loficharm | rude awakening

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.

It breaks Marcus's heart, the way the boy starts to cry, and he reaches up to a nearby table without even looking at it, pulling a few napkins free from the holder there. Around them, the cafe is slowly returning to normal, the glances in their direction slowing down as other people begin to assume Marcus has the situation well in hand, and it's a bit of a relief, honestly. If they aren't going to help, staring at the boys is only going to make them more upset, he thinks, and more uncomfortable.

"Here, duck," he says, holding the napkins toward the boy. "I know you're frightened, but you're safe now, I promise. The both of you. I won't let anything happen to you."

He had almost been prepared to sit down right there with them, explain what it means to be brought to Darrow, but it's the too-large clothes that distract him from that. It wasn't so long ago he'd been in a similar situation, waking up in an unfamiliar bed, the dresser drawers filled with clothes meant for a much taller man, and when Marcus glances between the two boys, an uncomfortable suspicion begins to grow in his stomach.

"My name is Marcus Keane," he says. "Can you tell me your names?"

John presses his lips together in a tight frown as Martin pulls his hand away and covers his face. Seeing Martin cry makes it that much harder to keep from crying himself, but it isn't just the other boy's tears that make him uneasy. It's the way the man promises they're safe, when John doesn't feel safe at all, and the way he says he won't let anything happen, like he means to look after them.

John doesn't need looking after. He needs someone to find a phone and call the police like he bloody asked. They're the ones whose job it is to help when someone has been kidnapped.

But he can't think of any particular harm this man — Marcus Keane — could do with just his name. Maybe he means to tell it to the police when he calls them. Maybe all those promises are just... him trying to be nice, or something. "I'm Jonathan Sims," he replies. Then, after an anxious beat, he blurts, "Are you going to call the police?"

Martin peeks through his fingers, reduced to soft sniffling and vague surprise as the man offers him a napkin, calls him 'duck.' Maybe he shouldn't feel surprised. Adults are meant to comfort children when they cry, aren't they? Even strangers — maybe especially strangers, since they don't know how often Martin cries and haven't had time to be annoyed by it yet. He takes the napkin with trembling fingers, managing the slightest murmur of thanks as he wipes his face.

The promise of safety is such a relief he thinks he might burst into tears all over again. He quells the impulse to just rush forward and hug the man, Mr. Keane, knowing it probably isn't smart. Still a stranger, even a nice one. Sometimes it's the nice ones who are worse.

John seems to agree, the way he asks again about the police, which is a little bolstering. Martin tries to pull himself together. He has to be brave and not just go along with the man because he's nice. They ought to phone the police, they'll sort this.

Still, it would be rude not to offer his name, so says falteringly, "I, I'm M-Martin. Martin Blackwood." He looks at John, then back at Mr. Keane, hoping he'll answer the way John wants so they can just accept the help like he hopes.

Even though he'd already been anticipating this, the names still settle in Marcus like a physical weight, and he exhales slowly, trying to work out what he ought to do. Calling the police would do nothing at all, although the boys of course wouldn't understand that. To their view, they've been taken from their homes and locked away somewhere unfamiliar, probably by someone dangerous.

He hasn't the slightest idea how to explain to them what's really happened.

"I'm afraid the police won't do much to help," he admits. "Can I explain a little? We don't have to go anywhere and I won't ask you to leave the cafe, but hopefully if I tell you a bit about what's going on, you'll understand a little better."

Should he tell them they're usually adult men? That although he doesn't really know Martin terribly well, he and John have grown to be friends? He tries to remember what people had told him when he'd woken up here, thirteen and angry and so deeply afraid, but finds he can't recall. Perhaps he's forgotten most of it on purpose.

John's anxious little scowl deepens. At first, it's just because of the look Mr. Keane gives them, as if he knows something they don't. And then it's because of what he says: that the police wouldn't be of any use. That has to be a lie. Not just any lie, but one of the extra dangerous ones, like 'I was only joking' or 'no one will believe you' — one of the lies that means you need to run, run straight home without looking back.

Except there's nowhere to run to. He doesn't know where home is. And Mr. Keane doesn't ask them to do anything stupid, like follow him somewhere else. He offers to explain, here in the café, where at least someone might do something if they started screaming.

He still doesn't like it. He's cold and miserable, and most of all he's confused, and tired of being confused. He thought making it this far would make everything easier, that someone would look after them in the obvious, sensible way he expected. There's a growing ache in his throat as he realizes it's not working out that way, and that there's nothing he can do to change that.

"That doesn't make sense," he objects, talking over the little voice in his head that reminds him: it doesn't have to. "Why wouldn't the police help us?"

Martin sucks in a nervous breath at that — he wasn't expecting Mr. Keane to say the police wouldn't help, and even he recognizes that as a scary sort of thing to say. He takes a tiny, shuffling step back, nudging a little nearer to John. Why does this need explaining, as if they don't understand what kidnapping is? They're not babies.

Unless... unless Mr. Keane is in on it? But how could that be?

