Gardens of Wayne Manor: Christmas (22/40)
Title: Chapter Twenty-Two: Christmas
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce, Alfred Pennyworth, Martha Kent
Rating: PG
Warnings: None needed.
Continuity: The Gardens of Wayne Manor is an AU series in which Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne's lives intertwine at an early age. Click here for the complete series and series notes.
Word Count: 2700Summary: In the penultimate chapter of this arc, two households spend Christmas together, and Clark and Bruce part ways once again.
The door to the Kent bungalow flew open almost before the doorbell had stopped ringing. Clark Kent stood in the doorway, beaming. “Merry Christmas!”
“A very Merry Christmas to you as well, Master Clark,” said Alfred Pennyworth as he and Bruce entered the little house. Inside, the air was warm and filled with the scents of turkey and cinnamon; as Clark took the steaming covered platter from Alfred the rich smell of figs was added to the mix. From the living room, Bing Crosby was crooning about being home for Christmas.
“My goodness, is it snowing again?” Martha Kent exclaimed as she took their coats. She was smiling at them both, which made Bruce suspect Clark hadn't told her the whole story of how he'd gotten frostbite. Bruce himself had been--not untruthful, but vague about certain details when talking to Alfred about it. Mostly the details involving large men with guns.
“It does seem like another storm is coming in,” Alfred said. They continued talking about the weather and food, but Clark was pulling Bruce toward the living room.
The tree seemed to take up most of the tiny space: festooned with tinsel and lights, it filled the room with the sharp scent of fir. Bruce added the silver-wrapped packages in his arms to the small heap already under the tree.
“How are you feeling?” Clark asked, sitting down on the floor and crossing his legs.
“Fine,” Bruce said, joining him. In reality, he still felt a little bit shaky, but he was almost back to normal from his brush with frostbite. He still couldn't remember much about what happened after they'd been locked in that experiment room. It seemed some of his meditation techniques had paid off, if he'd been able to get them out of the building and home on autopilot like that.
“Shall we open the presents before dinner?” Martha Kent was carrying two steaming mugs; Bruce caught a waft of apples and cinnamon as she bent to hand him his.
“Why wait?” Clark burst out, practically wriggling like a puppy.
Martha laughed and rumpled his hair. “You hand them out this year, little Star.”
Clark caught her hand briefly and Bruce saw a look pass between them, something intense and affectionate. His throat tightened and he plucked a bit of tinsel off the tree to focus on for a moment, twining it around his fingers.
“Okay, let’s give Bruce your present first, then,” said Clark, handing Bruce a small squishy package. Bruce unwrapped it carefully, opening the bright paper to reveal... “Aw, Ma!” exclaimed Clark in disgust. “Really? Socks?”
Bruce held the woolen socks in his hands--hand-knitted and thick, dark green as pine needles. “They’re perfect, Mrs. Kent,” he said as Clark continued to make huffy noises.
“Well,” said Martha dismissively, “You travel so much and I hate to think of your feet being cold.”
Clark continued to hand out presents from the little stash--English shaving soap for Alfred, heirloom tomato seeds for Mrs. Kent. “Open that one,” said Bruce, unable to wait any longer. “The one in red foil for you.”
“It’s from you?” Clark shook the long, narrow box in his hands, listening to the clunking noise. “What is it?”
Bruce shoved his shoulder lightly. “Open it, silly.” He watched Clark’s face closely, trying not to look too eager.
Clark’s curious expression collapsed into something oddly blank as he opened the box. He reached in and curled his fingers around the silver dagger, rubbing his thumb across one of the red glass gems. “This is...” His voice trailed off and he just stared.
“It’s a letter opener,” Bruce explained, his eagerness giving way to anxiety as Clark didn’t respond. “I don’t...I don’t know if you remember, but we had one like it in our old treehouse, and this isn’t exactly the same design, but it’s close...” He was babbling, he realized, and clamped his mouth shut. “Anyway, it’s a letter opener,” he said. “If you’re going to be a reporter you’re going to have a lot of letters.”
