Nervous Little Mice

[Donald Hickory]

It was terribly cold going crouched in the ditch as he was. He should have thought to swipe one of the doctor's big white coats when he left, but he didn't dare in case he was caught both running and stealing. Besides, it would have attracted too much attention during the summer time. Don wondered whether he would be seen now though anyway, covered in a blanket of snow as he was. Why it was snowing in this area, goodness knew. It was only just the start of Winter, anyway. Anyway, the fact stood that he was cold and coatless and there was nothing he could do about it at all, so it was best to stop thinking about it. In fact it was probably best to stop thinking at all. Thinking made you wonder, wondering made your imagination work and imagining things made you frightened; at least in Don's experience. There were plenty of things to worry about, too. Dying, for one. A thrill of terror ran through the thin, frail teen though he had long since stopped shivering at the cold. If he'd had any idea that he was in great danger just by this one fact he would have been up and running again, but this ditch was comfortable. Thankfully not for long.

Clang, clang, clang. Don whimpered with shock and peered out from beneath the snow drift. This was it, he was going to die. What a terrible, horrible sound! The woman at the door of her snow-covered cottage finally managed to place the lid down onto her tin dustbin and dusted the snow from her gloves. She had a round, matronly figure and a sharp eye. Even with the white blanket around him she noticed the little lump in the gutter by the garden path. Just poking out from beneath the lump was a shock black hair. "Oi! You there!" cried Marter, and the lump exploded into terrified personage. Don didn't even notice his wobbly gait since he was running as fast as his frozen limbs could carry him. Run, run, run! Don ran like a startled horse and didn't stop but for one obstacle - another human being. Messy, black hair. Darker than his. The man's eyes were wide like his and older, but just as shocked. Don began to tear up in terror, biting his frost bitten knuckles. He couldn't even say a word in apology.

 

[Adrian Faraday]

Adrian was cold, so very cold. Even in a sweatshirt and jeans, he was freezing. Adrian had never been one to deal too well with the weather, hot or cold. Tyrone always said he was overly sensitive. To be fair, that was probably true. He let too much get to him. Paranoia. It's why he walked now with his arms wrapped tightly around his chest, protectively. It was his natural stance, ever since Apollo had pushed him down the stairs. At age eleven. In all his years, Adrian hadn't been able to shake off that paranoia. Now he was thirty-five, eternally single, still in the care of his brother...a really sad figure, if he was to be honest with himself. He tried not to think of that. After all, Adrian was incredibly intelligent. Maybe not when it came to social and personal skills, but there was no denying that he was a genius.

Shuffling along on his way home - Tyrone insisted that Adrian left the house once in a while, which he did dilligently, as much as he hated it - Adrian was stupped suddenly as a boy ran in to him. Well, a young man. About twenty or so, who kinda looked a mini version of himself. Well, not really, but even Adrian could see that he was just as scared as he was. Adrian's nails dug in to his own arms, staring back at the boy. "Um," Adrian stuttered, wanting to break the silence somehow. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he whispered, silently begging the kid not to hurt him.

 

[Donald Hickory]

Don stared at the older man, not even realising that he was quite a bit taller. Then again, he'd be taller still if he wasn't hunching like a crone and ducking his head, but like Adrian's protective stance, he too had his own habitual posture that was probably the cause of his painful neck, back and shoulders knots. There was no way to get them out though; not with him barely uncurling from this position and never daring to visit a masseuse. He didn't feel it now, though. He didn't feel anything in his limbs; only terror and guilt at startling Adrian. Breathing heavily, Don's bottom lip began to tremble as he tried so terribly hard to apologise. The tears now leaking out of his eyes were beginning to freeze on his cheeks in the biting wind but he dared not move to wipe them away. "Ungh ... mm ... mm ...". Please, help me! he begged pointlessly to no one. This fear was paralysing and he hated it more than anything else in the world. No one could help him, though. Don knew that well enough now. Perhaps his body became sympathetic of his mind's currently unhinged state and spared them both the trouble of feeling the cold, pain and fear. Don tipped forward and fell into Adrian's arms in a dead faint. He felt ... tired now ...

