It was dark and he didn't know where he was.
No, that was wrong. He did know where he was, he just didn't know why. He was in a forest. Although, now that he thought about it, he didn't know where this forest was. So he really didn't know where he was. It was dark though.
The trees were thick and close together. It made the entire forest dark. His internal clock informed him that it was night-time, but that was all it could tell him. It couldn't tell him what time it was or what day of the week.
The ground beneath his feet was cold. Freezing, really. The skin that was visible through the mud had turned a strange shade of white to blue. He knew that that should worry him.
There were a lot of things that should worry him.
For one, he was wandering a forest, alone, at night, with no shoes on.
Two, he had a feeling that he wasn't alone when he entered.
Three, he had no idea what he was supposed to be doing or why.
Four, his back, neck and shoulders were wet.
And, five, he wasn't entirely sure who he was.
That last one should probably worry him the most.
He raised a shaky hand to the back of his head. He hissed as his numb fingers can into contact with his definitely not numb head. His fingers were shiny. The little light available bounced from the snow to the shininess. His fingers shouldn't be shiny, and certainly not from anything from his head.
The world lurched lazily, like an old man getting up from a chair. He groaned, like his dad used to. Before he… before… before, he decided.
His internal compass was wrong, and he had no idea where he was going, but he had woken up going in this direction.
No, not woken up. He couldn't have been moving if he wasn't awake. He remembered going in this direction, and nothing from the minute before. Maybe that was just more 'before,' though. He didn't need to worry too much about the 'before.' The people from 'after' would take care of him, once he found them.
He didn't know who they were, just that they were different. Different from what he remembered, anyway. Not harsh voiced or blunt handed.
No. Soft hands and rumbly voices. Like purring. Like a little kitten. No. Not soft on the outside.
He stumbled. "Inside," he muttered. "Soft inside."
Blood trickled down his legs from scratched knees and wounded torso. Why had they taken his shirt? He liked his shirt. It was nice. The people had liked it too. But then the mean people had taken it. They had put him in chains.
His wrists dripped blood. He was leaving a red trail.
Red trail… red… red.
He straightened. He shivered. This way.
It had gone wrong. It had gone badly wrong. It wasn't supposed to. It was supposed to be safe. That's why he was alone. That's why they had let him go alone. He was supposed to have them there. But they weren't. It went wrong.
He didn't know how. It had been fine one minute – lights too bright, sounds too sharp, but fine, everything fine – and then it had been dark and wet and painful and cold. It had been cold, and he was tied too tight to shiver. And then it had been cold and wet and cold and not as dark. Not as stuffy.
He breathed. There was air in the forest. Air was good. Air wasn't pain. Air wasn't blood. Air wasn't blunt hands and sharp words and clawing instruments.
Water bubbled. He stopped and stared at the bubbling and rushing. He was following the water. He was following it to… to where it went. It would go somewhere and then they would find him. The people would find him. His people, not the sharp people.
Whoever any of them were.
He dropped his head, watching the rushing current and wobbled alongside it, watching it. Sticks and rocks got caught in the race and were carried out of sight.
"Sticks and stone," he murmured.
There was an end to that. Somewhere. Somewhere in his head. Something about names. Mean names. People had called him mean names before… before… before…
But his name. He didn't know his name. It meant something, he knew. A warm voice, laughing and singing, saying his name, he just didn't understand it. And a deeper voice, scratchy and growly, but still kind, saying his name, giving his name. He just couldn't understand it. He couldn't hear it. He couldn't remember the voices. The words.
Words.
Cowboy. That wasn't his name. But it was… it was something. Something soft. Something kind. Something that was mean but wasn't anymore.
"Solo!"
He looked up. Big and broad and blond. Small and sharp and soft. Running towards him. As fast as they could. His people.
Big hands on his arms, shoulders. Little hands on his face. And words, lots and lots of words.
They shared a look.
"Napoleon?"
It wasn't the warm voice or the scratchy voice. But it was a voice that he knew. He liked it just as much.
The big man took off his coat and draped it around him. Warm. The woman looked like she wanted to protest. The big man didn't listen. Big hands moved around him and then he was up and soft.
He curled numb fingers around warm, soft shirts – not as nice as his – and the smaller hands moved his head to rest on big shoulders.
"Everything alright, Cowboy?" the rumbly voice asked, he felt it rumble through his body.
"Never better, Peril," Napoleon mumbled, missing the relieved looks that his partners shared above his head.
Big chest, big shoulders, big, thumping heart. Thump. Thump. Thump. Never-ending thumping, just how he liked it. Warm skin, warms smell, growly words.
Then, bumps and bangs and bashes, and darkness.
Then, softness. Soft softness. Small hands, rubbing skin and brushing hair. Soft, fluffy blankets, but not as comfortable as the small hands. Humming and hugging.
Warm and safe.
It smelled like his people. The people around him. He smelled like his people, pressed between them. Pressed in close, unable to move, but not trapped. Not trapped. Not here, not with his people.
It was dark, and he didn't know where he was, but his people had found him anyway.