Chapter Text
Nightfall is mere hours away when the train enters Durham station. Rust is crawling up from the metal, and the wheels groan threateningly in the company of a sharp whistle. Between the broken ticks of the pocket watch sitting in his coat, he could hear the steady rise of passengers slowly rushing to the exit.
The corridor falls silent.
Almost four hours it’s been from London, and despite knowing he was right to leave, a single thought nags his mind relentlessly.
You’ve gotten good at running. Running away.
“I’ve always been good at running away,” he mutters angrily, more at himself than at the thought. The conductor stops by his compartment as he struggles to get his luggage — his only possessions — out the narrow door that won’t slide open to the end.
“Better get ‘em out, sir,” the conductor says with an air of dismissive mocking, tilting his cap to hide an ugly grin, “Train won’ wait for dilly dalliers.”
“ Train won’t wait for dilly dalliers ,” he mocks in the same gruff voice, once the man is out of sight. Hands clasped around the bag handle, he gives a final tug, and the door chooses the perfect moment to give away; the force slamming him against the train wall.
The crack he hears is enough to get me out of the train in less than three minutes. Barely. The soles of his new shoes connect with the concrete just as the sharp whistle cuts through the air, the engines exhausting a heavy breath with each move.
And Durham smells cleaner than London.
It smells of a fresh, new page. Of new meetings, first impressions that won’t cease into nasty glares and the thought is enough to pull a smile on his face, for him to puff out his chest and step into this foreign land that is not London because he is Professor Theodore Robin Hart.
His confidence lasts the entirety of an hour, at the end of which he knows that he is utterly, foolishly lost.
“You know,” he speaks to himself, a force of habit after spending too many hours behind closed rooms in his own company. The orange specs of remaining light creep away from his shoes and he frowns, lifting his head towards the setting sun and whispers the remainder of his sentence, “I really thought I would have lasted much longer.”
“Lost?”
A man with blond hair spurting under a patched, brown hat eyes him from where he is standing with his hands in his pockets. Before Robin can muster the courage to respond, the stranger’s already offered a hand, sturdy and much more… masculine than Robin’s own, “The name’s Burton.”
“Ah —” he stands up, the pebbles crunching under his feet, “Robin Hart.”
“Ya seem to be on the young side, lad. What’s brought you to Durham?” Burton lets go, hands reclaiming their position inside his pockets, “Tough luck out where you’ve been?”
“Newly graduated,” Robin mutters, loud enough for only Burton to hear. He wants to scratch the black hair under his hat, which he reluctantly cut a few days ago to look more appropriate. “I was referred by a fellow professor to study under the current head of geography at Durham University.”
“Professor, eh?” Burton gives a hearty laugh, urging Robin to take a step back, “Sorry to say, Professor, but no school’s open ‘till September.”
“I’ve got… time to spare. To get to know the town”.
“Couldn’t stay patient?”
Robin bites the inside of his lip, squaring his shoulders at the touch of a memory, “Something along the sorts.”
Burton scratches his stubble, shrugging a response, “I’ll help ya find your place of lodging.”
Robin, involuntarily, flinches. Burton, of course, takes notice.
“No place to stay.”
“Perhaps there are ins, in the town,” his voice drifts off in between words, unsure of what to say next, “I would appreciate it if you’d guide me to one.”
“And see ya get robbed? What do you take me for, Professor, A thief?” he pats the side of Robin’s shoulder, at least two heads taller than him. Motioning him forward, he starts heading East, the last touch of light hitting his back before, like a flame, it’s extinguished, “ Michelle, that’s my wife, is always prepared for unexpected guests, comes with being a mother would be my guess.”
Robin wants to ask how he could be sure Barton wasn’t one of the thieves. He doesn’t, of course. Because the sun has set and somehow Durham’s far more darker than the slums of London. Robin’s blue eyes trail after Burton. Swallowing heavily, Robin follows, a cool wind lifting the tail of his coat.
And somehow, it all goes wrong from there.