Chapter Text
Lady's shoes were decidedly not made for running, she realized as they pounded against the pavement. The sirens, punctuated by her aunt’s screaming, grew distant behind her. The GPS tracker felt like a shackle around her wrist—cold, unyielding, a physical reminder that she wasn't trusted.
She rounded the corner too fast and slammed directly into someone sweeping the sidewalk outside a small shop. The broom clattered to the ground.
"Oh! It’s you, blue!" Tramp steadied her by the shoulders, his eyes widening in recognition. “What are you doing on–”
She barely registered that it was him. The tramp, well-loved for his easy smile and carefree attitude. A friend to everybody and nobody, according to Jock. Right now he was just someone who could open the very inviting toolshed by the store. The vacant tiny space and dark cracked windows looked like a sanctuary at the moment.
"Please," she gasped, pointing at the shed. "I need to hide. Can I—"
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer.
Tramp's expression shifted from surprised to calculating in an instant. He glanced over her shoulder, then reached for a key in his pocket. "Come on."
Lady followed him around the side of the building and watched him unlock the door. Inside, she wedged herself quietly among boxes of supplies and cleaning equipment. Her eyes were bloodshot as she gazed at Tramp, silhouetted against the doorway.
"Stay quiet," he said, then shut the door.
Lady pressed herself against the wall, heart hammering. Through a crack in the wooden slats, she could see Tramp return to his broom, resuming his sweeping as if nothing had happened. A flashing police car screeched to a halt by the store moments later, and two police officers got out. Tramp perked up upon seeing them, grinning wide.
“Hey! It’s my pals in blue!” he said cheerfully. “What brings you to this side of town?”
“Shut it, tramp,” one of the cops said sharply. “I’ve no time for your games. Did a young woman run past here? Red hair, early twenties, about this tall?"
Tramp leaned on his broom, squinting at them thoughtfully. "Young woman... red hair...wow, that really narrows it down in this big ass town."
The cop's jaw tightened. "This isn't funny. She escaped her aunt from Shepherd’s Square. A missing person alert is out. Name’s Adelaide Barkley."
"Missing?" Tramp raised an eyebrow. "She's in her twenties. That's called 'leaving.'"
"Have you seen her or not?" the second officer snapped.
Tramp made a big show of looking up and down the empty street. "Nope. Just me and my broom here. Living the dream."
"If you see anything—"
"I'll be sure to file a full report," Tramp said, still holding on to the wide grin. "Personally, at every station, within a ten mile radius."
The first cop looked like he wanted to say something else, but his partner was already moving on. He gave the tramp one last glare, shook his head and followed the other officer out of the area.
Tramp waited a few even after they turned the corner, before carefully tapping on the shed door. "Coast is clear, blue."
Lady stumbled out, relief flooding through her. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it." He studied her for a moment, his gaze dropping to the tracker on her wrist. "What’s that on your arm, blue? You rob a bank or something? ”
Lady's throat tightened. She sank down onto the front steps of the shop, suddenly exhausted. "It’s a GPS tracker. So my aunt knows when I leave the house."
"Jesus," Tramp muttered. He sat down beside her, wearing a somewhat concerned expression now. "Let me guess. It’s for your “protection”?"
"I’m not supposed to leave the house without permission. And so far that has simply meant “never”,” Lady scoffed. “I ran before they could set up the tracking. My aunt won’t find me."
She sighed heavily. “It wasn’t like this when my parents were here.”
“Where are they?”
“Moved abroad. For work. They asked my aunt to come and live with me, and she hasn’t been pleased. Keeps saying she’ll have me molded into a “proper lady”, whatever that means.”
Tramp's expression darkened. "So they abandoned you to a shitty abusive aunt, huh? Shocker."
His voice was bitter, distant. Personal. Lady looked at him defiantly. "They did not. They’re busy people with important jobs."
“Mm hmm. And have you told them about your discomfort regarding your aunt? Who doesn’t let you leave the house?”
“I-well,” Lady stammered. “They don’t know about the tracker yet.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Lady buried her head in her knees. “They said maybe this will be good for me. My aunt put the idea into their heads to send me to a finishing school across the country, and they think it’s a great idea. I’m convinced they’re just–”
“Trying to get rid of you?”