“I remember,” Clark said, looking up from the box. His eyes were shining. “I remember it too. Thank you.” He put the lid back on the box carefully. “Here. This is from me.”
It was a small, square box. Bruce opened it and a round metal object fell into his hand: a tiny compass, its bronze cover dented and battered.
“I thought you could use a compass when you were traveling,” Clark said. “And I knew you could just buy a super-fancy one yourself, so...it was my father’s,” he added softly.
“I can’t...I can’t take this,” Bruce said. The cover had a compass rose on it, with the sun and moon etched into the brass. He slid it aside to look at the little needle, quivering toward north.
“Of course you can. It’s a present,” Clark said, grinning.
Bruce glanced almost involuntarily to Alfred and Martha Kent, but they were both smiling their approval, so he closed the compass and put it gently back in its box. “Thank you,” he said, a little thickly.
There were more presents--some practical, some silly--until the floor was covered with wrapping paper, which made Alfred tsk and bustle around smoothing it out and folding it up. Martha was working in the kitchen, and Clark was curled up on the sofa reading a book he’d just gotten from Alfred. Bruce sat next to him, trying to focus on his own book, but he was warm and tired from his first major outing since his injury, and the book slipped to the side as he dozed.
“Lie down, dummy.” Clark’s voice was affectionate as he grabbed Bruce’s hand and tugged him down onto the sofa. Bruce found himself horizontal, blinking drowsily at the lights of the tree as Clark continued to read next to him. He slipped in and out of a sleep that was filled with images and sounds from the last few days: Victor Fries’s desperate worried eyes, Patrick’s sarcastic voice, Clark’s breath on his neck. Warmth and comfort.
“Ready to eat?” Martha’s voice woke him, and he sat up, rubbing his eyes.
“You bet!” exclaimed Clark, grabbing a bookmark.
“Would the lady of the house care to say grace?” Alfred said as they sat down, and Martha smiled.
Bruce bowed his head as she cleared her throat. “Many thanks for all the blessings we have: for food and shelter and friendship. And prayers for all those souls tonight who will be without them.”
For all those souls tonight... Surrounded by smiles and comfort, Bruce remembered Patrick’s words: You ain’t got a clue what it’s like.
He had been right, Bruce thought, looking at the laden table. It was a strange feeling, like pushing through brambles and suddenly having them fall away, leaving the path ahead shadowed but clear. Patrick had been right.
The food was delicious, and Bruce ate carefully, savoring every bite, his mind elsewhere, planning and plotting. By the time the apple pie was brought out, he knew what he was going to do. He looked over at Clark, who was laughing and waving a forkful of pie with dangerous enthusiasm, explaining something. He had to do it tonight, before he could change his mind.
It wouldn’t be easy, Bruce thought. But he had to learn, had to understand. No one could fight what they didn’t understand.
: : :
“We can wash those up in the morning, dear,” said Martha as Clark picked up the plates from the table. “Why don’t you come over here.”
Clark went to the living room, where his mother was holding a box wrapped in silver paper. “I couldn’t give this to you earlier,” she said. “but I wanted to...well, here.”
Frowning, Clark removed the paper and opened the box, reaching in to touch the bright fabric inside. It felt strange under his hands, fine and light and silken.
“That’s the cloth that you were wrapped in when you father and I found you,” Martha said, her voice low. Clark looked up at her sharply and she went on, “I tried to make it in the style of the clothes those holograms were wearing. I remember them...like it was yesterday.”
Clark lifted it from the box and held it up: a bright uniform in red and blue, with a red symbol on the chest surrounded by gold, like a stylized “S.” “What’s this?” he asked, touching it lightly.
“They wore something like that on their clothes. Like a family crest, maybe. Maybe it was their name. Your name,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice faltering. After all this time, to hold in his hands a piece of his lost past, his family...
“They loved you very much,” Martha said. “They didn’t want to give you up.” She smiled slightly. “A parent knows these things.”
“I wonder what happened to them,” he said, running a finger over the shining symbol, following its curves. “I wonder why I’m here.”
