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tumbleassbitch · 3 years ago

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another lost soul (letting my instinct take control) | The Quarry | TravisxLaura

Characters: Laura Kearney, Travis Hackett, The Hackett family Summary: Max dies in the cellar. This changes everything. Cover: @spookyscaryscully made this and I just absolutely had to share it!

Chapter 10/? | Chapter 9 | Chapter 1

Laura’s never been to Maine before.

She’s always wanted to go. Her mom’s old friend from high school posts on social media all the time about the gloomy weather, craggly coasts, et cetera. Personally, she finds the beaches and old lighthouses beautiful.

So it’s fitting, when she finally has the chance to visit, that they go as far away as possible from the waterline and deep in the sticks of buttfuck nowhere.

It’s still a pretty drive, if she overlooks the miles and miles of thick silence broken up by the odd, stilted conversation attempt, but still. She has to find something about it funny, or else she might actually throw herself from the car.

The sun is barely peeking out over the trees beyond Lincoln Lake when they pull into town. The buildings here are old but well-kept, with traditional white church-and-steeple silhouettes and—

“Is that a… duck?” she asks, pointing out the massive bird sculpture that’s taken over a park gazebo.

He follows her hand. “Loon.”

“Huh?”

“It’s a loon. It’s like a duck. Used to hunt them with my dad.”

“Huh.”

“You hungry?” he asks, which is definitely one way to change the subject. Even without the shorter sentences, it’s easy to tell that he’s exhausted. They’ve been driving non-stop.

“I could go for something to eat,” she says mildly.

Travis nods slowly. “Right. I know a place we could go.”

The roads are barely active at this time of day, which makes a bit of sense. It’s still Sunday. Tomorrow’s the start of most peoples’ work week, whereas she woke up this morning in a jail cell.

Travis pulls into the parking lot of an old brick building-turned-diner. A cartoonish rendering of a woman and a fry pan winks down at them, haloed by neon lights.

“Doxie’s Diner,” Laura reads aloud, amusement lacing her tone, and Travis doesn’t bother looking at her when he slips out of the cruiser first.

The parking lot glitters with the scattered light of the neon trim above. It must’ve rained earlier in the day. The air is thick with the smell of wet pavement and greasy food.

Travis reaches the door first and holds it open with a formal air of authority that catches her off guard, and only now does she notice the lingering eyes from the late-night crowd.

God, she didn’t even think about this. They probably look like an unlikely pair, cop and college girl having a late dinner.

A hesitant waitress meets them in the entryway and takes them to a back corner away from prying eyes. Travis takes the seat facing both exits, and Laura folds herself into the blue-ribbed vinyl booth across from him. A ribbed edge in the seat snags at her leggings.

She doesn’t feel brave. She doesn’t, because sooner or later, she’s going to have to look up and be face to face with Travis in a normal, dreadfully average situation.

They’ve known each other for almost a month. He’s carried her in the dead of night, bandaged her up. Hell, they’ve shared meals before. But not like this.

Absurdly, her mom’s voice rings in her ears. It’s a dinner date!

She’d been annoyingly chipper when eighth grader Laura casually slipped that a boy invited her to his church youth group. There’d be kids who were in some of her other school classes, too. Plus, his parents always took him out for fast food afterwards. For a pre-teen, it sounded like a total score.

Of course, it was immediately shut down by her father, and Laura learned the hard way to never ask for permission to do something like it again. She frowns in thought, picking at the torn fabric of her seat.

“The steak is decent,” Travis says, breaking the moment.

He’s focused on the window, and the harsh overhead light mixes a peculiar cocktail with the softer colors outside.

“You’ve been here before?” she asks.

The waitress comes back with two glasses of water and a pair of menus, and Travis thanks her with a nod.

“I used to live in Maine for a bit,” he says once the waitress leaves. “For college.”

Laura takes a sip of her water, lightly jostling the straw around her glass. “So… did you always want to be a cop?”

His face is unreadable as he considers her question. Fuck, this is so awkward. This is actively worse than eating microwaved spaghetti on a cell floor.