"And does that make you feel frightened?" said the nurse, holding up a placecard of a very muggle human being in strange clothes, holding onto the hand of a small muggle child with a camera. "No," lied Don pathetically. The Healer in the corner didn't miss him shrinking away from the nurse as far as was possible in a seated position. "Don, look at the card please. " He flinched at the sound of his name. "This. Does this frighten you? Please tell me what you feel." A few waves on the pages, enchanted to flow softly back the forth. It was a calm scene. Don began to hyperventilate. No, the waves were much bigger than that. He could feel how terribly cold they were and the thump of hard objects against his body. Bruises were blossoming on his thin arms but the child barely noticed them in the terror of trying to find the next breath of air. Don began to rub his arms, still feeling old bruises that couldn't be seen. The thirteen year old boy began to cry out and the nurse half stood as she placed the card down in alarm. "Don't come any closer!" screamed Don. "I think it's time to go to bed," said the nurse, reaching out tenderly. She soon recoiled with a scream of pain as blood blossomed on her arm. Three long gouges ran red where the boy had dug his fingers in and raked them across, incoherent and desperate to avoid contact. Things became dark ... then light again. Don whimpered. "Mum?" No, this place smelled all wrong for his mother's home. He wasn't welcome at his mother's anymore, anyway. Don was shaking but not with fear; water was beginning to drip from his nose and fingertips. He was freezing.

 

[Adrian Faraday]

Adrian shifted nervously on the spot, starting to panic. The kid wasn't really responding well, he looked like he was really out of it, like he wasn't going to last much longer. Adrian hugged his chest tighter, terrified. He wasn't the one who could look after people. That was Tyrone, always thinking about others, always taking care of him and everyone else at the children's home, for that matter. Adrian was the one who needed care, the one who they'd been sure to essentially wrap in cotton wool anytime he left the house so he couldn't get hurt. He was too sensitive. Intelligent and logical, but no interpersonal skills. He could barely take care of himself, and he certainly didn't know how to take care of others. And now the kid had fallen, and Adrian knew at the very least he had to do something. But what?

"Logic," he whispered to himself. "What would Tyrone do? What's the logical thing to do? It's cold, so he needs to warm up. Where is a warm place? Home, home but I don't know where he lives. Our house? Tyrone will know what to do. I hope he's home. Apparate! I need to get out of the cold, I need to think." And with a crack, the two of them disappeared, reappearing in the living area of the small yet cosy house that Adrian and Tyrone shared. Laying the kid down on the sofa, Adrian stepped back hurriedly, trying to think. What do I do now? Worse, the kid was beginning to wake up, and Adrian knew he was just as scared. "Um. Um. Are you okay? You...you fainted and...should I get you something? I don't know what to do...!" he moaned, digging his fingernails in to his arms. He was terrified, both for himself and for the kid. If he couldn't help him, who knew what might happen?

 

[Donald Hickory]

Don was getting to the point where he was so frightened that he would cling to anything. So he did. The eighteen year old boy buried his dripping wet face into Adrian's chest and began to sob, innocent of how shameful people would think it for someone of his age to be shaking like a child as he was. He was so desperately ill that he didn't know left from right or friend from foe and simply help onto Adrian as he bawled. It was a long time before he stopped long enough to notice his blue fingers and toes. Don scrunched his eyes shut tight as he realised just how dangerous a situation he was in but couldn't bring himself to let go of the dark-haired man's shirt. Panting, he managed to speak, though frailly. "Please, please don't hurt me. I'm sorry, I'm really sorry! I'm very cold." There, that would do. Basic communication of need. Don was scared as hell but he was smart enough and knew that when someone was cold, they should become warm. A bath sounded heavenly; lots of blankets, hot chocolate, maybe a hot water bottle to snuggle up to. Don unconsciously snuggled closer to Adrian. The effect was like a melting icecube cuddling up to a mouse. His fingers were trembling on the material and the nervous creature he was holding was probably about to wet himself in fear, but Don simply didn't care anymore. "Please, please help me!" he begged.

Who was the person who had saved him, and where exactly were they? There was a long wet patch where he had been lying on a plush and exceedingly comfortable sofa. No, the house didn't smell like his mother at all. He must be at the stranger's house, since of course they wouldn't know where he lived ... or used to live. Don had fled the place he hated most only one week before today. Five years he had spent in the mental care ward of St Mungo's Hospital with nothing to show for it but the disposition of a nervous kitten and all the social skills of a flea. It was a wonder that he wasn't already dead, and so he would have been but for the dark-haired man; he was kind to him. He must have been kind to him. Don's bottom lip fell open slightly as he stared up in awe at Adrian who was clinging to his sides as if in an invisible straight jacket. "Thank you," said Don in a tiny voice, fighting back more tears and trying to rub his hands together.