LIAR, LIAR ⭑⭒
Characters // Jeremiah (he/him), Atlas (he/him), Alastair (he/him)
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CW: Starvation mention, implied child abuse, religious setting
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He finds the kid looting through the back of one of his trucks.
It’s early morning — earlier than they scheduled for it to be. The sun has just begun to come up, peeking through the fluffs of clouds, its white beams streaming down upon the dark-tiled rooftops of the houses surrounding. Empty, as all that neighbors their church. The vermin has been picked clean. It’s hot out, atypical for this late in October. Jeremiah’s leaned up against the side of the truck, sun shining in his eyes, warming his flushed cheeks. He wipes a lazy hand across his neck, wet and sticky with perspiration. He sighs. He’s sweating through this damn robes. They’re far too heavy for his liking. Dark, absorbent of the heat. He can’t wait for the call of first snow. New beginnings.
He’s got Zaneta in the front, leaned over the wheel, Dani and Peter in the back. Each of them are as bleary-eyed as he is. There are no quips from Peter, nor complaints from Zaneta. Too tired to, he supposes. He’d pushed them, this time. Maybe a little harder than he should have. He was too antsy to wrap up; he got caught up in the thick of it. Homesick, though he’d never admit it. Peter could tell, he thinks. He can always tell when his mind is somewhere else, left behind in the Archives. It’s all well, either way. Julius will be satisfied with his work. He always is. The man’s complaints are never for his ears.
They’ve got the loading van parked out back, sitting amidst the unruly field that rests behind the church, overtaken by weeds and wildflowers; the woods, thick and dark, stretch out beyond. Peter’s taken off his shirt, soiled, crusted by red and brown. He has it slung over his shoulder, rivulets of sweat snaking their way down his back, skin glistening underneath the shine of the morning sun. He has a crate nestled in his arms, heavy. Dani too — these large, wooden things, bundled up with fresh loaves of bread, fruit and vegetables, canned goods. Anything they can get their hands on, usually. This shipment in particular will have the church eating well through the next few months. Jeremiah’s chest puffs up with pride at the mere thought.
It always gets busier in the cooler months. Missions split up between days instead of weeks, dragging on longer than he ever believes is necessary. Tiring, mostly. Jeremiah would much rather spend it underground, cozied up next to Alastair. His brother always knows how to raise his spirits. Though the Archives are always so cold he can hardly stand it on most visits. He wonders numbly how Alastair manages. He takes the harsh conditions without complaint, never one to ask for more than what he is given. The thought tugs at him. He ought to remember to bring down an extra sweater for him one of these days — God knows he needs it.
Jeremiah rounds the truck again, grunting. He busted up his ribs. One of those fuckers took him by surprise, nearly did him in. Thank God for Peter. He’ll have a real nasty bruise, later on. Sleeping’s gonna be uncomfortable, these next few weeks at the minimum. Rubbing at his side, he clambers back up into the back of the truck, steps creaking beneath him as he bends over for more cargo. Best he gets this over and done with; he’s spent enough time dawdling around. Alastair waits for him. He won’t keep him long.
In his hands he carries a massive box of strawberries, red and ripe and scrumptious, bundled up carefully by white cloth. He stacks it atop a heavier one, bolted shut, breaking away at the pile. Grunting, he moves to step outside.
It’s then, that he catches him.
Curled up in the corner, almost fully masked by shadows. A foreign figure, a silhouette that definitely does not belong to neither Peter nor Dani, hunched over a wooden crate. One of his crates. It’s been ripped apart, lid discarded, things rolling upon the floor. He’s got his hands stuffed inside, rummaging through, shoveling food into the pockets of his clothes. A thief, hidden along the dark corners of his van, looting at his rightfully earned keep. Jeremiah stops short.
The hands that dig through are gloved, but careless. They move with haste rather than skill or subtlety. Amidst his shock, Jeremiah is surprised that Peter hadn’t sniffed the kid out already. He must be new to this. No one of experience would make such dangerous mistakes.
Annoyance is prickling through him, spreading, deep, from within his belly, drawing out to his limbs. Tightening, tensing at his muscles. The fuckin’ nerve. A thief, and not even a good one, at that. Messing with their stuff, dirtying and wrecking it. Filthy goddamned animals. One of the brats must have followed them from within the streets of that dirt-ridden human town. It’s the younger ones especially that are always trying to become entangled inside the church’s business, egging at their windows, messing with their signs. It makes him seethe every time. Undeserving little shits. They don’t understand the half of it.