Martha chuckled. “It’s a question we all ask,” she said. “And maybe the only answer is one we make ourselves. But I can tell you this,” she added, standing up and kissing the top of his head. “I’m very glad you’re here with me.” She indicated the costume. “Are you going to try it on?”
“Not yet,” Clark said. “It doesn’t feel like the right time yet. I just want to...to have it, right now.”
His mother nodded. “I understand.” She stretched, yawning. “Let’s clean up the dishes and hit the hay, shall we?”
Clark was in bed an hour later, but he couldn’t sleep. It was still snowing outside, huge white flakes swirling through the air, blotting out the Manor. Bruce’s letter opener glinted on the bureau. It wasn’t quite the same as the lost Sword of Oaths--Clark couldn’t help smiling at the overwrought term--but it meant Bruce remembered it. That was the greatest present of all.
Clark remembered Bruce’s eyes at dinner, abstracted and thoughtful. Something was going to happen, he thought suddenly, certainty clicking into place.
Pulling on a coat and boots, he slipped out of the bungalow and made his way along the buried path to the moon garden, still locked in snow and ice,
Bruce was there, staring at the statue at the heart of the garden, snow on his shoulders and in his dark hair. He looked at Clark with no surprise. “I thought you might come,” he said. “I was hoping.”
“You’re leaving,” whispered Clark. Bruce was carrying nothing, wearing only his leather jacket and jeans, but Clark could see his eyes.
“I’ve left a note with Alfred to tell the press I’m off for a pleasure tour of Europe. I’ve arranged everything.”
“But you won’t really be in Europe.”
Bruce shook his head. His eyes were silver in the moonlight. “No. But I need people not to look for me.”
After a moment, Clark nodded. “I understand.”
Bruce reached into his pocket and pulled out the little compass, swinging aside the battered cover. By sheer coincidence, the needle swiveled to point straight at Clark. Bruce smiled, a small and secret smile, and put the compass away. “I’ll be back,” he said. “I promise.”
“I know.”
Bruce looked around the garden, sleeping under its blanket of snow. “I’ve still never seen this place in bloom. I want to see it in the spring. Everything bursting into blossom.”
“It will be here when you get back,” Clark said.
Bruce raised a hand as if for a handshake, but as Clark reached out he suddenly touched Clark’s cheek instead for a fleeting moment. His hand was cold, but the touch burned.
“I know,” Bruce said.
Clark watched him walk away through the swirling curtains of snow, watched until he couldn’t make out Bruce’s form any more.
And then he watched a little longer.
: : :
There was snow under Patrick’s collar. He shook it out and held his hands over the fire guttering in the trash can, listening to the snowflakes hiss as they fell through it.
“You seem to be between jobs at the moment,” said a voice from the shadows, and the rich kid with the strange eyes stepped into the circle of light.
“Hey, you’re alive,” said Patrick, trying not to show the relief that flooded through him. He’d heard the explosion, searched for news of survivors, and found no mention of any weird teens with a messiah complex. They were both trouble, that’s for sure, but Patrick didn’t like to think of them dying while helping him scarper with the brainiacs.
“Looks like you dodged the cops.”
Patrick assembled a bored expression. “I got a gift for getting out of tight places.” He examined his fingernails nonchalantly. “They’re calling me ‘slick as an eel’ on the streets now. I figure it’s a better nickname than ‘Patsy.’”
“‘Slick?’ I like it,” said the kid, and Patrick laughed.
“Not that, but never mind. What are you doing out on Christmas, far from the loving bosoms of your Mummy and Poppy?”
The kid flicked a look over him. “Would you like to trade jackets?”
Patrick looked at the black leather jacket, then at his own threadbare, ratty twill, and laughed again.
“I’m serious.”
“Hey, if you’re crazy I’d be crazier not to take advantage.” Patrick shrugged out of his jacket and put on the leather one. It was a little big, but warm. “I’ll grow into this,” he said.
“I have no doubt. How about your shoes? Can I have those?”