"I don't want to stay here," he says. "I want my own clothes, and, and I want to go home. I'm not even supposed to be talking to strangers," he adds, almost sternly. Mr. Keane really ought to be on his best behavior when they're already taking so many unfair risks.

"I know," Marcus says. "I know, it doesn't make any sense. You're right when you say you've been kidnapped, but not by any person. We're in a city called Darrow and somehow, no one really understands how, it can take us from where we used to be."

This is the only place to begin. He still doesn't know whether or not he should tell them everything or if that will only make things worse, but at least he has to explain Darrow to them.

"I was in Chicago," he continues. "I was walking, just walking, and then I turned a corner and I found myself in front of a church I didn't recognize. Just like that, I was in Darrow. I know sometimes people wake up and find themselves here when they went to sleep the night before in their own beds, too."

John glances over at Martin, a little surprised. He's either been crying or almost-crying this whole time, so the sudden burst of good sense isn't what he was expecting. But it's true, and he looks to Mr. Keane for his answer — an answer that makes his stomach clench like a fist.

It still doesn't make sense, and he still shies away from the idea that it just won't, no matter who they ask. Mr. Keane's story of turning a corner in America and ending up here sounds made up, like something out of a book.

Except, the little voice in his head tells him, a book can take you away from where you used to be.

John blinks, then gives his head a short, angry shake. It's not the same. He didn't do anything. He didn't fall down a rabbit hole or climb in a wardrobe, and he didn't open the wrong book, either. He's not stupid enough to just believe whatever some man in a café tells him.

So he turns, hiking up the waistband of his pants with one hand as he marches the little distance to one of the occupied tables. "Excuse me," he says, drawing the gaze of the woman sitting there. "What city is this?"

The woman blinks down at him, her face crumpling in some mixture of concern and confusion over what she sees. "Darrow," she replies, as if it should be obvious. She pulls in a breath like she's about to say something else, but John turns away, back towards Martin and Mr. Keane.

"I've never heard of Darrow," he says once he's back beside Martin, "and I've read a lot of books."

The story Mr. Keane tells them is... it sounds like a story someone would make up only to tease him for his gullibility the moment he believed it. But that's other kids who do that sort of thing; he doesn't think an adult would act like that. Especially not this one; he really does seem like he wants to help, even if the things he says don't make any sense, even if he claims no one can understand. That isn't fair — he can't ask questions if he's already been told the answers are just 'nobody knows.' Are they just supposed to go along with it?

John doesn't seem inclined to go along with anything. Martin almost protests when he steps away, but he knows that's dumb of him — he's not being abandoned, John's just being clever. Not that it does much good. Martin hears what the woman tells him and feels a little bit like he's going to be sick. He's never heard of Darrow either; part of him had thought he was still somewhere in London.

And if what Mr. Keane is telling them is true...? What then? How will he get home then?

"I'm pretty sure that kind of thing doesn't happen in real life," Martin says in an effort to back John up, though he has trouble saying it with any conviction. What does he know, really? And there is a part of him that has always wanted to believe in magic, just... not quite like this. But he wants to at least try to stick with John on this. They're all they have, for now.

"I think a lot of us felt that way, too," Marcus says in a gentle voice. "Right up until we ended up here."

Even him, a man who'd made a life as one of the most talented exorcists on record, a man who had seen real demonic energy with regularity. Though he'd spent a few days in the hospital upon his arrival, Marcus had been rather convinced he was dying, or that he had already died. Or, worse still, that the demon had taken him and he was still in that awful room, tied to a chair, while Maria Walters laughed at him.

"I'm very sorry, boys," he says. "I wish I had better answers for you. I think we ought to get you some proper clothes, though, yeah? I can take you to the police station after that, if you'd still like to speak with someone there."

He doesn't like this. Mr. Keane seems kind, and proper clothes would be a relief, but it feels stupid to follow him someplace else on just the promise that he'll take them to the police afterwards. The same police who he says won't be any help, anyway. It all feels like a question a teacher would ask the class, with an obvious right answer. Except now, standing barefoot in a café with a boy he barely knows and a man he knows even less, the wrong answer is starting to look unavoidable.

"Where?" he finally asks, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Is there a shop nearby?" If they stay in public, at least, it might be safe-ish.

Martin looks nervously between John and Mr. Keane for a moment. He's no longer certain how to feel about the offer of police, given how sure Mr. Keane seems that they won't help. He still has no idea how to feel about any of this; he's scared and cold and hungry and he feels like he could just keep on crying if he weren't so desperate not to make things worse. But the offer of proper clothes — he almost doesn't care where they go or what happens after that. As though having clothes that fit will make everything else easier. He feels a desperate hope that John will go along with it; if he refuses, they'll have to keep being like this and Martin doesn't think he can handle that.

He doesn't refuse outright, though. It's a smart question. They can't go getting into a car with Mr. Keane or something. If there's someplace nearby, though...

Martin doesn't say anything, in the end, just looking up hopefully, waiting for Mr. Keane's answer.

