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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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.

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.

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