loficharm | rude awakening

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.

"No," Marcus answers. "I'm here with you."

He isn't sure how comforting that's going to be for the two of them, especially right now, but he'll stay with them for as long as it takes for him to work out what to do. They have friends here, John and Martin do, and Marcus thinks he ought to call them. Kat will have their numbers, if nothing else, and she'll be able to help him work this out.

"First, let's get you warm and get you some proper clothes, yeah?" he asks. "Do you want to come with me to pick out what you'd like to wear? We have a few spare boxes of clothes in the storage room just off the kitchen. It's right down the hall there. You can see Adam down there, prepping lunch? The door for the storage is just behind him."

Martin's question makes John's gut lurch, and he looks between the two of them for a moment, brow furrowed. Logically, he knows it might not matter if Mr. Keane stays or goes; the woman at reception might help them just as easily. But Mr. Keane has been kind, and honest (as far as John can tell), and the thought of him just walking out now is more unsettling than it ought to be.

So he lets out a little breath when Mr. Keane says he isn't going anywhere, and points them toward the storage room. "Okay," he agrees. He's worn secondhand clothes before, but his grandmother had always bought them at a shop. The idea of just rummaging through a box is a little uncomfortable, like he's taking charity that ought to be going to someone who needs it.

Except that he does need it. He can't keep wearing what he has.

John frowns, and it's both lingering curiosity and want for a distraction that compels him to speak as he follows Mr. Keane to the storage room. "Why does Darrow take people?" he asks. In books, there's usually a reason, like an enemy that needs to be beaten. "Are we supposed to do something here?"

Martin accepts Mr. Keane's answer with a little nod, not completely comforted, but at least assured they're not being sneakily left up for adoption or something. He follows Mr. Keane and John along to the storage room, trying not to drag his feet.

John's question frightens him a little, only for making the whole idea of this place more real. Martin feels behind, like he can't get his head round it. Feeling sheepish for a few reasons, he starts to look through the clothing options, remaining quiet to allow them their conversation. At least there's plenty to choose from — it doesn't take long to find a handful of things that should fit, and won't even look too terribly out of place on him.

Marcus pulls a few drawers open on one of the dressers they have, the one marked boys under 10, then the closet as well, looking at their feet before taking out a few pairs of warm, sturdy boots for them to try on. Most of what they have here has been donated, some second hand, some new. Marcus just hopes they can find something that fits.

"That's a very good question," he answers. "And one I don't know the answer to. I've been here for years myself and I... I know that's frightening, to think of having been somewhere for such a long time when it isn't your home, but I want to be honest with you both."

At least to a certain extent. He's still not sure how to tell them they're really adult men.

John rummages through the drawers beside Martin, double-checking the tags until he's found a few things that should fit him. He isn't sure how much he should be taking, and he isn't sure he wants to ask. Part of him still thinks Darrow could be a normal city somewhere on Earth. It might be a long way from Bournemouth, but that doesn't mean he couldn't get home by this time tomorrow, if someone helped them properly. He won't need more than one outfit for that.

But then Mr. Keane says years, and John looks up at him in shock. He can't be stuck here for years. His grandmother will think something awful has happened to him.

And then he wonders, with a sick swooping feeling in his stomach, if Mr. Keane means to leave them here, after all. What else could he do, if he thinks they're stuck in Darrow like he is? It's not as if he's going to bloody adopt them.

John wants to argue, and he wants to change into clothes that fit, but all he can do is stand there, clutching the bundle of clothes to his chest with one arm while his eyes fill with tears. None of this makes sense, and he hates it.

Martin stops cold, staring up at Mr. Keane when he says years, coming over all hot and cold at once like he's going to be sick. He can't, he can't just disappear. Mum needs him. He can't turn out like dad.

But there's nothing he can think to say, and what's worse, it seems like John is stuck too. Martin glances over and sees him clutching the clothes he's collected, speechless. And he sees, with a terrible jolt, that he looks like he's about to cry.

