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Barclay notices the kid is there long before he says anything about it. He’s prepping cinnamon rolls so they can be ready for baking in the morning before breakfast, and he’s just finished rolling out and buttering the prepared dough when he catches the flash of black liquid eyes and a puff of white fur peeking up over the edge of the window between the kitchen and the dining area. It’s gone as soon as Barclay catches it, and he turns his back on the window with a deliberate gesture to hide his smile.
Nobody else is in the common room right now, and Barclay can picture the kid crouching there in the dimly lit room, thinking he’s being stealthy. When Barclay was a kid he used to do the same thing, sneak downstairs to watch his parents when he was supposed to be long asleep, and he wonders if the Lodge’s new arrival is doing so because it reminds him of home.
Shit. Barclay’s smile fades. More likely the kid is scared, based on his behavior in the last couple of days. He’s shy, withdrawn, doesn’t say much, doesn’t look anywhere except at his feet until his attention is directed to something else. Clearly exhausted, clearly traumatized, and it breaks Barclay’s fucking heart because the kid is just that, a kid. Fifteen is what the writ of sentencing said — old enough to be tried as an adult on Sylvain — but Barclay doesn’t believe it for a second. Thirteen, maybe.
But since when, he thinks bitterly as he pulls the jar of cinnamon out of the pantry and sets it with too much force on the countertop, does the legal system of Sylvain ask any complicated questions before forcefully removing anyone who might cause trouble? One less body to use up the precious limited supply of magical energy. One less problem for the powers that be.
Barclay takes a very deep breath and rolls his shoulders. His own anger and bitterness doesn’t belong where the kid can see it, even in stolen glimpses through the pass-through window. He’ll wait until later, until he’s alone with Mama, to let it out. She’ll listen and she’ll understand because he knows she’s just as furious as he is about the way Sylvain’s ruling council threw a literal child into the wilds of an unknown world. But they can’t change it — at least not any time soon — so the best thing Barclay can do is make sure the kid understands that this is a safe place. That this can be home, in time, when he’s ready for it to be.
Barclay turns and pushes open the swinging door that connects the kitchen and dining room, poking his head through. As he suspected, the kid is crouched there under the shallow countertop that bridges the gap between the rooms. The patchwork quilt from his bed is drawn tight around his shoulders, and the cocoon of fabric makes him look even smaller than he does naturally. He’s not glamored, his head a smooth white curve of fur broken only by the deep, deep black of his eyes and nose. The boy grimaces and tightens the grip his flippered hands have on the fabric when he realizes Barclay’s spotted him.
“Hi, Djāk.” Barclay says, making his voice as gentle as he can.
“Hi.” No eye contact. No flinch, no fidgeting. Just a stillness that doesn’t look natural on a kid of his species and age.
Barclay weighs the thousand things he could say. Point out that it’s very late. Ask if he’s lost or had a bad dream. Mention that the dining room floor, despite careful keeping, is still really not clean enough to be a good place for a bedspread.
What he says is “Would you like to help me?”
For the first time since he arrived two days ago, the kid looks surprised, so much so that he almost raises his eyes to meet Barclay’s. He nods, and when Barclay gestures for him to rise he does so, trailing the quilt along the floor behind him like the train of a royal robe as he pads almost-silently into the kitchen.
Barclay moves to retrieve the cinnamon jar. “You’ll have to wash your hands first. You can fold the quilt and put it over there.” He points to a kitchen chair and watches while Djāk does as he's told, slowly and meticulously. His expression is blank, carefully so, and he does not look in Barclay’s direction except in fast, surreptitious glances Barclay can tell the kid doesn’t want him to notice.
Barclay swallows his anger again. Arrest, arraignment, and trial can be a weekslong ordeal on Sylvain for even the most minor offenses. He wonders how far into stand here, look up, speak louder, defend yourself, move, sit down, be quiet the boy was before he started wearing that blank, careful look.
Barclay debates for a second while he measures out cinnamon into the bowl of brown sugar and mixes them together with a fork. When he speaks again it’s in winterborn Sylvan, the brisk dialect he was raised speaking. He knows the charm the Sylvan authorities cast on exiles will make any word he says in any language understandable to the boy, and vice-versa, but he also knows that the words of a foreign tongue forced through the veil of magic will never feel entirely right. Not like a language you actually know. “You ever make takbi buns, Djāk?”
The boy startles, blinks owlishly at Barclay and shakes his head. It’s the first time he’s looked straight at anybody since he came here. “ . . . no,” He says back in the same dialect, still holding very still.
Barclay nods and gestures for the kid to join him, and he does so, moving to stand at Barclay’s elbow while Barclay finishes mixing the filling and plunks the bowl down on the counter. “Like this,” he says, and he reaches his hand in and scoops up some of the cinnamon-sugar, scattering it over the buttered dough.
Djāk watches him repeat the action, waits until Barclay prompts him to try before he delves his webbed fingers in and hesitantly tries it himself, looking to Barclay for approval the whole time. His motions are shaky, the spread of the filling mixture uneven, and Barclay smiles and nods and says “Good, yes. Just like that.”
Something in the boy’s eyes lights up hungrily, although he’s quick to school his expression again as he dips his fingers back into the bowl. The second try is still pretty shaky, but Barclay just nods encouragingly and gradually Djāk does a better job of even distribution, concentrating more on what he’s doing than on what Barclay will do. When it’s all spread Barclay presses the mixture down onto the dough (sneakily filling out a few emptier spots while he does) and then rolls the whole thing with a brisk, practiced motion while Djāk takes a half-step back and watches him, sneaking glances at the dusting of cinnamon-sugar left on his white fur.