“Sneakers with holes in the toes for solid boots? No complaints here.” This was shaping up to the best Christmas ever. “How about those socks? I’ll take those off your hands,” he said, eyeing the warm-looking dark green wool.
“The socks I keep,” the kid said swiftly, and Patrick shrugged.
“Can’t win ‘em all, I guess.”
“How do I look? Better?” The kid slouched in front of the fire, looking sullen.
“Good, but not good enough,” Patrick said. He pulled out his trusty switchblade. “Don’t panic,” he said, although the kid hadn’t flinched at all. “It’s your haircut. Way too nice. All the discerning street kids look like someone with a switchblade hacked it off. That’s because someone did,” he added.
The kid grimaced. “Want to play barber?”
Weird kid, thought Patrick, as he sliced off hunks of dark hair, sending black strands flying to mix with the snow in the air. “I could just cut your throat and take the rest of your stuff,” he pointed out.
A cheerful, wry grin. “You already have pretty much everything valuable on me.”
Patrick frowned. "Sure, but this isn't some kind of game. I gotcha, you think you're going to see how the other half lives and all, but--" He hesitated, hacking off another lock of hair. "Hey, it pains me to admit it, but I kind of like you, and I don't want to find your body in an alley somewhere."
A shadow passed over the kid's face for a moment. "Don't worry about me," he said shortly. He looked straight at Patrick, and Patrick found himself looking away first from those uncanny eyes. "I know it's not a game."
Patrick shrugged. “Well, don't come running to me when you get your kneecaps broken." He flipped the switchblade shut. "There. You’re still too clean and well-fed, but time will take care of those things naturally, don’t worry.”
“Thank you.”
Patrick shook his head. “You’re crazy, you know that? What the hell are you doing?”
“Learning,” said the kid. He held out his hand, and after an awkward moment Patrick realized he was supposed to shake it, so he did so. The kid nodded, then turned to go.
“Hey!” Patrick called. Already the snow was making him hard to see, a shadow among the whiteness. “Where are you going, anyway?”
He didn’t look back. “Further,” he said.
And then he was gone.
(Chapter 23)
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce, Alfred Pennyworth, Martha Kent
Rating: PG
Warnings: None needed.
Continuity: The Gardens of Wayne Manor is an AU series in which Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne's lives intertwine at an early age. Click here for the complete series and series notes.
Word Count: 2700Summary: In the penultimate chapter of this arc, two households spend Christmas together, and Clark and Bruce part ways once again.
The door to the Kent bungalow flew open almost before the doorbell had stopped ringing. Clark Kent stood in the doorway, beaming. “Merry Christmas!”
“A very Merry Christmas to you as well, Master Clark,” said Alfred Pennyworth as he and Bruce entered the little house. Inside, the air was warm and filled with the scents of turkey and cinnamon; as Clark took the steaming covered platter from Alfred the rich smell of figs was added to the mix. From the living room, Bing Crosby was crooning about being home for Christmas.
“My goodness, is it snowing again?” Martha Kent exclaimed as she took their coats. She was smiling at them both, which made Bruce suspect Clark hadn't told her the whole story of how he'd gotten frostbite. Bruce himself had been--not untruthful, but vague about certain details when talking to Alfred about it. Mostly the details involving large men with guns.
“It does seem like another storm is coming in,” Alfred said. They continued talking about the weather and food, but Clark was pulling Bruce toward the living room.
The tree seemed to take up most of the tiny space: festooned with tinsel and lights, it filled the room with the sharp scent of fir. Bruce added the silver-wrapped packages in his arms to the small heap already under the tree.
“How are you feeling?” Clark asked, sitting down on the floor and crossing his legs.
“Fine,” Bruce said, joining him. In reality, he still felt a little bit shaky, but he was almost back to normal from his brush with frostbite. He still couldn't remember much about what happened after they'd been locked in that experiment room. It seemed some of his meditation techniques had paid off, if he'd been able to get them out of the building and home on autopilot like that.
“Shall we open the presents before dinner?” Martha Kent was carrying two steaming mugs; Bruce caught a waft of apples and cinnamon as she bent to hand him his.
