Castiel Novak took his first step inside London King’s Cross with his heart beating hard and his eyes wide, trying to see absolutely
When he’d imagined this moment – and oh, Merlin, he’d imagined it time and time and time again,
sitting in the attic of their house on Cloudesley Street with his face pressed up against the cool glass of the window, eyes fixed south-west,
trying to imagine that he could see a curl of train smoke rising up into the grey London sky – when he’d imagined it, he’d always thought of the station as somewhere neat, and muted, and clean.
Like his mother’s kitchen, only bigger.
But it wasn’t at all like that. It was a
It was sprawlingly huge and bright, and smelled headily strongly of food and cologne and bodies.
And there were people walking, people running, people standing and staring at the departure boards,
hundreds upon hundreds of people with their boisterous conversations and rustling shopping and rat-a-tat doorknocker laughs.
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