Chapter Text
When every day is the same, it is rare to awaken and imagine it would be any different. Enoch, who was the eldest of Ms. Peregrine's wards, did not expect anything different when he awoke that morning; there was no change as he slipped on his overalls, and nothing particularly out of the ordinary when he ate his breakfast in relative quiet. He retreated back into the darkness of his basement; the overwhelming smell of home-mixed formaldehyde welcomed to his desensitized nose. He collected a few jars, cleaning the containers and prepping them for the day when they would hold something of greater value to him than canned peaches. Not that he secretly minded the process of emptying them, but he still begrudgingly accepted them each time he came sniffing around the scullery for any old glass jars, each time grumpily accepting them from Emma's questioning glare, before heading to his basement to enjoy the delicacy in private.
His room-just adjacent from his pseudo laboratory-was nearly barren; a simple trunk containing his few clothes and possessions, along with a few larger glass vessels atop it, an old warped mattress on an even older metal frame, and a rickety bedside table that was covered in a small cloth where his homunculi rested by a short candle nub. It was all very bland, the walls dank and grey, his bed made and neat but drab, and the wood of his chest dark and weathered. Looking in one would think it was abandoned, but it was just the way Enoch liked it. Come noon he sighed, pausing in his labor to look over his handiwork. His newest homunculus, a small swollen looking thing with two arms and no legs-was in need of more clay. His stool scraped the ground. Sweeping his cap onto his head he scooped several of his men including his newest recruit into his largest pocket. He grabbed a basin from his shelf and climbed the stairs, his man wriggled in his pocket. Another thing he appreciated about his room was the proximity to the back door, which made avoiding the other children easy. He scoffed when he happened upon Fiona and Hugh's tryst, the couple breaking apart with Hugh's shout of "Oh-Enoch, hello!" He sighed and shoved a hand deep into his pockets, turning on his heel and squinting into the sun overhead.
He trudged towards the cairn tunnel, where he always found the most workable clay. Today he knew would be no different. He didn't care as the mud squelched around his boots and coated his already dirty overalls, his frame stooping to gather some of the necessary mud into his dish. The small path that led to the cairn was muddy with tracks, though it had technically been well over a year since the last rain. Several of his men dove from his pocket, sinking into the mud up to their waists and waving their small arms frantically. He huffed as he tried stuffing his men back into his front pocket, nearly swearing when they refused to stay put. He dropped his basin with a hiss and sank down into the mud on all fours, saving his men as they sunk. He dug his hand deep, feeling for his unmade soldier and jerked back with a hiss when it hurt. Even through the mud he could see where the skin of his palm was split from something sharp, unseen. His sneered as he pressed his thumb to the wound, even as blood pebbled through mud. He froze when he heard a soft echo, the near silent spattering of footsteps alerting him that he was not alone. He turned his head slowly, heart pounding and too aware that he had come completely alone-wincing at his own mistake, already the blood was trickling down his forearm. He squeezed his eyes shut, cursing himself for his moment of cowardice. He wished Abe was still around. It was not a second later when a collected and sharp voice rang out into the clearing;
"Enoch O'Connor, you better not be planning on tracking mud all through the scullery again!" He grimaced at the scolding and quickly stood, trying and failing miserably to wipe the mud from his forearms. The Old Bird stepped out from the tunnel slowly; an open parasol in hand even though they both knew it would not rain. Enoch narrowed his eyes as a shadow became visible behind their caretaker, a small pale arm wrapped delicately around Miss Peregrine's. His face twisted into a scowl until Miss Peregrine berated him again.
"Polite persons do not stare Mr. O'Conner, unless perhaps you would be willing to escort our young Miss Eleanor home?" His lips tightened but he nodded, somewhat struggling as he pulled himself from out of the giant mud pile and onto the drier path. Miss Peregrine gave a curt nod and made for the trees. As soon as she was out of their sight, a flicker of feathers broke the canopy and she was off. Enoch glared at her quickly disappearing shape before turning back to the girl in front of him. She was small in stature and form, though too mature, he discreetly noticed, to be a child. She was pale as he was, if not more so, and her dark tangled hair only added to her overall look of sickliness. It stood wild and broken around her head, like a dark halo, though still not frazzled enough to compete with Fiona's mane. He noticed a few leaves tangled in the strands, dust and debris, dirt that smeared her face and slight hands. Her clothes were none the better; she could have been wearing a flour sack for all it mattered, dirty as it was; and her dark stockings were picked and filthy, as well as the worn, over-sized coat wrapped around her. Her eyes were dark and a little too large, but had they not been filled with fatigue and underlined with sleep deprivation, he was sure they could have passed for comely.
"You're filthy" he sneered, realizing that like him she too had been studying him.
"So are you," she replied shyly, her voice soft and gravely. He opened his mouth to retort when suddenly her hand reached out, too close and he jumped away with a hiss. "I like your little men." She muttered softly, quickly retracting. He sniffed, stretching his entire one hundred and sixty-two and a half centimeters turning on his heel. He began quickly making his way back home, eager to get away from this girl and finish his newest creation. He had some mouse hearts he had opened in the basement and he needed to get back before they lost their freshness. He didn't bother slowing down as she struggled to keep up with his quick stride. The mud tracked a little way, and the way was steep here. He heard her cry when she slipped and jumped when he felt her nearly tug him to the ground.
“Ah, watch it!” He hissed, jerking his injured hand out of her grip.
“M’ sorry.” She muttered; her boots slid uselessly as she made her way nearly on all fours, the ends of her too long hair dragging. She looked like an animal. Pain momentarily forgotten, he continued up the hill, only stopping to look back and watch her struggle until the mud became path and that grass.
“Better be.” He said just loud enough he was sure she heard. He strode quickly towards home, listening for the sounds of her fumbling along behind him.
When the house finally came into view he stopped only for a moment, wiping off as much muck as he could in the grass before marching through the back door. Making a beeline for the cellar, he heard her hurrying behind him. Without missing a beat, he slammed the door shut behind him, effectively cutting her out of his basement and workshop. With a sigh he listened to the other side of the door, and hearing nothing, descended into his sanctuary. He replaced his cap on the table and collapsed onto his stool, not caring as his men slowly climbed out of his overalls. Some waddled to rest next to the nearly formed body of their comrade.
Ah, he’d left the basin behind.
He hated new people.