Who: Patrick and Neil Jones [NPC] What: First meetings that change everything When: November 15th, 2006 Where: Somewhere in Detroit
Patrick didn't know why he remembered, but he was glad he did.
He had been stumbling home after a night at a bar he couldn't remember much of at all after the third beer or so. He hadn't remembered asking anyone to come home with him either, but he had still woken up with an unfamiliar woman snoring in his bed. And as the guilt burned away, hot in his belly, and he tried to remember anything at all from the night before, only one memory surfaced.
A young boy had asked him for spare change and even when stumbling drunkenly home intending to fuck some stranger who was hanging off his arm, Patrick couldn't pass by someone who was asking for help. He had handed over five dollars and continued on his way.
The memory ate at him. He showered and drank a beer instead of eating breakfast. It eased the ache in his head. He waved awkwardly at the strange woman when she awoke and excused herself from his apartment. And all the while, all he could think of was the boy.
Making a decision in a second, Patrick stood and he grabbed his coat and pulled it on. He was sure that he could re-trace his steps from last night if he tried hard enough. And he hoped vehemently that the boy was still there.
Patrick found him sitting up against a wall, huddled into a coat that wasn't warm enough for a Detroit winter. The boy had curly hair sticking haphazardly out from under a woolen hat, and he looked about fifteen. When Patrick drew near, the boy looked up, and Patrick noticed a fading green bruise on the boy's face. He hadn't seen it in the dark, but he had known instinctively that there was something going on with the boy. Patrick worked in a homeless shelter and this boy didn't look homeless. His jacket looked like it was probably expensive. He looked lost and terrified; like he didn't belong there on the footpath asking for change.
"Spare change?" the boy asked, and then recognition dawned in the boy's eyes. "Sorry. Didn't realise I already asked you."
Patrick shook his head and he pulled off his gloves. The boy had his hands balled up in his jacket, but Patrick seemed to remember the boy taking the money with his bare hand. "Here. Put these on."
The boy raised his eyebrows and then he took a step away from Patrick. His face took on an expression of intense distrust. "Why?"
"Because it's freezing and I have more. Put them on," Patrick said, holding them out for the boy to take. After a moment, he finally did, slipping them on quickly. "How long have you been out here?"
The boy looked wary, and Patrick used a dirty trick he hardly ever employed because he felt it was manipulative. But he so wanted this boy to trust him because he felt it was important. Patrick, who rarely tapped into his saintly powers these days, sent calming and warming vibes towards the poor boy, hoping that would make him feel more at ease. He had a feeling he wasn't going to get an answer at all without a little saintly manipulation. And the boy's answer was nearly immediate. "A few days."
Patrick had thought as much. "My name is Patrick O'Doyle and I work at a shelter for people who find themselves in tough situations. Does that sound like something you know about?" Patrick asked gently.
The boy looked wary again, but he answered anyway. "Yeah."
"Do you want to talk about it?" Patrick asked, sitting down beside the boy then so he wasn't towering over him.
The boy sniffed and then he wiped at his nose with a gloved hand. "I won't go home again," he whispered. "And I don't care what you say. I'm not going back. It's better out here."
Patrick spent most of his time now selfishly wrapped up in his own self-loathing. He rarely thought of anyone else outside of his work. He was a failure and that permeated everything he touched, even when he drank to dull the guilt. But his emotion for what the boy was saying broke through every barrier Patrick had built up around him and his heart broke. "You don't have to go back," Patrick promised him quickly. "How old are you?"
"Seventeen," the boy replied. "Old enough to leave, but I should have left years ago."
"Do you have school?"
"Left that too," the boy answered quickly. He was beginning to fidget uncomfortably.
"My apartment is about five minutes from here. I could fix you something to eat, if you're hungry. You could warm up a bit. And we could go to the shelter after that and see about getting a roof over your head. How does that sound?"
The boy looked slightly suspicious but he wasn't jaded by experience. He looked like a boy from what was probably a middle-class family and home who hadn't learned to distrust anyone except the people he lived with. And the boy was likely hungry and cold enough to agree to most things even if he was slightly suspicious about them. "Okay," the boy said after a moment. And Patrick was grateful this boy was coming home with him instead of someone who would take advantage of the boy's naivete and desperation.
"Come on," Patrick said, hefting himself off of the cold pavement and holding a hand out to the boy. "You'll be alright. I'll make sure you're taken care of."
"Why?" the boy asked, holding out his hand.
"Because it's my job. And because even if it wasn't, I can." Patrick hated people who seemed to thrive on violence and fear. He wanted to give the boy a really big hug, but he didn't know how that would go over, so he resisted. "And it's freezing out here. Come on."
"Neil," the boy said softly, falling into step beside Patrick.
"Hmm?"
"My name is Neil. And my father's an asshole. Sorry for using that word, Mister O'Doyle, but it's true."
"Call me Patrick. It's nice to meet you, Neil. And you don't have to apologise. I'm pretty sure he's an asshole."
Patrick glanced sideways at the boy and he caught the faintest hint of a smile cross Neil's lips.