Lady narrowed her eyes on him. “Yes. How did you know?”
Tramp didn't answer. Instead, he pointed at her wrist. “May I?”
“Be my guest.” Lady offered him her arm to examine the device. His scruffy brows furrowed in concentration.
"These things usually have a clasp or a lock mechanism. Let me see..."
He turned her wrist gently, his blemished fingers surprisingly careful as he inspected the tracker. "Okay, so good news and bad news. The good news you already told me: they didn’t manage to set up the tracking so you’re safe. Bad news: they did manage to lock it in place, so if you want it off we're gonna need tools."
“I do want it off,” Lady said at once. "What kind of tools?"
Tramp grinned—a carefree, reckless smile. "The kind my boss definitely doesn't want me using for personal projects. Come along, Adelaide Barkley."
“Oh, Lady. Just Lady is fine.”
“Lady, then.”
He stood and offered her his hand. Lady hesitated for only a moment before taking it. She followed Tramp through the back entrance of the shop—a cluttered hardware store that looked like it hadn't been updated since the '90s. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow.
"Your boss won't mind?" Lady asked, glancing around nervously.
"What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Besides, he’s only occasionally my boss." Tramp guided her past shelves of paint cans and power tools to a workbench in the back corner.
“You have multiple jobs?”
“One for every day of the week. Keeps things interesting!” Tramp grinned again. Something about that smile made Lady’s stomach flutter, but she stubbornly pushed the feeling away. She didn’t have time for annoying butterflies.
She squinted at Tramp. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Well, Mondays I’m usually helping out in the dirty dish department at Tony’s,” Tramp continued. “Tuesdays is when ol’ Towser does the bulk of his grocery deliveries, and he likes having a second set of hands. Wednesdays and Thursdays I make myself home at the subway. They have a packed train schedule, and people love to litter. And I mean really litter.” Tramp made a face at this, and Lady found herself chuckling.
“Fridays I’m here. Sweeping around Duncan’s Hardware. The aforementioned Duncan, however–” Tramp rolled over two chairs behind a small desk and began rummaging through a drawer “-is gone for the night. Thus giving us access to this.”
He pulled out a small toolkit and flipped on the desk lamp, the warm light a stark contrast to the harsh fluorescents. "Alright, let's see what we're working with."
Lady extended her arm, and Tramp wheeled closer. His fingers brushed against her skin as he turned the tracker over, taking note of the little screw positions.
"You're good at this," she observed, watching him work.
"I'm good at a lot of things." He flashed her a grin. "Taking things apart, getting into places I shouldn't be, annoying cops..."
"I noticed as much."
"Yeah, cops love me. They’re a huge fan of finding me hanging around signs that say no loitering," He selected a small screwdriver from the kit. "This might take a minute. The trick is to disable the main screws holding it together. Then everything will come off, and we don’t have to unscrew all of these little shits one by one."
Lady watched his face as he concentrated—the slight furrow in his brow, the way he bit his lower lip when he was focused. She'd noticed them a few weeks ago too, noticed the way he seemed to move through the world like he had nothing to lose. It had been magnetic then, attractive in a way that made her feel guilty. She was supposed to be the good girl, the one who followed the rules.
Look where that had gotten her.
"So," Tramp said, not looking up from his work. "Finishing school across the country. That's pretty extreme. What'd you do to deserve the exile?"
"I didn't do anything. That's the problem." Lady sighed. "I think... I think they just don't know what to do with me. I graduated recently from a fashion design program. And to be honest, all the well-paid work I’ve done so far have been because of my parents’ upper-class connections. I haven’t quite made it out there myself and perhaps it’s worrying them.”
"I see.”
"I suppose they think a fancy finishing school will get me all the social graces and upper-class airs I need so people think I’m of value,” Lady muttered. “Mold me into a proper lady, because there’s only one correct way to be a woman. For all I know, they’re hoping I’ll meet a rich man there and they can get me married off.”
