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(Never seen Orphan Black, this is more of a Never Let Me Go ‘verse)
Newt gets the latest one in the mail. “Caucasian male, tall, 120lb, dark hair, dark eyes, one harvest. St Andrew’s church at 8pm, discretion required.”
Discretion required. Newt swallows. That means he’s of someone important. Newt pulls a spare set of clothes from the wardrobe. Hat, scarf, big coat. Thankfully it’s midwinter or the clothes would look weird.
After a moment, he throws a box of makeup into the pile. Just in case they need to do something drastic. He’s never had a ‘discretion required’ before.
Newt leaves his bungalow by the back door, he shuffles painfully through the dead leaves, wincing with every crunched footstep. There’s no moon, the sky is cloudy and, soon after Newt turns off the main road and into the little side-street that leads to the ruined church, it starts to rain.
Newt shrugs up his collar, he ducks around the side of the building and to the old gate that never locks. He pushes it open a few inches, and the hinges squeak. Newt freezes, and wriggles through.
The graveyard is pitch-dark, Newt blinks and blinks and squints. The rain falls in soft rustles on the leaves, gleams on the stone graves and the church steps.
As he’s watching, something moves in the shadow of the stairs. Newt perks up, but doesn’t move. His throat seizes because- what if it’s a set up? Discretion required. A famous one. Newt’s never done anything so dangerous.
He takes a breath, he wishes he’d thought of better code words, three years ago when he’d thought this was just a big adventure. “The red haddock flies at midnight.” He calls softly, feeling like a total idiot. If this is a set up, he really doesn’t want those to be his last word.
“But tomorrow will be froggy.” The voice comes back, stiff and disgusted but Newt relaxes. It’s him. “Did you choose the code yourself?”
“Don’t laugh.” Newt shuffles over. The man in half buried under the mountain of coats and he stinks. It’s a good disguise. Homeless man reeking of shit gets avoided by everyone. “Want a change of clothes.”
The man looks up, the distant streetlights flare in his eyes. “Probabaly should not.” He sighs, “Keep them until we’re off the streets. I don’t suppose you have access to a shower?” He gets up, and hobbles over. One leg drags. Newt’s throat closes, one harvest.
“Sure, and hot water.” He says instead.
He holds his breath, and offers the man his arm. The man takes it with a sigh of relief. “Apologies for the smell, I- I was- I needed to-”
“Don’t worry about it.” Newt tries to breath through his mouth. “My place isn’t far, I’ve got a spare room while we get you your papers.”
For a moment, they shuffle on in silence. Newt squeezes through the gate first, the man follows. “I’ll need more than just that.” The man sighs.
Newt doesn’t say anything, but then they pass under a streetlight and Newt can see his face.
It’s not the same, of course. He’s Newt’s age at most, under the filth and dirt, he’s even got a few leaves in his hair. But it’s not enough to hide the cheekbones, the chin, the deep dark eyes. “Gottlieb?” Newt breathes.
The man nods. “My name’s Hermann.” It’s half snarled.
“Okay.” Newt says softly. “Mine’s Newt.”
Hermann nods. “Thank you.” He says softly. He looks up at the light, as they pass by it. “I’ll need surgery.”
“I’m a doctor, I know people.” Newt squeezes his arm. “Our people. And you can crash with me until you’re healed up and feeling okay.”
Hermann takes a deep breath. “Thank you.” He says again. His body trembles, he misses a step and his leg buckles. Newt steadies him, holds him up, winces at the thought of the amount of cleaning his coat’s going to need. The man leans against him for a moment, closes his eyes. “Thank you.”
The words come up as though ripped out of some deep part of him, as thought this was some kind of- harvest. A harvest of desperate words.
“It’s okay.” Newt’s mouth is dry, a little numb. “Seriously.” The words seem pathetic in comparison.
For a moment, he can only hold the other man. Tries to ignore the stench. “Come on,” he tries to sound cheerful, “Let’s get you home and cleaned up.”