"The Children's Home is just at the end of this block," Marcus says. "You can see it from here if you just lean out the door, the building with the reddish brown brick front and vines on the iron by the lower windows. I volunteer there and we've got spare clothes. There will be lots of other people there, too. Workers for the Home, other volunteers, loads of kids."

They're being smart, which is good. He'll be smart, too, and keep his distance while they walk. He doesn't want to frighten them any more than they clearly already are and while that might be an impossible task, at the very least he can try.

"You can walk behind me," he suggests. "I'll lead the way and you can decide if you'd like to come in or not."

John's first impulse is to balk at the idea. They don't belong in a Children's Home, and it's easy to imagine Mr. Keane just leaving them there, like dumping a box of kittens outside an animal shelter. But then he realizes he's being stupid. Children's Homes don't kidnap people, and whoever works there is more likely to help them than the next person they might pick at random. If Mr. Keane isn't going to phone the police, then taking them to a nearby Children's Home might be the next best thing.

And he really would like some better fitting clothes. If they can at least get dressed properly, it'll be that much easier to leg it if they really need to.

"All right," he agrees, liking the sound of Mr. Keane's plan. He still isn't entirely sure he trusts him, but he's not stupid; he can tell that Mr. Keane is trying not to frighten them. He adds, awkwardly, "Thank you."

His feet still haven't had a chance to warm up much, and he adjusts his grip on the waistband of his pants with a sigh. He really isn't looking forward to going back out in the cold, but at least it sounds like they don't have far to walk. He looks over at Martin, raising his eyebrows as if to say: maybe this won't be completely awful.

"Thank you," Martin echoes almost as soon as John's said it, too quiet and shy to let the full depth of his relief show. He's not so sure about the idea of a 'Children's Home' — it's not as if they're orphans — but he likes how kind and careful Mr. Keane is being, and more than anything he's glad that John's agreed to it. He meets John's glance and manages the faintest of smiles, feeling good about that. Like they're a team, exchanging looks to communicate, like adults do sometimes.

He's also relieved to get out of this coffee shop, where they stick out so much, though the outdoors isn't much better. It's still terribly cold and he hisses softly as he walks. He wants to just hurry along as fast as possible, but he has to be careful, to watch where he steps. He thinks, a bit petulantly, it would have been easier if they could just get into a car, or if Mr. Keane just brought them clothes — but he knows neither would be very sensible, and John would likely object. So he keeps close to John, matching his pace while keeping his gaze fixed on the ground. A small part of him wants to reach out and cling onto the other boy again, but he doesn't quite dare to try it. Maybe it's just as well both his hands are occupied holding up these stupid pants.

The Home is close, just as he's said, and though he glances back once or twice to make sure the boys are still near, Marcus doesn't otherwise try to usher them along. When they arrive at the front steps, the sign is clearly displayed, which he homes helps ease some of their suspicions. Darrow's Home for Children is right there on the plaque out front and Marcus climbs the steps, then holds open the big front door.

Directly inside, easily seen, is the front desk. There's a receptionist who glances up when the door opens and she smiles brightly to see Marcus. Just beyond her, down the hall, are other children and other workers. One boy is groaning about having to do homework while he's not feeling well. A worker carries a toddler on her hip and she pauses to wave at Marcus as well.

"It's safe here," he promises John and Martin, letting them look at the interior for as long as they need before they're comfortable to come inside. "We'll get things worked out."

Mr. Keane does just as he promised, walking a little ways ahead while John and Martin follow along after him. John hustles along as quickly as his oversized clothes allow, frowning at the looks some passers-by are giving them. Now that the initial terror has worn off, he's beginning to just feel stupid, which is almost worse — like people might think he's dressed himself this way on purpose.

But there's nothing to be done about it. At least it's a short walk to the Children's Home. For all his earlier suspicion, John doesn't waste much time looking the place over once they arrive. It's not as if Mr. Keane could have faked a whole building, and it's plain enough that the other people inside know him. Seems he was telling the truth.

Does that mean he was telling the truth about the police, too?

John grits his teeth and picks his way up the steps, trying not to trip over the hem of the stupid pants. "Thank you," he says again as he passes Mr. Keane. Then he steps inside, hovering uncertainly a little ways from the reception desk.

Martin follows John inside eagerly, too desperate to be out of the cold for any trepidation to show. He stops when John stops, however, no clear ideas about where to go from here, no confidence in his own decision-making abilities. The receptionist smiles at them both, and she clearly knows Mr. Keane, as do the others who notice him; but most everyone seems rather preoccupied with their own business.

Seeing other children running around is considerably less comforting than it might have been. After a moment spent nervously worrying at his lower lip, Martin turns to look up at Mr. Keane.

"Y-you're not going to leave us here, are you?" he asks. He almost says something more about having a mum to go home to, but he bites it back. He doesn't want to be told again that terrible story about being brought to some faraway place, as if hearing it again will make it more true. True or not, he's sure he doesn't want to be left here. There has to be somewhere better for them to go, somewhere they can figure something out. Maybe.

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