Tramp sensed she hadn’t finished, so he said nothing. The screwdriver was in his hand, not unscrewing anything whatsoever. He’d gotten too distracted by Lady’s vent, but her hand was still resting in his gentle grip.
“And I thought—I thought they were happy to have me with them. We had dinner together every night, I helped my mom with her garden, my dad and I would watch old movies on weekends..."
Her voice trailed off. Tramp glanced up at her, something softening in his expression.
"Then one day they get this wonderful job overseas, they must leave immediately and tell me the estate is being handed over to my aunt. I’m apparently not “mature” enough for it yet," she continued. "They know I never liked her. But I suppose they didn’t care. She takes one look at me and complains about everything. My figure, my face, my weight. Oh, I hate her. She makes me feel like one big mistake.”
“I’m sorry,” Tramp murmured. “No one has the right to make you feel that way. But, parents and aunts and whatnot, you know.”
“No, I don’t know.” Lady studied his face carefully. He didn’t meet her eyes and focused on her wrist, his screwdriver poised over the tracker.
“Well, sometimes—sometimes they decide they don’t want you and the next best thing is to ship you off somewhere else. Or marry you off, I dunno.”
Lady felt something cold settle in her stomach. "You don't know that for sure. They could genuinely just think this is what’s best for me. It could still come from a place of love.”
"It could," Tramp agreed. "But I’ve seen this story before. And most of the time it hasn’t been from a place of love. It’s been from a place of realizing they hate their kid, dumping them in an abusive foster home and then never making contact again. Then you run off, and you’re on your own for the rest of your life.”
Tramp stopped abruptly, as if he’d said too much. Then he hurriedly lowered his gaze and made a thin attempt to change the subject.
“I don’t think this is the right screwdriver,” he mumbled. “Let’s try a different one.”
Lady opened her mouth to say something, then shut it again. Probably for the best. She wasn’t sure what would be the appropriate thing to say. So she settled for watching Tramp’s expression shift in concentration instead. It was a nice view, she thought, only to immediately shut the thought down.
"Ha!” Tramp said suddenly. There was a soft click, and the tracker split into two. Tramp set down the screwdriver and carefully removed the tracker from her wrist. "And that's how it's done."
Lady stared at her bare wrist, at the pale line where the band had been. She felt lighter somehow, like she could breathe properly for the first time in days.
"Thank you," she said softly. "Really. I don't know what I would have done if—"
"You would've figured something out." Tramp tossed the broken tracker onto the workbench. "You're tougher than you think."
Their eyes met, and Lady felt something shift in the air between them. He was still sitting close, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the small scar above his left eyebrow.
"I should probably go," she said, not moving.
"Probably," Tramp agreed, also not moving. "Where are you gonna go?"
The question hit her like a splash of cold water. She didn't have an answer. She couldn't go back to her house. Her aunt would be furious and had probably already ordered another tracker and an ankle monitor. She could call her parents, but they were a 30 hour trip across the ocean away. Besides, her aunt had likely already called them and told them what happened. She had some money in her bank account, but not much. Certainly not enough for a hotel for more than a few nights.
"I don't know," she admitted.
Tramp was quiet for a moment, then stood up and started putting his tools away. “Well, I know you don’t wanna hear it, blue, but the safest place would be back to your house.”
Lady clicked in exasperation. Not at Tramp, just in general. What a pathetic definition of safe. Sure, it was safer than being in the streets. But it felt like going out of a frying pan and into a fire. So she made no response to his comment. Tramp shut the drawer and pushed his chair back to its original spot. He glanced at Lady, who remained wordless.
"I’m not going back there tonight," Lady said finally, her voice low and determined. She stood up, mirroring his movement. "I’ll figure something out. I have… some money. For a hotel."
Her face held a combination of weary eyes and a stubbornly set jaw. Tramp scratched his head.
"When was the last time you ate, blue?"
As if on cue, Lady’s stomach rumbled; a loud, embarrassing sound that made her cheeks redden. "I suppose I am hungry. But I don't know if I should risk going somewhere public."
Tramp flashed his signature grin, and Lady felt the flutter flare up again. It was getting annoyingly familiar.
"Who said anything about public?" he quipped. "Come on. I know a place."