(Never seen Orphan Black, this is more of a Never Let Me Go ‘verse)
Newt gets the latest one in the mail. “Caucasian male, tall, 120lb, dark hair, dark eyes, one harvest. St Andrew’s church at 8pm, discretion required.”
Discretion required. Newt swallows. That means he’s of someone important. Newt pulls a spare set of clothes from the wardrobe. Hat, scarf, big coat. Thankfully it’s midwinter or the clothes would look weird.
After a moment, he throws a box of makeup into the pile. Just in case they need to do something drastic. He’s never had a ‘discretion required’ before.
Newt leaves his bungalow by the back door, he shuffles painfully through the dead leaves, wincing with every crunched footstep. There’s no moon, the sky is cloudy and, soon after Newt turns off the main road and into the little side-street that leads to the ruined church, it starts to rain.
Newt shrugs up his collar, he ducks around the side of the building and to the old gate that never locks. He pushes it open a few inches, and the hinges squeak. Newt freezes, and wriggles through.
The graveyard is pitch-dark, Newt blinks and blinks and squints. The rain falls in soft rustles on the leaves, gleams on the stone graves and the church steps.
As he’s watching, something moves in the shadow of the stairs. Newt perks up, but doesn’t move. His throat seizes because- what if it’s a set up? Discretion required. A famous one. Newt’s never done anything so dangerous.
He takes a breath, he wishes he’d thought of better code words, three years ago when he’d thought this was just a big adventure. “The red haddock flies at midnight.” He calls softly, feeling like a total idiot. If this is a set up, he really doesn’t want those to be his last word.
“But tomorrow will be froggy.” The voice comes back, stiff and disgusted but Newt relaxes. It’s him. “Did you choose the code yourself?”
“Don’t laugh.” Newt shuffles over. The man in half buried under the mountain of coats and he stinks. It’s a good disguise. Homeless man reeking of shit gets avoided by everyone. “Want a change of clothes.”
The man looks up, the distant streetlights flare in his eyes. “Probabaly should not.” He sighs, “Keep them until we’re off the streets. I don’t suppose you have access to a shower?” He gets up, and hobbles over. One leg drags. Newt’s throat closes, one harvest.
“Sure, and hot water.” He says instead.
He holds his breath, and offers the man his arm. The man takes it with a sigh of relief. “Apologies for the smell, I- I was- I needed to-”
“Don’t worry about it.” Newt tries to breath through his mouth. “My place isn’t far, I’ve got a spare room while we get you your papers.”
For a moment, they shuffle on in silence. Newt squeezes through the gate first, the man follows. “I’ll need more than just that.” The man sighs.
Newt doesn’t say anything, but then they pass under a streetlight and Newt can see his face.
It’s not the same, of course. He’s Newt’s age at most, under the filth and dirt, he’s even got a few leaves in his hair. But it’s not enough to hide the cheekbones, the chin, the deep dark eyes. “Gottlieb?” Newt breathes.
The man nods. “My name’s Hermann.” It’s half snarled.
“Okay.” Newt says softly. “Mine’s Newt.”
Hermann nods. “Thank you.” He says softly. He looks up at the light, as they pass by it. “I’ll need surgery.”
“I’m a doctor, I know people.” Newt squeezes his arm. “Our people. And you can crash with me until you’re healed up and feeling okay.”
Hermann takes a deep breath. “Thank you.” He says again. His body trembles, he misses a step and his leg buckles. Newt steadies him, holds him up, winces at the thought of the amount of cleaning his coat’s going to need. The man leans against him for a moment, closes his eyes. “Thank you.”
The words come up as though ripped out of some deep part of him, as thought this was some kind of- harvest. A harvest of desperate words.
“It’s okay.” Newt’s mouth is dry, a little numb. “Seriously.” The words seem pathetic in comparison.
For a moment, he can only hold the other man. Tries to ignore the stench. “Come on,” he tries to sound cheerful, “Let’s get you home and cleaned up.”