His fists clench, searing hot. He takes a step forward, eyes narrowed. Someone needs to be taught a lesson.
The kid bristles, back straightening, head snapping up, alert. He only notices the eyes on the back of his neck now, the glaring silhouette of the hulking man behind his, casting shadows of death along the walls, waving with the shifts of his anger. He almost teeters forwards as the sound of Jeremiah’s shuffling footsteps ring out, telling. Jeremiah scoffs, uncaring. He isn’t the one who should be scared.
“Hey,” he hisses, his voice a low growl, grabbing a fistful of hair and wrenching the kid forwards. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing back here?”
The kid squawks as he’s ripped up, dropping his find. His hands move automatically to his face as he's whipped around, a soundless scream escaping from his sorry lips. His eyes are wide as saucers as his face is tugged, rough, to be level with Jeremiah’s.
But the face that meets his is younger than he expected. He can’t be older than sixteen. A boy, in all rights. His face, twisted painfully beneath his furious grip, has been marked. Bruises bloom along his soft skin, a wash of nauseating multicolour, green and violet and yellow, a sore sight upon his eyes. Blood is crusted in the corners of his lips, dark rings encircling his eyes. Massive cuts, scabbing, arcing across his forehead, crusted along his temple. Red sticks to his hair, unkempt and dirty. His cheeks are puffy, swollen, as much as Jeremiah can count. As he glares down, large, round, fearful eyes stare up into his.
Jeremiah’s own widen in reflection. The warmth in his hands sputters and dies out. The kid before him is beaten, starving, but most importantly, he’s inhuman. Sharp, elf like ears poke out from his wavy, tousled hair, grazing Jeremiah’s wrist. His pupils are wide, large, dilated to something like a cat’s. The look he gives Jeremiah now is one he knows well. He’s seen it in most of those he finds in Sunday mass, newcomers, always, with that same fearful, shellshocked expression, something haunted residing, trapped, within their eyes. He’d seen it in his friends and in his colleagues. He’d seen it within every anomaly that stumbles through the church’s front doors, dazed and utterly lost. His grip loosens.
“Your face—”
It's almost subconscious, really. It feels natural, reaching up to press a finger beneath the jaw, tilt the boy’s face for further inspection — he would do the same for Alastair. He’s always bruising himself, clumsy. Jeremiah has reached over to rub his thumb along soft red marks along his cheekbones in the same, twin action countless times. The boy is pliant beneath his touch. Easy to bend.
He flinches, all the same, nose quivering. His eyes, blown out and dark, dart from Jeremiah’s face, open, to his hands, dark and red, to the stains and splatters left upon his robe. Terror is alive, present, the jack hammering beat of his rapid pulse. He takes the gore painted upon his faintly freckled skin with the same sort of ghostly horror he would to be caught by a human. The fear is foreign, casted his way, met with it in such a fury.
Jeremiah recoils automatically, instantly, moving away as if he were the one to be burned. The kid drops fast, hard, stumbling into a crate and hitting the point of his spine. He winces, breathing hard, fear flowing easier now that he’s been released, his eyes clouded, dark and unclear. He reminds Jeremiah of a stray. The boy’s got grime smeared upon his cheeks, the same scruffy look most of the strays he tends to run into do. For a moment, Jeremiah thinks he’ll bare his teeth, snap at his fingers.
He’s always been fond of dogs. Once, as a child, he snuck this little mutt with miscoloured eyes into the cupboard beneath the stairs. He skipped school to feed it and nearly got his ass handed to him for it. Alastair had even followed him once, spooked him real bad, blinking at him with those wide eyes of his from the dark. The dog had to go then, returned back into the streets he rescued it from. The boy in front of him now reminds him of it. Those wet, droopy eyes. The fear-stricken face, bordering on aggression. The wildness in his expression, feral and undomesticated. He doesn’t belong to the white, ancient walls of their church. Only God knows if he ever belonged to anything but the streets.
Jeremiah takes a step back, his hands lifted up in surrender. “Shit, sorry— I mean, sorry. Sorry.” He cringes, palms moving to clasp into some sort of prayer. He’s embarrassing himself, acting like a fool. These missions, why, no one should see. He cannot cast his eyes upon his mistakes, his own ego.
He’s gonna scare the poor kid off.