“If you lick your fingers, just wash again before you touch the food.” Barclay says without stopping what he’s doing, and he can’t help but smile smugly when he sees the boy sneak the tips of his fingers into his mouth. To his credit, he immediately goes and washes up before he comes back to Barclay’s side.
Barclay debates for a moment about handing Djāk a knife to cut the roll, decides against it and instead gestures to the buttered pans that stand waiting. “Lay these out close to each other when I cut them, okay?”
“. . . okay.” Djāk’s voice is still barely above a murmur, but Barclay thinks he can see a spark of something there that might be excitement at being asked to continue helping. He turns out to be a natural at filling pans, setting the rolls in nice, evenly spaced rows that will rise beautifully in the morning.
It’s quick work to finish the rolls and cover the pans, and then Barclay walks the kid through putting them in the big refrigerator against the kitchen wall. He doesn’t miss the way Djāk leans into the cold ever so slightly, closing his eyes.
“In the winter,” Barclay says, letting the fridge door stay open for the time being, “The whole forest is filled deep with snow and the hot springs steam up into the air and make ice-lace on the Lodge windows.”
Djāk’s eyes pop open, going enormous in his too-thin face. “Is that . . . true?”
Barclay nods solemnly, and Djāk blinks rapidly and drops his eyes back to his feet, pressing his lips together into a tight, thin line. Barclay wonders how long this boy — this child — has been trying to make sure nobody sees him cry.
He takes a chance and puts his hand very lightly on Djāk’s elbow, ready to take it away if the boy flinches. He doesn’t, but Barclay pitches his voice into a gentler tone anyway. “Are you hungry?”
Djāk looks like he’s going to shake his head, but hesitates at the last moment, almost nods instead, finally shrugs without looking up. Barclay’s going to take that as a yes.
“Go on and sit down at the table, then.”
Djāk does as he’s told, sitting deliberately still with his hands flat on the table in front of him, studying his blunt black claws as if they’re incredibly fascinating. Barclay glances at him intermittently as he bustles around, pops something into the toaster oven and waits for the appliance to do its work.
“Here.” Barclay sets the plate down in front of Djāk and puts a napkin next to it before pulling out a chair of his own and settling into it.
The boy examines the food hesitantly, leans down to give the golden-brown bun in the center of the plate a sniff. “What is it?”
Barclay smiles. “Pepperoni roll. It’s the local delicacy. Yeast bread and spicy meat and cheese.” He watches Djāk’s eyes light up; for the first time, the boy doesn’t try and hide it. “Give it a try.”
The first bite is barely a nibble. The second is decidedly not. Barclay can’t help feeling smug as the kid takes a huge, savage mouthful and chews like he’s . . . well.
Starving.
The rest of the roll disappears with alacrity and Djāk almost licks his flippers clean before remembering himself at the last second and using the napkin. He doesn’t seem quite sure what to do with it afterward, settling for folding it lopsidedly and setting it back on the plate.
“Thank you.” The kid takes a deep breath and looks up at Barclay’s face. “Thank you,” He says again, in halting English. One of the few phrases they see fit to actually teach the exiles before they shove them through the gate.
“You’re welcome.” Barclay thinks about taking the boy’s hand in his own. He thinks about wrapping the kid in a hug so tight it will crush all the sadness out of him.
He settles for getting to his feet and grabbing the quilt, shaking it out before he drapes it over Djāk’s shoulders. He lets his hands rest there, too, hoping that the cover between them will make the touch less overwhelming. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
Djāk nods and lets himself be led back down the hallway towards the room that’s now his. He leans into Barclay’s space a little bit at a time as they go, until by the time they reach the doorway they’re practically touching. He parts reluctantly and steps into the room when Barclay opens the door, standing there staring at the rag rug like he’s waiting to be told what to do next. Or waiting to be locked in, maybe.
Barclay clears his throat very quietly. “May I come in?”
Djāk looks up at him in confusion, but he nods and moves closer to the bed, sinks down onto it and just . . . sits, staring at the floor with the quilt wrapped around his shoulders.
Barclay steps into the room and takes a seat next to him. This time Djāk doesn’t take as long to lean into Barclay’s side, nestling his head into Barclay’s shoulder.
“Is this okay?” Djāk’s voice is very, very small.
“Yes.” Barclay puts an arm around his shoulders and the two of them sit there for a long, long moment, listening to the living quiet of the sleeping Lodge around them.
“I was very scared when I came here, too.” Barclay says at last. “It’s okay if you’re scared.”
Djāk doesn’t answer, except to sniff very quietly.
Barclay nods. That’s fine. He wasn’t much for talking about his feelings when he came here, either. That came in time.
“You should get some rest,” he says gently after a while, squeezing the boy’s shoulders very very gently before he stands up. “You don’t want to sleep through takbi buns in the morning.”
Djāk tries for something that might be a smile and lays down, huddling himself into a little knot of boy and blanket. Barclay smooths a hand over the quilt and the shoulders beneath it, feeling the texture of scraps made into something whole and beautiful. In time.
“Good night, Djāk.” Barclay pats him one more time, very very gently, and then he rises and crosses to the door.
"Good night, Barclay." The voice is still very small and very quiet, but maybe — Barclay hopes — a tiny bit less afraid.
Barclay nods and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.