“Why wait?” Clark burst out, practically wriggling like a puppy.
Martha laughed and rumpled his hair. “You hand them out this year, little Star.”
Clark caught her hand briefly and Bruce saw a look pass between them, something intense and affectionate. His throat tightened and he plucked a bit of tinsel off the tree to focus on for a moment, twining it around his fingers.
“Okay, let’s give Bruce your present first, then,” said Clark, handing Bruce a small squishy package. Bruce unwrapped it carefully, opening the bright paper to reveal... “Aw, Ma!” exclaimed Clark in disgust. “Really? Socks?”
Bruce held the woolen socks in his hands--hand-knitted and thick, dark green as pine needles. “They’re perfect, Mrs. Kent,” he said as Clark continued to make huffy noises.
“Well,” said Martha dismissively, “You travel so much and I hate to think of your feet being cold.”
Clark continued to hand out presents from the little stash--English shaving soap for Alfred, heirloom tomato seeds for Mrs. Kent. “Open that one,” said Bruce, unable to wait any longer. “The one in red foil for you.”
“It’s from you?” Clark shook the long, narrow box in his hands, listening to the clunking noise. “What is it?”
Bruce shoved his shoulder lightly. “Open it, silly.” He watched Clark’s face closely, trying not to look too eager.
Clark’s curious expression collapsed into something oddly blank as he opened the box. He reached in and curled his fingers around the silver dagger, rubbing his thumb across one of the red glass gems. “This is...” His voice trailed off and he just stared.
“It’s a letter opener,” Bruce explained, his eagerness giving way to anxiety as Clark didn’t respond. “I don’t...I don’t know if you remember, but we had one like it in our old treehouse, and this isn’t exactly the same design, but it’s close...” He was babbling, he realized, and clamped his mouth shut. “Anyway, it’s a letter opener,” he said. “If you’re going to be a reporter you’re going to have a lot of letters.”
“I remember,” Clark said, looking up from the box. His eyes were shining. “I remember it too. Thank you.” He put the lid back on the box carefully. “Here. This is from me.”
It was a small, square box. Bruce opened it and a round metal object fell into his hand: a tiny compass, its bronze cover dented and battered.
“I thought you could use a compass when you were traveling,” Clark said. “And I knew you could just buy a super-fancy one yourself, so...it was my father’s,” he added softly.
“I can’t...I can’t take this,” Bruce said. The cover had a compass rose on it, with the sun and moon etched into the brass. He slid it aside to look at the little needle, quivering toward north.
“Of course you can. It’s a present,” Clark said, grinning.
Bruce glanced almost involuntarily to Alfred and Martha Kent, but they were both smiling their approval, so he closed the compass and put it gently back in its box. “Thank you,” he said, a little thickly.
There were more presents--some practical, some silly--until the floor was covered with wrapping paper, which made Alfred tsk and bustle around smoothing it out and folding it up. Martha was working in the kitchen, and Clark was curled up on the sofa reading a book he’d just gotten from Alfred. Bruce sat next to him, trying to focus on his own book, but he was warm and tired from his first major outing since his injury, and the book slipped to the side as he dozed.
“Lie down, dummy.” Clark’s voice was affectionate as he grabbed Bruce’s hand and tugged him down onto the sofa. Bruce found himself horizontal, blinking drowsily at the lights of the tree as Clark continued to read next to him. He slipped in and out of a sleep that was filled with images and sounds from the last few days: Victor Fries’s desperate worried eyes, Patrick’s sarcastic voice, Clark’s breath on his neck. Warmth and comfort.
“Ready to eat?” Martha’s voice woke him, and he sat up, rubbing his eyes.
“You bet!” exclaimed Clark, grabbing a bookmark.
“Would the lady of the house care to say grace?” Alfred said as they sat down, and Martha smiled.
Bruce bowed his head as she cleared her throat. “Many thanks for all the blessings we have: for food and shelter and friendship. And prayers for all those souls tonight who will be without them.”
