Running to the Enemy's Arms

Chapter 4 - No, I'm the Other Black Haired Boy...

AN/: Okay, you guys are just lucky, so don't expect updates this quickly all the time! In fact, this is the end of what I have written out already so don't expect anything for a couple of weeks. I like this chapter. I know Vlad is out of character, but I like him this way and if you don't then you don't have to read it! I've seen him way more out of character than this, so yeah, ok, whatever, just thought I'd warn you a little bit. Because my Vlad is basically like the real Vlad only he's well... you'll find out. Geez. 

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Running to the Enemy's Arms

Chapter 4: No, I'm the Other Black Haired Boy That Shows Up on Your Doorstep Mysteriously Asleep 

by: deadlydaisy8o8 

Originally Uploaded: Tuesday, June 1, 2010, 5:58 PM 

Edited: Tuesday, November 6, 2012, 8:14 PM 

*Grammatical and Punctual Errors Fixed (by MerciLani): Wednesday, July 30, 2014, 3:09 PM*

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Vlad's POV

I whistled on my way to the front door. Today was going to be a good day. I rarely had them, but I knew when I was having a good one. The sun was shining and the deal I had been working on for some time now finally went through last night. I had my favorite breakfast this morning and my favorite suit just got back from the cleaners. Yes, today was going rather nicely. 

I picked up my briefcase from the small table by the door, glancing at my watch to see how much time I had before I had to be to work. I watched as the numbers changed from 7:59 to 8:00. Right on time. I confidently put my hand on the door knob and opened the door on a rare, perfect day... 

And stopped dead. 

There, splayed out on my front porch, was a certain black haired teenage boy. 

At first, I really could not get my brain to do anything. I just stared at the sleeping form lying on the cold white marble. His small chest moved up and down in a predictable rhythm. His arms and legs were arranged around him as if someone had casually thrown him there and he was still in the position he had landed in. His white and red t-shirt looked thredbare thin; the fabric was actually sporting a few holes. Not to be outdone, his jeans were tailored to match. The bottom hem was long gone, and a frayed, worn edge replaced it. A long rip went along the front of his lower leg; it too was frayed and worn. If one looked hard enough, they might have been able to tell that the jeans were once a vibrant, ocean blue, but it was now barely blue at all, clearly having been used and abused, as no clothing article should. His shoes seemed to have never been remotely clean in their existence, if you really wanted to even call the things attached to his feet 'shoes'. The rubber soles were starting to fall off, and the converse logo was barely discernable from the dirt and grit that covered it. To complete the image of homeless, abandoned teenager, his hair was sticking out in all different directions. So that if one was trying to judge from his hair alone, you would not have been able to tell which direction gravity was pulling at the moment. 

I assessed the teen on the ground and could not deny this was indeed Daniel. This truly was Daniel James Fenton that had decided my front porch would make a lovely bed, and for a long minute, I tried to get my head to move past the fact. As soon as I was capable of higher thought, my brain went into overdrive; a million and one questions were running through my head. Was he hurt? How long had he been here? Why didn't he knock earlier? Did he knock earlier? How did he get here? Did his parents know he was here? How did he know where to go? Why was he here in the first place? What did he want? How long would he have stayed out here? When was the last time he ate? Was he ill? What could he possibly be here for?