V
"I'm back. We can go now."
Eleven, her hands firmly placed on her knees, turns around to look at Peter.
And even though having him there comforts her—after all, running away by herself at her age would have surely been a death sentence—she cannot help the feeling of unease at knowing what Peter is capable of.
Nevertheless, she decides it'd be best to appear as harmless as possible—not that hard, since she in fact does not wish to harm anyone, least of all Peter, who had always helped her—so she asks the first thing that pops into her head.
"Why… we come… here?"
His smile shows up immediately.
"I've already told you." And to illustrate his point, he raises the linen bag he is carrying (she now realizes) on his right hand. "We need money for food and other expenses."
Eleven blinks, confused. Yes, sure, that makes sense. But…
"How did you know… about this place?"
A derelict house, which by the looks of it has not seen a soul in decades. Here he had found something valuable (money, he had said)? How had he known to look here? Unless… it had been him who had put it here in the first place.
Peter's smile does not falter even for an instant: to the contrary, with deliberate calm he walks up to the couch in front of her and sits down. Unlike Eleven, who always slouches due to her timid nature, he sits straight, with perfect posture, and this reminds her of all the years she had known him as an orderly.
"Eleven, I think it's past time we trust each other, don't you agree?"
Involuntarily she looks down. Still unable to make eye contact, she hears him sigh.
"I guess, in a way, you were not ready for what you saw today. That's why I told you to wait for me, but, well, here we are." His tone is gentle throughout, even if it lets some reproach show. "It's alright: and, if anything, it shows you have the instincts of a survivor in you."
Eleven does not know the meaning of some of those words; regardless, she decides not to ask. Even if Peter has always been patient with her—because he has always been patient with her—she had been under the impression that the gentle orderly would be incapable of harming anyone.
And how wrong she had been.
It followed that, instead of bothering him with all her little questions, she looks at him dead in the eyes and asks him:
"Where…? Where… are we?"
"That's better; you don't need to be afraid of me," Peter offers with his gentle voice. "If you ask me something, I will answer."
Peter interprets her silence as the invitation to continue it really is.
"This"—he gestures expansively—"was once my home, Eleven."
His beatific smile contrasts in an almost funny way with the darkening red that stains his shirt.