Nora had gotten the quiet boy inside the house before the tide washed him away, but had no luck getting a word out of him until she started heating up the chowder. He drifted slowly closer to the kitchen smells, though he seemed wary of being within arm's reach, and he still didn't answer her questions. Simple questions. Where was he staying? Where were his parents? Where did he get that bruise?

His name was Pete. He wasn't from anywhere. He was travelling. She offered him the chowder, and her hand. He was freezing, and she mentioned letting him clean up while she got a few things done before dinner. She didn't so much ask him as guide him in the vicinity of the bathroom and push a towel into his arms. When she finally heard the water running, she rapped on the door, telling him to leave his dirty clothes outside, and she'd leave him something he could wear in the meantime.

She scooped up his dirty things, wondering if they'd be worth washing. They had looked too big for him anyway, and had frays and holes besides. She decided a few things. He was going to stay the night with her. And she'd take him clothes shopping in the morning. She casually deposited the clothes into the wastebin.

After his wash, he seemed in higher spirits. He answered some questions for her. He'd gotten into town that morning. He'd come through the apple orchard to the west of town. Yes, he would love corn in his chowder.

He was still reluctant to answer basic questions, so she talked to him, instead. She told him about the recipe. How she'd learned it. She told him about mending fishing nets and maintaining the lighthouse. She talked about her mother. And her father. She talked about how sad it made her that he drank so much.

Pete tucked into the warm chowder like a child starving, once she told him he could set to it. He made a mysterious remark about the difference it made when the food was hot, and he finished quickly. Nora casually refilled his bowl without him having to ask, without even pausing her story. She passed behind him, though, and he tensed. Then she was sitting beside him, talking about lobsters and crabs, and he relaxed some. Even smiled.

It made all the difference in the world when he smiled. He had wide, expressive eyes. He carried in them a cloak of fear that was banished when he smiled. He had dimples, and the smile transformed him into a whole new person. Or perhaps, it let the old person – the child he was supposed to be – shine through easier.

She refilled his bowl a second time, though only half-full. She brushed the back of his neck, and more than tensing, she heard him take his breath in with a hiss of pain. She frowned. His tension hadn't come only from fear. It had come from pain. He hadn't touched his hair in his wash, and she wondered if it hurt him to raise his arms too high.

She took the collar of his shirt, pulling it gently away from the back of his neck before he could jerk away. Whip marks reached as high as his neck, and descended, she suspected, down the length of his back.

"I can…help you with that," Nora said carefully, not wanting to scare him away. "Looks painful," she added, and instead of moving to sit at the table again, she busied herself with other kitchen things. Things that would keep her between Pete and the door, if he decided to bolt.

The silence stretched longer than Nora was comfortable, but at length, Pete took an audible breath, and set back to eating his chowder. "Mr. Gogan," he said, looking into his bowl as he ate. Nothing else. Just the name.

"Gogan?"Nora didn't let worry into her tone. Didn't let anger into her tone. Just light curiosity. She didn't even look at him, which was probably fine with him, because he was still talking to his food.

"The Gogans own me. I guess," he said at length. "They said it was against the law for me to ever leave them." He seemed to trail off, lost in thought, and Nora went back to the stove, her back to Pete. She wore an ugly, angry expression on her face that she didn't necessarily want Pete to see and think it was intended for him.

"Where'd you get that bruise?" she asked when she could control her emotions again, indicating the series of marks on his back, sitting back at the table and trying to catch Pete's eye.

"Mr. Gogan. I was milking the cow, and I missed the bucket." He still spoke to his food, which was quickly diminishing. Then a furtive glance in Nora's direction.

"Had he done that before?" Nora asked. Neutral tone. Maybe a little mad. But Pete just nodded.

"All the time," he said earnestly. "The first time I ran away, the orphan home sent me back." He looked at her. Right at her. The fear was back in his eyes. "This time, I'll just keep running." He meant it. He was deadly serious.

Nora didn't let worry mark her face. She offered a warm smile. "Well, you'll be safe here," she vowed. She would make sure of it. Tomorrow she'd take him clothes shopping. Then maybe see about enrolling him in school. Sorting out a room for him. She'd have to tell her dad.

Pete put his spoon in his bowl, and Nora took it from him. Pete seemed to fidget uncomfortably for a moment, before he finally looked at her. He was smiling, but there was a sad undercurrent still on his face. "Nora, no one's ever been this nice to me. I'll always remember it." It was the genuine gratitude of a child. And it was heartbreaking.

"Pete," Nora returned softly, touched at his words. "Why don't you sleep here tonight," she asked casually. "We'll figure out what to do tomorrow," she added, seeing Pete's face transform again. A blank expression, shutting her out, with guarded, fearful eyes that didn't belong to a child. "Okay?" she plead.

And slowly, Pete finally nodded, an uncertain smile creeping back to his face despite himself. Nora's smile crept onto her face again to match.

"Wonderful."

-o-

E

Trying to write! I have a goal of 50,000 words this year! Maybe it will be 50,000 words of fanfiction drabbles!

I have had this on the backburner for a while, waiting until I could get my lazy self to find out the actual dialogue from this scene instead of just winging it. So only about 2 or 300 of these words counted for my goal, but I like the satisfaction of a finished piece, so I'm not complaining.

Maybe I can actually finish 100fandomhell this century!