And the Interlude –
6.
Brandt was ten, and there were dark corners in the orphanage he knew by heart, lurking away from adults' eyes, whispering an appealing, chilling song of shelter. The kids sometimes would get cruel, a little bit of laughing and shoving and he would end up with scratches and bruises well-hidden underneath well-worn clothes. Brandt always stayed silent, his lips thinned to this determined line that was frigid and sharp like a wind of winter undaunted by the coldness of the world, something lonesome and animalistic born to endure. Words were uttered as if concerns could tear down his little worn-out heart, desiring to take a look at where his softest resided.
Brandt didn't like to talk; there wasn't much which he thought to be essential to verbally share with the beings around him – every breath that was not his own, was impersonal. He didn't live in a solitude universe; Brandt existed along with the general reality but didn't connect to it quite the whole way. In quiescence, he went to the corners he knew well, bending his back and curling into himself. The song had been smoothing, alluring like a beast luring its hard-hearted prey, and by the time he got out moving as though a mouse past old walls and long corridors, he would be scolded for all the cobwebs and dust dirtying his shirt and trousers.
The kids didn't get him; the adults didn't know how to deal with him. Brandt didn't find it necessary to make any guesses on the matter.
"Ain't this place a wee bit gelid for a bairn?" One day, said a man whose crimson hair out-burned the pale shine of the cloudy sun, green eyes drably glancing at him through the idle flutters of eyelashes, and Brandt looked up from where he was seated on the short stoned steps in a corner of the wan and bony backyard garden of the orphanage – at that tall figure seemingly able to cover the sky from Brandt's eyes just by his murky, immense shadow. Brandt didn't reply, which in turn did nothing in term of bother to the older person. The man dipped his hands into his coat's pockets, his breaths misty and gloomy as though black bogs lying amongst ashen hills glimpsed in a hazy, despairing dawn, musing, "Nothing burns like the cold though."
The white-washed sweater Brandt was wearing was on this side of a bit thin and that size of a bit large. It was handed down by some older kid that had left the orphanage long ago, and Brandt liked its pastel shade enough to actually make an effort to keep the piece of garment. It didn't do a good job of warding away the freeze, but when hearing the man's saying, Brandt reflexively hugged himself with the small grasp of his small arms, scrunching up the woolen clothing into his upper body. His fingertips were cold-bitten to a numbing red, and the chill coursing through his limbs was elating in a way his heart trembled over in fearful, icy rushes. He stared at the man's worn leather shoes, listening to its quiet rustles on the ground as the man turned around.
"Don't let yourself get iced out 'ere. That brat will not be pleased if anything happen to you tot," something in the man's voice became aggressive and keen when he almost gritted out the brat word.
Brandt blinked, and the scenery disappeared into pitch black. Someone was shaking his shoulders, shouting, "Captain Brandt!"
Gunfire hotly blared in his ears, a grenade exploding in a near distance, but his eyes were so heavy. "Captain, stay with us!" Brandt smelled blood drying on the burning sand, the coldness in his heart squeezing the dark tendons to a fierce rage coursing through his whole body.
A weighty thud landed beside him after a rattling shoot ran out, his chests constricting and his closed eyelids blazing. Brandt breathed out harshly, struggling to open his eyes until the chaotic, brutal sounds surrounding him faded along with the rising thickness of his awareness. He felt like he was trembling to his bones.
Gradually, he felt soft little fingers tracing the inner patterns and calluses of his gun-holding hand, someone murmuring his name, tender and serene in the haze of darkness; there was an animal uncoiling its battered fleshes and whimpering inside his burdensome ribcage.
"Brandt."
He opened his eyes, to white-tiled ceiling, pale-blue walls, beeping ECG devices and wan afternoon sunlight. Doctor and nurses rushed into the room; behind the briefly ajar door the black cut of suits could be glimpsed guarding outside. Brandt managed his breaths to an even rhythm, his body tense from holding back the flinch that promised not just a simple scuffle. He didn't want to take any anesthetic at the moment, not for a long while before he could stand the sight of a needle again. After ensuring his condition was stable enough, the medical staff left, scattering advice and warnings here and there.