The boy stares up at him with the same shellshocked expression, eyes dilating, shuttering like a camera lens. He’s unresponsive, taking in the apologies with only the sharp blinking of his eerie, wide eyes. A thick clump of hair has fallen past his brow, down past his long fluttering eyelashes. His bottom lip trembles. Jeremiah’s expression softens.
“I won't hurt you,” he promises, whispering through hands marred by his own violence.
The boy stares at him, unconvinced.
Jeremiah winces. The blood trails up his forearms, bruises sneaking past his wrists, the faint red of handprints along flesh. He stares at the kid a little helplessly, coming up empty for any answer, any excuse. He swallows, heart heavy. He’s saved kids like this one; burned, branded, whipped, nestled into the deepest pits of crumbling rubble. Starving, cold, left for dead. The same urge that overtakes him then, a searing in his chest, choking in his lungs, burns within him now. He fights with himself for an explanation, something to make this right. Guard him from this fear. His righteousness is brittle. He’s desperate for an answer, to draw out the complexities into something simpler, something digestible. He’s been searching for it his entire life.
He finds nothing.
“It’s not what it seems,” he starts, taking a step forward. The boy scrambles backwards like his touch is poison, as if the blood touching his skin will seep through his skin, infect his blood with sin. He tries not to take offence.
“Jeremiah!”
There’s a rapid knock against the side of the truck, startling them both. Jeremiah and the boy both flinch, gasping, parallel. They are both trapped doing something they shouldn’t. Talking to another so clearly outside the borders of that he knows feels forbidden, a well-kept secret. He can’t scratch away the disobedient itch in his skin. He’s never been one to follow the rules.
“Get on out here,” Dani, outside, yelling for him. “You still have work to do!”
He glances back, the sun streaming dimly into the belly of the truck. It just skims against his legs, dark shadows following his footsteps. The breeze has begun to pick up. It’s soft, welcome, against his sore muscles, tickling along his cheeks, the glide of the autumn air curving along his features. He huffs, lets his gaze fall past the vibrant fields, down into the woods, darkened and empty. It calls to him.
“I’m coming,” he murmurs.
His eyes find the boy’s again. Fearful, still. Not that he blames him for it. There’s something pleading in them, a desperation he cannot name. Pity swells through him; the sallow, bruised cheeks, the tearful gaze, the trembling lips of a child he should not care for. He can’t help himself. He’s always been soft, especially to kids. He’s too merciful for his own good.
He stoops over, picks up the loaf of bread the boy had discarded, amidst all their excitement. He offers it out, gentle, holds it to the starving boy, a sign of peace. Miraculously, he accepts it.
Gingerly, hands shaking, confused, he accepts it, holding it tight to his chest. His nails are cracked, crusted with blood beneath the beds. Jeremiah would have done the same, at his age. Hungry, when rations grew low. He’d stuff his face, uncaring of the beating his father would deliver if he ever allowed himself to get caught. He wishes to spare this boy from that. He’s been through enough, he can tell. He deserves something good. This is, after all, what he’s always sought out to do. Help, heal. In the only way he knows how.
“Get going,” he whispers, jerking his head to the side. “Before I change my mind.”
The relief is instantaneous.
· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·
The only sound in The Archives is the high pitched and consistent sound of a rickety cart with crooked wheels as it scrapes along to floor. Alastair pushes it persistently down the aisle despite its dangerous wobble.
He feels dreadfully tired and the screeching that fills the silence makes his eye twitch. He’s on edge and irritated. This is not helped by the fact that his face still aches horribly from his encounter with Julius.
Though he’s tried his hardest to forget the events of the week before, Alastair can’t move past his own foolishness and the absurdity of it all. A visitor, of all things. The absolute strangeness of their encounter. He can’t help but think about the man, and his younger companion.
In all his time in the church, he’s never seen such two odd looking strangers. He’s wondered about them constantly despite the trouble they got him in. Every part of him knows how wrong it is to have such curiosities — especially with his responsibilities.
Pulled from his musings by the soft thud of the Archive doors in the distance, Alastair straightens up, stiff and alert like prey, listening out for its predator. His first thought is that Julius has found out about the intruders and that Alastair did not inform him of them. Fear rises and he swallows, ducking his head down towards his cart again to look busy.
“Alastair?” Jeremiah calls and tension immediately releases from Alastair’s shoulders and he perks up, whipping his head toward the entrance.
