.

He wishes he wasn't dressed like this. He wishes he had any idea where he was, what happened, or how to get home. But even the idea of going home isn't that comforting — mum will be so angry at him for disappearing on her. The easiest thing to wish for is that none of this had happened at all.

But it has happened, and now he doesn't know what to do. He can't even ask, because the answer probably seems obvious. Talk to an employee, ask them to phone the police. It just feels like too much. Martin fidgets and looks down at the floor, too nervous to look directly at anyone and far too wretched to take any sort of initiative.

Marcus has stopped for a cup of tea from the cafe down the road from the Home before one of his volunteer shifts there, and he's only just turned around, cradling his slowly warming reusable mug in his hands when the boys all but tumble inside. They're unfamiliar, frightened looking, and for a moment it seems as if no one else in the cafe knows what to do. Their hesitation baffles Marcus when he knows such things are more common than they'd like, children arriving in all kinds of states without the slightest idea where they are, and he would like to believe people would be willing to help.

And yet he's the only one who steps forward.

Carefully, without getting too close in case he frightens then further, Marcus drops down into a crouch, long legs framing his mug held between his hands. He offers the boys a gentle smile.

"Alright there, lads?" he asks. "Are you looking for someone in particular?"

There's something immediately reassuring about the café. It smells like coffee and pastries, and it's normal: a whole world away from the creeping terror of the flat he'd woken up in. Someone here will help them, surely.

But all anyone else does at first is stare at them, and John doesn't know what to make of the looks on their faces. It doesn't look like worry, or concern, but more like the kind of looks you get when you do something shockingly stupid. It's enough to make him nervous, and then to make him angry. It's not their fault that their clothes don't fit, or that they don't have shoes, or that there's no adult with them. Do they think they've come bursting in like this on purpose? What sort of idiot would think that?

But then someone approaches them, an older man with a kind face, and he asks if they're all right. John has to swallow past the knot of lingering fear and fresh indignation in his throat before he can answer.

"N-no, we're lost. We need someone to phone the police." The whole story of their awful morning wants to spill out of him, but he holds it back. He doesn't want to start crying now, when they've made it this far. He swallows again, his hand still mindlessly clutched around Martin's wrist.

Martin blinks at the man, not sure yet whether to feel scared or grateful. He looks kind, and it's nice that he crouches down, but the ongoing awareness of all eyes on them makes it hard to relax. He still feels trapped.

John manages to answer the man, and Martin manages a little flinching nod of agreement. And then, before he can stop himself, even though he knows he ought to be good and quiet and not a bother and just follow John's lead, it all pours out of him: "W-we've been kidnapped, someone dressed us in these big clothes and left us in a bed in this weird flat and, and we don't know where they are or what they—or, or how we got there, and we couldn't find our real clothes, and—and—"

Oh, no. He stutters to a halt when he runs out of steam, realizing he's finally started to cry. He doesn't sob out loud, but quietly, his breath hitching and his shoulders quaking as tears streak down his cheeks. He pulls his arm free from John's grasp and reaches up with both hands to cover his face, miserably ashamed.

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