The dip of the mattress on his right indicated a resident was leaning on the bed, the mellow caresses in his palm not ceasing, and a touch of warm breath faint against his skin. Brandt slowly turned his head; the blue in his irises gentled as they took in the figure of a child pressing a side of his face to white cloth, hand holding onto his bigger one, a worn brown blanket covering his shoulders.
"You're awake," Arthur confirmed; a bruise paled to an unseen blue lurking on the child's hidden cheek, Brandt gazing at it but not yet saying anything. "Mycroft and Dr. Watson said you would be out of the hospital real soon, but I was worried your dreams would be too vivid." The child climbed on the bed then, dragging his secure blanket along and not letting go of Brandt's hand while doing so. Arthur laid next to him, every move so careful as if the world surrounding him was a thin papered structure built to collapse.
"Your hand is cold," Little body curled up just beside the beatings of his heart, little hands clutching like endeavoring to secure all the precious, frail warmth left in Brandt's veins. Brandt's calluses had been roughened through time, under the violent pressure of isolation, survival and warfare, their contours trenchant and hard like the rusted edge of an experienced blade, hugging the triggers as though loving a deadly dame; and manicured short digits kept tracing along those scabrous razor-edged marks murmuring esoteric stories only known by the familiar touches of their inner palms.
Brandt meticulously moved his hand to cover Arthur's grasping ones, infantile warmth faint and dear, Brandt's mobility still too weakened and disoriented for him to carefully gather the child into his steely arms and bring him to a place where nothing could hurt the tenuous and vulnerable, where not even Mycroft's taut, self-contained tenderness could reach.
Reminiscing the cold pernicious bite of injection sharpened the back of his neck, that curl of susceptibility making him furious and alarmed - In the moment Arthur was taken, Brandt knew of utter despair. The base, tiny monster cowering on the moist stoned steps in that droopy garden was frightened aware, clenching the faded thin fabric hardly able to secure it from the frigidity – Detached green eyes befogged the sky, undismayed with all the shadows, nothing burns like the cold though.
Soft, warm breaths quietly resounded in the white-washed room; Brandt listened and closed his eyes.
[Message played after the beep.]
"Heeeey! Alfred's speaking! Do you have something seriously important to tell me? Bad-timing, dude. I'm kinda on the plane all across to the other side of the Atlantic and stuffs. Not season-appropriate for a sudden holiday at all, I know right? Sooooo, no calling until the jet lands. If it's you, Mattie, I swear I didn't drop that bottle of maple syrup on purpose. You gotta believe in your bro over your wild, fat pet! And if it's you, Boss, I'd like to say I've decided to take my self-appointed vacation a tiny bit sooner as stated earlier – sometime after my totally awesome greeting? Man, a dude has to take a breather every once in a while, and that Billy guy seemed like he would tear his hair out at any moment – aggressive, that one. He totally disrespected the wonder of McDonald, I. Tell. You! Weeeell….. Despite his complete rudeness to awesome foods, Billy should still be given some lay-days, or the dude would go bald on me! I felt so generous and sensible doing all that. Phew. Anyways, I'm off! Gotta fly, talk to y'all later!"
[The recording of your message will start after the beep.]
"Alfred, you bastard! Don't you think I will believe you, stop blaming Kumajirou! You'd better buy me another bottle after you come back, eh. Oh, by the way, are you going to see Arthur...? I haven't been able to contact him at all, but there is no apparent crisis in his country, and the agents who replied my calls just wouldn't let me get through to him… So, I don't know whether something is wrong. You know how Arthur could be with his problems. If you meet him, tell him Matthew says hi, please. I'm a bit worried… Well, I'll call you later then, to make sure. Bye!"
A/n: _There is a short piece, which I've posted along with this chapter (also short, but still appropriately interlude-long), to accompany DW. You may want to take a look at it.
_ Since I haven't had the chance to reply to your reviews, I will answer some of the questions in this author note.
Q1: Is Brandt an OC?
Yes, Brandt is an Original Character, and I've grown quite fond of him actually.
Q2: Was Arthur raped by Moriarty in chapter 5?
No, Arthur wasn't raped by Moriarty. The mastermind was mad and got violent, detailed: kidnapped, mentally tortured, slapped and bit Arthur to scare the heart out of the poor wee thing – but no non-con. So please sleep peacefully at night, even if this answer doesn't ease the hurt away.
_ After this interlude – as most of you had predicted – things get intense.
Thank you for reading as always!