Work Text:
Jeremy was startled into wakefulness by a loud noise of wood scraping on wood, followed by a muted thump. He had barely manoeuvred himself into a sitting position, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, when a strong hand closed around his arm in a grip like iron and hauled him roughly from his bed. He yelped, instinctively struggling away from the shadow looming over him.
Jeremy was very proud of his ability to tell people apart. He knew the sound of his Dad’s sure footsteps and his Papa’s even breaths, and even the rustle of Aunt Delilah’s skirts when she climbed the stairs on the rare occasions she came to visit. He knew the feel of his Dad’s large hands on his shoulders and his Papa’s slightly smaller hands carding through his hair.
It was dark, with only the pale moonlight streaming weakly through the window, but Jeremy knew that the person standing over him was not his Dad, or his Papa, and most definitely not Aunt Delilah. And so Jeremy did what any self-respecting seven-year-old would do in his situation: he opened his mouth and screamed at the top of his lungs.
The figure reeled back, and the grip around Jeremy’s arm loosened momentarily, but just as quickly there was an arm wrapped around his throat, cutting off his oxygen supply. His screams sputtered and died off with a choking sound, and Jeremy’s hands groped uselessly at the immovable coil of muscle holding him in place, his legs kicking this way and that in an attempt to break free.
In his struggle, he barely registered the door flying open so hard that it banged against the wall, and just as his vision began to swim with dark spots there was a deafening noise like a whole bunch of fireworks going off at once somewhere above his head. The arm around his throat went slack and Jeremy promptly collapsed on the floor and broke into a painful coughing fit.
Through the ache in his lungs and the blood pounding in his ears, Jeremy felt another pair of hands on him, gently checking him over for injuries like they always did when he tripped on the playground. A voice was saying something, and though his head was too muddled to figure out the language, he knew that voice.
“Pa—” he tried to say, only to break into another coughing fit and waste the precious air he’d just inhaled. His eyes stung horribly and there was something wet blurring his sight. His arm hurt, and so did his chest, and his throat was in agony and he couldn’t stop coughing.
Another firework went off, way too close for comfort, and suddenly Jeremy was being pulled unceremoniously to his feet and shoved under his desk, the hands no longer gentle, but rough with urgency. More fireworks followed, and Jeremy clamped his hands over his ears and shut his eyes tightly, wishing it would stop.
He briefly hoped that this was a nightmare, and that he would wake at any moment to the quiet of an ordinary night. He would slip out of his bedroom and make his way down the hall to where his Papa was sleeping and crawl into bed with him even though he was too old to sleep in his father’s bed after a nightmare. Papa would wake up immediately like he always did, and he would ask Jeremy what was wrong and hug away the lingering fears once Jeremy told him.
Jeremy was abruptly snapped out of his thoughts when his hands were pulled away from his ears. The noise had stopped, leading to a dreadful silence that only promised more noise to come, and Jeremy found himself looking up into his Papa’s stern face.
“Jeremy,” said Papa, in a hushed and even tone that betrayed none of the concern Jeremy knew he was feeling, “Can you hear me now?”
Wide-eyed, Jeremy nodded and then swallowed, instantly regretting it when his throat flared with pain anew. He choked and blindly reached up to touch his neck, but Papa took his hands and gripped them tightly.
“Jeremy,” he said again, “I need you to do something for me.” Papa waited for him to nod before continuing. “I need you to get my watch. It’s in my room, in the drawer by the bed. Can you do that for me? You will have to be quiet. Comme une souris, d'accord?”
Jeremy nodded, more confidently this time, and Papa peeked around the side of the desk. The moment the way was clear, Jeremy made for the door as quickly and silently as he could, racing down the hallway that he knew well enough to navigate in the dark.
The door to his father’s bedroom was already open, which Jeremy was glad for; it would always squeak on its hinges, and Papa had told him to be quiet.
He found the watch in the single bedside drawer. It glowed silver in the moonlight as he turned it over to make sure it was the right one, and once assured, Jeremy made his way back.
He made the mistake of looking up as he passed through the doorway.