At first that feels horrible. John's been so clever and brave this whole time, and now it's not enough, and he's scared, too. But then Martin thinks, why shouldn't he be scared? Why should he have to be the one who pulls Martin along with him, who asks all the right questions? And Martin knows, just like he has to be strong for mum, he has to be strong now, too. It's his turn.

"W-well," he starts, wishing he could stop his voice from trembling, "if you're not going to leave us here, then... where are we supposed to go?"

He wants to argue that they can't possibly stay here for years, but maybe he and John can figure that out together when they've both had time to put their heads together. For now, they'll have to be practical. Little steps.

"That flat where we woke up," he says, a bit dubious even as the idea strikes him, "that wasn't supposed to be our new home or something, was it?"

He doesn't wait for Mr. Keane to answer before pushing ahead, as though he needs to get everything out at once before he loses his nerve: "Also," he says a bit sternly, nudging a bit closer to John, not quite brave enough to touch him directly, "where can we get changed?"

"The toilets are just down the hall toward the front of the building," Marcus answers and turns in that direction, still trying to work out what he's going to tell them. Especially now that they've asked about their flat. How is he supposed to tell two children who believe they really are only children that they're actually grown men? When Matthias had told him the reality of his situation when he'd been thirteen, Marcus hadn't believed a word of it.

In fact, he'd thought Matthias might be some sort of pervert, trying to get a teen boy to go home with him. He can't very well suggest he bring John and Martin back to the house with him, even if there are others there who would lend it a feeling of safety. Can he ask Daisy and Kat to look after them? Is that better or worse? He's truly at a loss.

"You might need to stay here for awhile," he settles on saying. "But I'll stay here with you. I won't leave you alone."

That much he can absolutely promise. The staff here are used to him volunteering for long hours and he's crashed in a spare bed more than once in the past.

John remains silent, not trusting his voice and not wanting to burst into messy tears when that wouldn't help anything. He does manage a quick, grateful look towards Martin when he asks the questions John can't, though, about what's going to happen to them. Martin even asks a question that surprises him; John hadn't thought to wonder if the flat where they woke up was meant for them. He isn't sure he believes that, if only because he'd felt so certain that someone else was there, watching them. But it's still a good question.

If this was a story, there would be somewhere that they were supposed to go, or someone who was supposed to help them. And not just by bringing them to the nearest bloody orphanage.

He needs a moment to think, and he needs to feel less stupid, so he decides to get changed before he tries to say anything. He shoulders his way into the bathroom, which looks like one you might find at a school, with a row of stalls along one wall and sinks along the other, and trudges into the first open stall he sees. The pants he was wearing drop to the floor the moment he stops physically holding them up, and he pulls off the tent of a shirt with a quiet huff, then uses it to mop at his face for a moment.

He is not going to make a fuss. He has to be smart.

John lets the shirt drop, then starts to pull on the clothes he picked out. Martin is in the stall just next to his, and he glances down at the other boy's feet before quietly saying, "It doesn't make sense." He sniffs once, then adds, with a hint of indignation, "He didn't even answer your question. About the flat."

Martin frowns tightly when Mr. Keane doesn't answer his question about the flat, but he doesn't argue; just walks quietly with John to the toilets. John hasn't started crying, but he still seems unhappy, and Martin is, too. When he'd asked if they were going to be left here, this is what he meant. Whether or not Mr. Keane stays with them feels beside the point. Kind as he is, he can't babysit them forever.

He gets dressed quietly, relieved that the clothes he gathered do fit him reasonably well, and are a bit warmer besides; he's finally starting to feel less physically horrible, at least. And then John speaks, giving voice to the same thing that's bothering Martin, and he looks up at the stall wall between them.

"I know," he says, lowering his voice even though they're alone in here. "I don't understand." Still, though, he's not sure what it means, and he's hesitant to think Mr. Keane is intentionally leading them astray, both because he's taken care of them so far, and because he's currently all they have. "M-maybe he just doesn't know."

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