darker_london | Safety (Patrick, Peter)

Patrick had been in this hospital for two days and it was already overwhelming. The things he had suffered at the hands of that Jesus Cult (The Templar is what they had been called) was bad enough. But being rescued by some gigantic man and told that there were things in the world called demons and angels but they weren't demons and angels from God because no one knew for sure whether God existed or not had been just more information for a brain already weighted down from torture.

And then he had been brought to this hospital with the unbelievably long name. And some guy named Stuart Macgarvey had told him to make himself at home.

Really.

After being uprooted from his home in Dublin and forced to endure horror after horror, he could hardly make himself at home with this strange hospital which appeared to be full of crazy people.

He had seen a wolf running down the hall. And later, he had nearly been run into by a naked girl and someone had told him she was the wolf he had seen and it was all a little bit too much.

A nice doctor, Abigail someone, had told Patrick that there was a man named Peter Kemp who had an office up on the top floor and if Patrick every had any questions, he could ask Peter anything. That name kept getting mentioned, like he was some kind of mythological figure or something. The fact that he had questions was obvious. Just what the hell he was going to start with was the hard part.

Patrick climbed the stairs to Peter's office because the idea of being in an elevator with the doors closing on him, shoving him into a small space was too much. He knocked on Peter's door when he reached it and a voice called out to him, so polite and posh and clearly upper-class. Patrick made a face and he hoped that Peter wouldn't simply kick him out of the hospital for being a dirty Irishman from a working-class background.

And then Patrick stepped into the office and he took one look at Peter Kemp. And he nearly laughed. The proper-sounding, Peter Kemp with a near mythic standing in his hospital looked like a lost little boy who had just shoved his finger in a light socket and aged twenty years. His hair was unkempt (not that Patrick could say anything about that) and he had child-like features which included the kindest eyes Patrick had ever seen. And this Peter Kemp looked terribly confused. "Hi. I'm...my name is Patrick Finnegan?"

Peter stared at him for a second and then he shook his head and he hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. "Of course! Saul told me you were here. Would you like to sit down?"

Patrick nodded and he stepped forward, taking one of the chairs that was facing Peter's desk. It was of monstrous size and Peter was sitting behind it, completely dwarfed by the thing. He looked ridiculous and somehow, that made Patrick feel just a little bit better. It was like Peter was sitting behind his desk symbolising how Patrick felt about absolutely everything in the world right now.

"Thank you," Patrick said and then he glanced around the office. He had been about to say something about Saul and the Templar, but his eyes rested on Peter's bookshelf.

There was a skull on a pillow.

"Uh...skull. Sk- You have a skull."

Peter nodded and then he leaned forward. "Yes. Don't listen to anything he says," Peter cautioned.

Patrick blinked. "W-what?" While his life made no sense any more, he was fairly sure skulls did not speak of their own accord.

"Long story," Peter said gently. "Saul told me you were a victim of the Templar. How are you?"

How was he? He had no idea. "I- I'm in a hospital with a wolf girl." That was all Patrick could think to say, and as soon as he said it he felt guilty. Or he did until Peter did something that surprised him. He laughed.

"Ah, I know that feeling well," Peter said with a grin. "If it helps, eventually it won't inspire panic though I don't think it ever quite seems commonplace."

Patrick had the urge to say something like 'hooty too too', but he didn't. "Sure. So you...own this place?"

Peter nodded. "It's a place of refuge and healing for people who have no other place to go," he explained. "Anyone who doesn't quite fit in anywhere else."

"So. Wolfgirl."

Peter smiled his mysterious and kind smile and Patrick found himself liking the man even if he did have a skull on his bookshelf and a gigantic desk and a posh accent. "Yes, werewolves are very welcome here. Any one is welcome here as long as they mean no one else harm."

"So...the Templar can't come here?"

"No," Peter said, with a shake of his head. "We have a very old angel who keeps this place hidden from anyone who would cause harm to anyone within these walls."

"Hidden? How...how do you hide a building?!"

"You make it look abandoned from the outside. It's an illusion. A trick of the eye. It's hard to explain," Peter said with a shrug. "Some angels can do it and some can't. And this particular angel has had centuries of practice which is how it remains possible for him to pull it off. It isn't easy for him, but he manages."

"Uhm. Oh," Patrick said, shifting a little. "I'm sorry, I'm still a little-" Patrick rubbed at his eye and then he looked across the desk to Peter again. "A week ago I was getting tortured, so-"

Peter's demeanour changed then. His smile faded and he looked almost as uncomfortable as Patrick felt. "I've been through it," he whispered. "I built this place because of it. To fight back."

"What did they try to cleanse you for?" Patrick asked, before realising it might have been a personal question. His boundaries were all skewed.

"Leaving the priesthood," Peter said with a shrug. "Or blasphemy or...something. You know, I never quite figured it out? And now they think I am the Antichrist, which I can assure you, despite the skull over there, I am not."

Peter look about as far from Damien Thorn as someone could possibly be, and Patrick, who was an atheist anyway, had no problem believing that this man was not the Antichrist. "How...did that come to that conclusion?"

"They tried to cut off my head and I didn't die," Peter said easily, as if that kind of thing was commonplace. "Another long story. And unfortunately in these halls you will find no shortage of people who have been through what you have suffered. It does make for a supportive environment where you can feel free to pretty much express anything. You are free to stay here as long as you want, but if you would like a place of your own, I can arrange that too."

"I don't-" Patrick blushed then, and he looked down at his knees. "I don't have any money or anything. I was a musician back in Dublin, but I lost my job. A while ago, actually. I was losing my house and I'm sure it's been repossessed by now-"

"I'll take care of it," Peter assured him. "Like I said, this is a refuge, but it's more than that. The Templar try to take everything and I won't let them. We'll get back on your feet. Money isn't an issue. You can find work here when you feel you can handle it. Until then, you'll be taken care of."

Patrick didn't know people like Peter Kemp existed, though he was starting to understand the hype. "Why?" he asked quietly.

"Because I can," was Peter's only reply.

Patrick looked back up at the other man and he quirked up the corner of his lips in a half-smile. After being in that horrible place, doing something because he could sounded like the most freeing thing in the world.

"I...I don't know what to say beyond 'thank you'," Patrick said softly.

"I know the feeling," Peter replied. "And you're welcome."