Chapter Text
He’s running.
He cannot remember the last time he’d been outside. As in, properly outside.
Past the gate.
It was not the day he was kidnapped, no; there had been other times, several years later. Not his first failed attempt, and certainly not his last, but his most devastating, certainly. Because it was the first time he'd gotten this close.
He hadn’t yet realised, at the time, just how far away he was from everything else.
At the time, he was still optimistic. This time was going to be different, he was sure of it. It had to be. He’d been so careful.
He lay awake every night for weeks, desperately trying to avoid falling asleep as he counted. He was sure that he had timed it perfectly down to the second (as much as he could, in any case). He knew exactly when the man would be leaving for work, and when he'd return. He could make it.
He could not have accounted for the son he hadn't realised existed, though.
A scream of terror bubbled from his throat as hands closed around his waist.
He started seeing the son around a lot more, after that. His blonde hair would haunt his nightmares for years to come.
One hundred and forty-three failed attempts. Fourteen got him past the gate. Two made it to the pavement.
It only took one stroke of good luck. One time when his sadistic tormentor got a bit too cocky. Let himself enjoy the thrill of the chase just a smidge too much.
The third time he made it to the pavement, he wasn't stopped. He kept running. And running.
And running.
He was free.
Readjusting to society at 19 was easier said than done, and it was not helped by the fact that he had apparently been a source of copious speculation in the media for the past six years, so he also had to contend with the constant press attention following him whenever he left the house.
Still, he much preferred the press to… him.
His formative years had been stolen from him, stolen and reshaped by a blur of hands and pain and too-small spaces and running, running, running.
Always running.
His parents hadn’t the foggiest idea how to mind him, these days. He knew they still saw him as he was before.
Newly 13. Bright, studious eyes, keen on studying every book he could get his hands on, top of his classes. He didn't have many friends––his speech inspired by an early love of Winnie the Pooh, and his style of dress inspired by a combination of Sherlock Holmes novels and the Eleventh Doctor––but that was fine with him, anyway. His favourite days were spent at the edge of the garden, hiding under the gazebo from the rain with a large book and a warm cup of tea. He did not need ‘friends’ to do that.
(At least, that’s what he told himself, bitterly, to avoid thinking too hard about how no one ever wanted to be friends with the autistic little poof.)
The day he got off at the wrong bus stop––merely an extra five minute walk from home––was the last day he would have a chance to read a book for more than six years.
Six years of his life––six years of his childhood––evaporated in one instant.
One wrong stop.
So these days, his parents mostly avoid him. His father took a promotion at his job that required extensive travel and longer hours. His mother entertained herself with her book clubs and lush parties and travel to their villa in The Cotswolds.
And that suited Edwin just fine, really. It was hard to undo the years of abuse that had successfully convinced him that any other human contact meant––bad things. But he could not simply sit around doing nothing. He did not even have his GCSEs, for Christ’s sake.
So that was the first order of business, then. His mother had only lightly pursed her lips when he informed her of his plans to begin in the autumn term, asking if he was ready. He sincerely doubted his father even noticed a few thousand pounds leaving his account, let alone whether Edwin slipped out for a few hours in the evenings to attend classes. Less than one year later, and he possessed five GCSEs, four 9s and a 7 (he’d never liked physics all that much, anyway).
As he stared at the results numbly, alone in the foyer on a cloudy afternoon in June just over a year after he escaped, he now realised he had no idea what he was supposed to do.
A few weeks later, as he sat in front of the officer who blandly informed him they still had no leads as to his kidnapper’s whereabouts, as he felt the familiar terror that greeted him like an old friend, as he fiddled with the cuffs on his jacket and clenched his fists together and wondered when he would ever be able to feel safe again, he suddenly realised exactly what he wanted to do.