For all those souls tonight... Surrounded by smiles and comfort, Bruce remembered Patrick’s words: You ain’t got a clue what it’s like.
He had been right, Bruce thought, looking at the laden table. It was a strange feeling, like pushing through brambles and suddenly having them fall away, leaving the path ahead shadowed but clear. Patrick had been right.
The food was delicious, and Bruce ate carefully, savoring every bite, his mind elsewhere, planning and plotting. By the time the apple pie was brought out, he knew what he was going to do. He looked over at Clark, who was laughing and waving a forkful of pie with dangerous enthusiasm, explaining something. He had to do it tonight, before he could change his mind.
It wouldn’t be easy, Bruce thought. But he had to learn, had to understand. No one could fight what they didn’t understand.
: : :
“We can wash those up in the morning, dear,” said Martha as Clark picked up the plates from the table. “Why don’t you come over here.”
Clark went to the living room, where his mother was holding a box wrapped in silver paper. “I couldn’t give this to you earlier,” she said. “but I wanted to...well, here.”
Frowning, Clark removed the paper and opened the box, reaching in to touch the bright fabric inside. It felt strange under his hands, fine and light and silken.
“That’s the cloth that you were wrapped in when you father and I found you,” Martha said, her voice low. Clark looked up at her sharply and she went on, “I tried to make it in the style of the clothes those holograms were wearing. I remember them...like it was yesterday.”
Clark lifted it from the box and held it up: a bright uniform in red and blue, with a red symbol on the chest surrounded by gold, like a stylized “S.” “What’s this?” he asked, touching it lightly.
“They wore something like that on their clothes. Like a family crest, maybe. Maybe it was their name. Your name,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice faltering. After all this time, to hold in his hands a piece of his lost past, his family...
“They loved you very much,” Martha said. “They didn’t want to give you up.” She smiled slightly. “A parent knows these things.”
“I wonder what happened to them,” he said, running a finger over the shining symbol, following its curves. “I wonder why I’m here.”
Martha chuckled. “It’s a question we all ask,” she said. “And maybe the only answer is one we make ourselves. But I can tell you this,” she added, standing up and kissing the top of his head. “I’m very glad you’re here with me.” She indicated the costume. “Are you going to try it on?”
“Not yet,” Clark said. “It doesn’t feel like the right time yet. I just want to...to have it, right now.”
His mother nodded. “I understand.” She stretched, yawning. “Let’s clean up the dishes and hit the hay, shall we?”
Clark was in bed an hour later, but he couldn’t sleep. It was still snowing outside, huge white flakes swirling through the air, blotting out the Manor. Bruce’s letter opener glinted on the bureau. It wasn’t quite the same as the lost Sword of Oaths--Clark couldn’t help smiling at the overwrought term--but it meant Bruce remembered it. That was the greatest present of all.
Clark remembered Bruce’s eyes at dinner, abstracted and thoughtful. Something was going to happen, he thought suddenly, certainty clicking into place.
Pulling on a coat and boots, he slipped out of the bungalow and made his way along the buried path to the moon garden, still locked in snow and ice,
Bruce was there, staring at the statue at the heart of the garden, snow on his shoulders and in his dark hair. He looked at Clark with no surprise. “I thought you might come,” he said. “I was hoping.”
“You’re leaving,” whispered Clark. Bruce was carrying nothing, wearing only his leather jacket and jeans, but Clark could see his eyes.
“I’ve left a note with Alfred to tell the press I’m off for a pleasure tour of Europe. I’ve arranged everything.”
“But you won’t really be in Europe.”
Bruce shook his head. His eyes were silver in the moonlight. “No. But I need people not to look for me.”
After a moment, Clark nodded. “I understand.”
Bruce reached into his pocket and pulled out the little compass, swinging aside the battered cover. By sheer coincidence, the needle swiveled to point straight at Clark. Bruce smiled, a small and secret smile, and put the compass away. “I’ll be back,” he said. “I promise.”
“I know.”
