wyerintea

[wyerintea]

Warm Winter Mornings and Cold Summer Nights

Summary: Captain John Price of the 141 adopts a stray. It goes about as well as one would expect. Part 1 of many

Lying on a flattened cardboard box, with nothing but a flimsy, worn-down cloth draped over their tiny body, a young child rests in the frigid cold. They are curled into themselves, knees drawn close to their chest, arms tightly hugging their shins—most likely trying to preserve warmth.

The child is awfully small; he doubts they are older than ten, give or take.

Now, here comes the dilemma.

It was supposed to be a quick trip to the store—there and back. His list consisted of chicken, green onions, and garlic—and it definitely did not include a stray kid.

Breathe out. Breathe in.

The movement of their chest is subtle, barely noticeable in the dark.

It’s only a matter of time before they succumb to the harsh, unforgiving winter night.

Today is a special day. Christmas.

Snowflakes drift leisurely to the ground in the form of fluffy, white pom-poms, shrouding the concrete below in a blanket of soft cotton.

Children should be safe in a house, surrounded by the warmth of their family and celebrating the holiday. But this one is not.

Instead, they’re curled up on a sodden piece of cardboard with a sorry excuse of a blanket in a filthy alleyway. Scared. Cold. Alone.

Yes. Alone. Just like him.

Perhaps it was the overwhelming need for comfort, for family, that he had been feeling. Maybe this young, scruffy stray was the last puzzle piece he has been missing.

A kid. He’s always wanted one.

After all, he is a lonely man, and he has been lonely for a long, long time.

So, against his better judgement, he enters the dark alley.

The child immediately stiffens, sitting up and pressing their back to the brick wall, trying to make themselves smaller. Narrowed eyes stare at his approaching figure, wary and prickly, ready to defend if need be.

He crouches down, resting on his haunches to make himself appear less threatening. Now, he has the chance to get a better look at the kid.

White, translucent puffs of air escape from their mouth with every exhale, and he can hear the tremble of their breaths as their small lungs fight through the biting, frigid air. The tips of their ears and nose are tinged red, numb from the cold—god knows how long they have been out here.

“Hello, little one.”

A smudge of dirt on their cheek, rags for clothes, and a deep cut on their right calf that definitely needs attention—but he doubts they trust him enough to let him get close.

For now.

“My name's John Price.”

He reaches out his hand, palm facing upwards and fingers curling slightly at the end in a natural, casual manner. The gesture is meant to be warm—inviting—but they flinch and cower away, their gaze sharp, brimming with distrust.

Undeterred, he continues to extend his hand.

“Let's get you out of the cold, yeah?”