“Jeremiah?” he says, mostly to himself. He scurries into the main aisle, abandoning his cart. He sees Jeremiah lingering in front of the large doors that closed behind him and gasps excitedly. He adjusts his tie and breaks into a brisk walk, making his way to his brother, his delight apparent.
“Jeremiah. You’re back a whole day early.” He meets Jeremiah at his desk, rocking back and forth onto the balls of his feet, his hands clasped together in front of his chest.
“The mission went better than expected.”
Alastair can’t hold back a smile anymore, beaming. “That’s great news.”
Jeremiah slips his hands into his pants pockets and grins wider. “Missed me?”
Alastair flushes his hands lingering awkwardly in front of him, unsure whether to reach out to his brother or mimic him and put his hands in his pockets. “I did,” he admits sheepishly.
“I brought you something.” Jeremiah says with a grin, pulling something from his pocket and thrusting it out in front of him.
‘A book,’ Alastair realizes. He inhales and slowly reaches forward taking the small hardcover. He looks up to Jeremiah again, showing his teeth. “You actually got one?”
Jeremiah huffs a small laugh. “Yeah, of course.” He says, glancing around at the archives. “They can’t have you working all the time. You need something to entertain yourself.”
Alastair lets out a giggle and smooths his hand over the cover. “Thank you, Jeremiah.” His eyes scan the title and he opens the book, flipping randomly through the pages. “Have you read it?”
“Yeah, I have.” He admits. “It’s pretty good. I think you’ll like it. Real uppity, smart type of words.”
Alastair hums and nods slowly. “This is amazing. I can’t wait to read it. Really, thank you.”
“Of course.” Jeremiah says. “I’ll have to get you some more if you like this one. Build up your collection and whatnot. Maybe I’ll get you some more fantastical books, next mission. The ones with dragons and knights.” He adds with a little smile.
‘Like the games we used to play,’ Alastair thinks privately, fondly. He feels over the moon as he shuts the book and clutches it to his chest. “That would be wonderful.” He glances back to his desk and the extra seat he has for Jeremiah. “Are you going to stay a while?”
“Yeah, of course.” Jeremiah says, moving past Alastair to plop himself down in his chair, gesturing to Alastair for him to do the same.
Obediently, Alastair moves to sit beside his brother, crossing his ankles and setting the book down on the desk. “You said the mission went well, what was it like this time?”
“Oh y’know, same as usual. We made lots of progress this time.” Jeremiah says with a lighthearted shrug. He doesn’t make mention of any real details. Not that that’s unusual for him. “Well that’s good then. The smoother a mission goes, the more I get to see you,” Alastair says sheepishly.
“Exactly. Peter says ‘hi’, by the way.”
Alastair giggles quietly and smooths his palms down his pant legs. “Well tell Peter Rangi I say ‘hi’ as well. How is he doing?”
Jeremiah grins, tipping his chair back and forth absentmindedly. “He’s good. Says he hopes he can meet you soon.” He says, his eyes glinting with excitement.
Alastair’s smile drops slightly and he purses his lips, confused now. “Meet me? How would he go about that?”
“You’ll see.” Jeremiah says, putting a finger to his lips and smirking cheekily.
Alastair decides not to question what that means. It’s not Jeremiah’s way to speak freely and openly about things. It does leave him perplexed though. “All right,” he says with a playful suspicion in his voice. “How long until your next mission?”
Jeremiah stops his bouncing. “Probably two or three days this time.” He says thoughtfully. “But I don’t think I’ll be going too far next time. I’ll only be away overnight, at most.”
Alastair smiles. “Well that’s good then. It is terribly boring when you’re not here.” After a beat, he glances away. “Uh, usually.”
“Usually?” Jeremiah asks without missing a beat, eyebrows furrowing as his gaze snaps to Alastair. “Did something happen?”
Alastair swallows thickly and folds his hands together. “Ah, nothing too strange. Father Julius just paid a visit.” He tips his chin away and rubs his hands together. “And um, someone else came down here the other night.”
Jeremiah sits up straight. “Someone came down here? Who?” He asks cautiously, his demeanour no longer laid back and relaxed. “Did they bother you?”
Alastair stiffens at the instant shift in Jeremiah’s mood. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to bring something like this up. Even if it was Jeremiah, anyone knowing Alastair let someone infiltrate The Archives and leave without notice would not be good. “Oh, no, someone just stumbled down here. Got a little turned around in the dark I think. He was lost so I gave him directions back to the living chambers.” Alastair glances around nervously. “He was very… polite.”