The clouds had drifted in the time it had taken him to cross the hallway and the moonlight shone clear and bright through his window—or, the square hole in the wall that used to be his window. The wood and the glass had been blown off, and lay scattered next to his bed, right on top of the motionless body sprawled on the floor in a pool of a dark red liquid that could only be blood. Jeremy hadn’t seen any of this in his haste to get to the door.
His father sprung from his hiding place and pulled him aside just as another boom went off and something whizzed past his ear, missing him by an inch. Jeremy stumbled as he was shoved back under his desk, gripping the watch with white knuckles as realisation sunk in and he registered two things:
Firstly, that the noises he had heard were not fireworks, but gunshots.
Secondly, that his Papa had shot the person who had been trying to strangle him.
Papa never talked much about his work, and Jeremy had learned early on not to ask. He’d only seen a gun once, when he’d gone rummaging through his father’s belongings and found it hidden under his pillow. Papa had walked in just as he was fiddling with the trigger; it was the first time he had ever yelled at Jeremy, and his Dad had later explained that he had not been angry, only scared that Jeremy would hurt himself.
He had not gone snooping after that. Looking at the body laying across from him now, Jeremy finally understood why his Papa had been so scared.
Jeremy was a smart kid. His Dad always praised his ingenuity, and though he was a little slow to learn, he did learn; his father’s work was dangerous, and he had many enemies who would do things like sneak into their house in the middle of the night to try and hurt them.
Papa grabbed his chin and forced his eyes away from the body. There was emotion on his face that Jeremy couldn’t quite decipher, like when he was sad or upset and didn’t want to talk about something. He took Jeremy’s arm and fastened the watch around his tiny wrist.
“I need you to do something else for me,” he said, softer than before but still serious, “I need you to go down the street to your Dad and stay there until I come to collect you. Do you think you can do that?”
Wide-eyed and with crimson staining his thoughts, Jeremy nodded.
“Good. Now listen carefully.” His Papa pointed to a button on his watch, slightly larger than the others. “When you press this button, the watch will make you invisible for a short period of time. I need you to go downstairs and leave the house as quickly as possible, and don’t stop until you reach your Dad’s house. You will have to run.”
A little clarity broke through Jeremy’s panic and fear. Running. He was good at running. He could do that.
“Do you understand?”
Jeremy went to nod, stopped, and then leaned forward, lowering his voice as much as he could.
“Will I really be invisible?” he whispered, and felt proud of himself when the corners of his father’s mouth quirked up briefly in a not-smile.
“Yes, you will.”
Jeremy looked down at the unassuming watch, then back up into his father’s blue eyes.
“What about you?” he asked, his voice smaller than he wanted it to be. Papa’s eyes went soft, and he cupped Jeremy’s face in his hands and gave him a tender kiss on the forehead.
“I will be alright,” he said, “But right now, I want you safe. And that is far away from here.” He leaned back. “Now go.”
Telling himself to be brave, Jeremy took a deep breath that scraped against his throat, held his wrist up and pressed the big button on the watch. It buzzed to life, sending tingles up his arm and down the rest of his body, and his world immediately became a little fuzzy around the edges.
“Go.”
Jeremy went.
He dashed out the door without looking back and almost twisted his ankle hurrying down the stairs. He unlocked the front door and flung it open, ran outside, jumped the fence and then broke into a sprint. His bruised throat screamed with every step, but Jeremy forced himself to run through the pain. He didn’t notice the fuzzy lines on the edge of his vision melting away until he was standing in front of his Dad’s house, panting for breath, his mouth dry and his lungs aching.
Unable to scream, he pounded on the front door as heavily as he could, both hands bailed into fists. It didn’t take long for him to catch his breath, and his shouting definitely woke someone up, because suddenly there were thundering footsteps coming from inside and the door was quickly unlocked.
Jeremy looked up into his Dad’s face, saw his eyebrows climb into his hairline as he took note of the bruise around his throat, and broke. He lunged, latching onto his Dad’s shirt and trying in vain to muffle his wailing into the material.
He didn’t even register that Dad had pulled them both inside until he was being picked up by strong arms and cradled against a broad chest, just like when he scraped his knees as a toddler. The familiar position gave him comfort, and his sobs slowly settled into sniffling. By the time he finally stopped, his Dad’s shirt was soaked in his tears.