Bruce looked around the garden, sleeping under its blanket of snow. “I’ve still never seen this place in bloom. I want to see it in the spring. Everything bursting into blossom.”
“It will be here when you get back,” Clark said.
Bruce raised a hand as if for a handshake, but as Clark reached out he suddenly touched Clark’s cheek instead for a fleeting moment. His hand was cold, but the touch burned.
“I know,” Bruce said.
Clark watched him walk away through the swirling curtains of snow, watched until he couldn’t make out Bruce’s form any more.
And then he watched a little longer.
: : :
There was snow under Patrick’s collar. He shook it out and held his hands over the fire guttering in the trash can, listening to the snowflakes hiss as they fell through it.
“You seem to be between jobs at the moment,” said a voice from the shadows, and the rich kid with the strange eyes stepped into the circle of light.
“Hey, you’re alive,” said Patrick, trying not to show the relief that flooded through him. He’d heard the explosion, searched for news of survivors, and found no mention of any weird teens with a messiah complex. They were both trouble, that’s for sure, but Patrick didn’t like to think of them dying while helping him scarper with the brainiacs.
“Looks like you dodged the cops.”
Patrick assembled a bored expression. “I got a gift for getting out of tight places.” He examined his fingernails nonchalantly. “They’re calling me ‘slick as an eel’ on the streets now. I figure it’s a better nickname than ‘Patsy.’”
“‘Slick?’ I like it,” said the kid, and Patrick laughed.
“Not that, but never mind. What are you doing out on Christmas, far from the loving bosoms of your Mummy and Poppy?”
The kid flicked a look over him. “Would you like to trade jackets?”
Patrick looked at the black leather jacket, then at his own threadbare, ratty twill, and laughed again.
“I’m serious.”
“Hey, if you’re crazy I’d be crazier not to take advantage.” Patrick shrugged out of his jacket and put on the leather one. It was a little big, but warm. “I’ll grow into this,” he said.
“I have no doubt. How about your shoes? Can I have those?”
“Sneakers with holes in the toes for solid boots? No complaints here.” This was shaping up to the best Christmas ever. “How about those socks? I’ll take those off your hands,” he said, eyeing the warm-looking dark green wool.
“The socks I keep,” the kid said swiftly, and Patrick shrugged.
“Can’t win ‘em all, I guess.”
“How do I look? Better?” The kid slouched in front of the fire, looking sullen.
“Good, but not good enough,” Patrick said. He pulled out his trusty switchblade. “Don’t panic,” he said, although the kid hadn’t flinched at all. “It’s your haircut. Way too nice. All the discerning street kids look like someone with a switchblade hacked it off. That’s because someone did,” he added.
The kid grimaced. “Want to play barber?”
Weird kid, thought Patrick, as he sliced off hunks of dark hair, sending black strands flying to mix with the snow in the air. “I could just cut your throat and take the rest of your stuff,” he pointed out.
A cheerful, wry grin. “You already have pretty much everything valuable on me.”
Patrick frowned. "Sure, but this isn't some kind of game. I gotcha, you think you're going to see how the other half lives and all, but--" He hesitated, hacking off another lock of hair. "Hey, it pains me to admit it, but I kind of like you, and I don't want to find your body in an alley somewhere."
A shadow passed over the kid's face for a moment. "Don't worry about me," he said shortly. He looked straight at Patrick, and Patrick found himself looking away first from those uncanny eyes. "I know it's not a game."
Patrick shrugged. “Well, don't come running to me when you get your kneecaps broken." He flipped the switchblade shut. "There. You’re still too clean and well-fed, but time will take care of those things naturally, don’t worry.”
“Thank you.”
Patrick shook his head. “You’re crazy, you know that? What the hell are you doing?”
“Learning,” said the kid. He held out his hand, and after an awkward moment Patrick realized he was supposed to shake it, so he did so. The kid nodded, then turned to go.
“Hey!” Patrick called. Already the snow was making him hard to see, a shadow among the whiteness. “Where are you going, anyway?”
He didn’t look back. “Further,” he said.
And then he was gone.
(Chapter 23)