Jeremiah raises an eyebrow. “How did he get lost all the way down in the archives?” He asks, clearly suspicious. ‘Reasonably so,’ Alastair thinks. Nobody ever comes down here, besides Jeremiah and Father Julius.
Alastair flexes his fingers and shifts in his seat. “I’m not sure. I think he just went too many floors down. I’m sure the staircases are confusing.” He chuckles nervously and busies himself with picking at a loose thread on his coat sleeve. “All those twists and turns.”
Jeremiah looks over Alastair with scrunched eyebrows. He hums. “You have to be careful, Alastair,” he warns. “You’re in a high position. People… are more dangerous than you know. You’re vulnerable here.”
“I understand,” Alastair says quickly, relieved Jeremiah doesn’t push harder for information. “I’ll be careful. Though I’m not sure how I’d defend myself under the circumstances where I do meet someone dangerous,” he says and this time he’s not lying.
Jeremiah’s expression softens a little, going warm in the eyes, and he smiles. “Don’t worry, you still got me.” He says, patting Alastair’s knee roughly. “I won’t let anyone get to you, promise.”
Alastair jostles slightly at the firm pat. In the back of his mind he reminds himself that Jeremiah isn’talways there but he smiles anyways and nods. “You’re right, so there’s nothing to worry about.”
His mind still lingers on what could have happened if the intruders had been violent. Jeremiah wasn’t there then. Could his brother have come back to him gutted on the stone floor?
Alastair leans back in his chair slightly, crossing his arms, chilled at the thought. Best not to dwell on it.
He focuses instead on taking in the sight of his brother. He studies Jeremiah, his relaxed posture, the tired lines beneath his eyes that always linger after mission. The lines by his mouth from smiling.
Alastair’s gaze drifts down and catches on a little spot of red on the collar tucked into Jeremiah’s uniform.
“What’s that?” he says, reaching out to push the black part of the collar aside to reveal a larger smear of red against the cream cloth. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“Hm?” Jeremiah recoils, hand coming up to stop Alastair’s. He readjusts the collar tucking the white of it deeper inside.
“Ah, must’ve nicked myself this morning.” He says smoothly, giving Alastair an easy smile. “It’s fine.”
“Well that’s no good. You’ll want to cover it so it doesn’t get infected. I can go grab a bandage,” Alastair says, a little shocked by Jeremiah’s initial retraction.
His brother’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time as he loosely pats Alastair’s hand. “Nah, don’t worry about it. It isn’t a big deal.” He says, before leaning back in his chair again, his posture relaxing. “Probably looks worse than it is. I’ll get it checked later.”
Alastair slowly stands from his chair and looks back towards his bedroom for a moment. “That’s a lot of blood for a nick though. It might have been deep.” He reaches a hand out again towards Jeremiah’s collar to pull it back. “Maybe I should look at it?”
Jeremiah stands abruptly, moving out of Alastair’s reach. The chair behind him tumbles backwards and scrapes against the floor as it falls. His eyes meet Alastair’s again, but this time when he speaks, it’s not the gentle, casual tone Alastair is so accustomed to.
“Alastair,” he snaps. His voice borders on dangerous. “Leave it.”
Alastair blinks, surprised and startled, taking a half step back from where his brother stands. He stares for a long moment, his brows pinched together. His eyes don’t leave Jeremiah’s except to look down at his collar one last time. He’s tense. His face is tight, his voice is strained. The red freckling his neck and clothes suddenly feels scary. “All right… I’m sorry,” he says slowly.
Jeremiah tries for a smile again. “You worry too much.” He bends down to pick his chair up and scoot it close to Alastair once more, sitting down again, almost like nothing happened. “I just scratched myself. Happens all the time.” He laughs, though it sounds forced, glancing up at Alastair. “Sit back down, will you?”
Alastair’s eyes narrow just a fraction before his shoulders relax and he nods, lowering himself back into his seat. “Yes, I’m sorry about that. You should take care of it later though.”
“If you insist, I’ll even go to the infirmary.” Jeremiah says, his tone teasing and relaxed again. He leans back in his chair, his body now positioned so Alastair has a view of his unstained side of the collar. It feels too intentional.
Alastair still chuckles and nods, leaning back into his chair and trying to loosen his posture. “Good, you’d better.”
“Alright, alright. I will.” His brother says, feigning annoyance.
The smile makes it back across his face just as easily. He claps his hands together. “So, how about that book?”
── ⟡ ˙
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