The house was quiet for a moment.
“Jeremy, what—”
“Papa said—he told me to come here, there—” Jeremy hiccupped, clutching his Dad’s shirt tighter. “Someone came into my room, and Papa shot him, but then there were more gunshots and Papa gave me his watch—“ He pulled back and held out his wrist where the watch sat, inactive.”—and told me to come here and wait for him, but I was so scared—”
The more he talked, the more his Dad’s eyes seem to widen and the more he paled, until he was white as a sheet of paper. His arms tightened around Jeremy until the hold was almost painful.
“Mein Gott,” he whispered to no one, then swivelled around and raised his voice, “Delilah!”
Jeremy heard the distinct rustle of clothing he’d come to associate with Aunt Delilah before she came down the stairs, barefoot and clad in only her nightgown. Her countenance was stern, likely from being woken up, but there was worry in her eyes.
Still holding Jeremy, Dad rushed into the kitchen and turned on the light, not putting him down even as he fumbled with the cabinet where he kept the first aid kit. Aunt Delilah was hot on his heels, grabbing the kit before Dad could drop it and biting out something harsh-sounding in German.
Whatever she said must have made Dad come to his senses, because Jeremy was soon sitting on the island in the kitchen, with a cold compress wrapped in a paper towel pressing lightly against his throat. Every little touch hurt fiercely, and he was beginning to feel a little nauseous, but he knew his Dad would make it all better soon. He always did.
A tall glass of water was pressed into his trembling hands, alongside a small pill that he was instructed to take.
“Ibuprofen,” said Dad, his accent thicker than usual, “It will help with the pain. Drink slowly.”
Jeremy took a big gulp of water to wash the pill down and immediately regretted it. Something in his neck spasmed painfully, which prompted another fit of coughing that only served to irritate his already-abused throat. He would’ve dropped the glass too, had Aunt Delilah not snatched it from his hands in time.
“Slowly, Jeremy, bitte,” his Dad said, rubbing comforting circles on his back. Aunt Delilah handed him the glass back, and Jeremy was very careful to take small sips.
“Will—”
“You shouldn’t talk, Jeremy—”
“Will Papa be okay?” Jeremy rasped anyway, feeling very tired and very dizzy. His Dad caught him when he swayed, holding him by the shoulders, and Aunt Delilah was by his side in an instant, taking the empty glass away.
Jeremy looked into his Dad’s face and saw him press his mouth into a thin line for just a second before he put on a reassuring mask. Jeremy could tell. Papa had taught him how to do that.
“Your father is a clever man,” said Dad, and then, “And the neighbours have surely called the authorities by now.” He showed Jeremy how to hold the compress against his throat, then picked him up and made his way to the couch in the living room.
Aunt Delilah followed, quickly gathering a handful of pillows and piling them on one end of the couch. His Dad told Jeremy to lay back against the pillows and hold the compress for ten minutes at a time; when he made to pull away, Jeremy grabbed his sleeve.
“Where are you going?” he asked. His Dad had that look in his eyes that he got whenever he was busy or needed to do something straight away, and Jeremy thought about a still body covered in glass and gunshots whizzing past his ear.
He must have made quite a face, because Dad sat next to him and gently brushed back his hair, murmuring something comforting in German.
“Alles wird gut warden. Delilah will stay with you, but if your father is hurt then he will need me there,” he said.
“Because you’re a doctor?”
Dad smiled. “Ja, because I am a doctor.” He leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to Jeremy’s forehead, just like his Papa had earlier. “I will be back as soon as I can.”
With that, his Dad stood and went to get dressed, and Aunt Delilah took his spot on the couch. Jeremy looked at her through drooping eyelids, fighting to stay awake; the hour was late, after all, and the adrenaline that had brought him there was long gone.
“Sleep, kleiner,” Aunt Delilah said softly, “I will watch over you.”
Jeremy fell asleep to the sound of his Dad’s pounding footsteps as he hurried out the door and Aunt Delilah’s melodious humming, and knew he was safe.