“I always wanted to protect people, so. Yes.” His mouth twitches around the words, almost like he has to chew before spitting them out.

“That’s admirable,” Laura says neutrally.

Travis exhales through his nose, abruptly changing tones. “Okay, what are we doing here?”

“What are we doing here?” she counters, leaning in with a scowl.

“Are we ready to order?” a chipper voice interjects. It’s a separate waitress, and this one eyes the two of them with a forced smile.

This place has the customer service speed of a meth head.

“Or should I come back?” the waitress prompts, clicking her pen.

They’re at a stalemate.

“I’ll have the steak, medium-rare,” Laura says first, aiming a cheap grin at Travis. His lips purse around what’s undoubtedly a curse.

He nods once, sharp. Well played. “Make that two,” he says.

“Alright! And can I get you anything to drink?”

“Beer,” Travis says immediately.

“Do you have anything with vodka?” Laura tags on.

The waitress’ smile turns into something more like a grimace. “Um, can I see an ID?”

Sure, is on the tip of her tongue, only… she didn’t bring her wallet. She left it in her cell. It’s the first time she’s been out in daylight for weeks, and it didn’t even cross her mind.

“I can vouch for her, ma’am,” Travis interjects smoothly, giving Laura a quick glance. His earlier brusqueness is gone, and an easy smile plays out against the lines of his skin.

The waitress’ eyes dips to his sheriff badge, and she nods after a thought. “Alright, well, we can mix you up a vodka cran? How does that sound?”

“That’d be great,” Laura replies, still feeling a bit lost. The waitress gathers their menus without another word, and disappears as swiftly as she arrived.

They’re alone again.

“We can get it to go, if you’d like,” Travis says quietly.

He’s watching her intently. It’s hard not to squirm under his attention. God, when would he stop—

“It’s fine. This is great,” she says moodily, trying hard not to think of the connotations. “I mean, I’d like some real food and an actual table versus… y’know.”

He looks down. “It’s not all bad.”

“Travis. Last week, I ate a microwaved panini off a plate that was made out if its box like a fucking origami project.”

He surprisingly chuckles, then abruptly clears his throat. “I see your point.”

She can’t help but crack a smile in response. “So… it feels good to be outside like a normal person.”

His good humor dies at her words, and he turns sober once again. “Right. That makes sense.”

They don’t talk for a while after that, and she drains most of her water while waiting for the silence to pass. Despite there being hardly any other customers, the waitress still hasn’t come by to refill her glass.

“I knew I wanted to be a cop when I couldn’t protect someone I cared about,” Travis says unexpectedly. She looks up from her ice cubes. “I saw just how terrible life can turn out to be in a blink of an eye when you aren’t responsible. So. This was my option.”

The look in his eyes is haunted. “What…happened?” she finds herself asking.

“I didn’t listen.” He smiles ruefully, breaking the stare with a few knuckle raps against the tabletop. “What did you want to be, before you picked vet?”

Oh. That’s one way to change the conservation. Laura flounders for a bit in the wake of such a redirect, and only one answer comes to mind.

I wanted to be safe.

“Animals are easy to understand,” she says instead, shaking her glass of ice. “I mean, sure, they might bite or lash out. But at least they’re honest. You can’t really mistake what they are, or what they can do…”

Travis hums. “I get it.”

“Yeah, I bet you would.” He narrows his eyes in confusion, and she elaborates quickly, “What with all the, y’know. Perps. Bad guys.”

He looks amused before she even finishes. “Believe it or not, we don’t have a very high crime rate in North Kill.”

“Oh?”

“But…” he trails off in consideration. “I’ve been a police officer for over thirty years, not just in North Kill. Back home hasn’t always been what it is today. So,” he bobs his head, “I’ve seen my fair share of… ‘bad guys.’”

She’s tempted to leave it alone, especially given his earlier complaint about complicating things. But curiosity wins out. “What brought you back?”

“Family.” There's an odd blend of wistful and grim reflection that reminds her of something he’s said a lot, for a man who doesn’t really speak all that much.

Family is everything.

The waitress arrives with their food and drinks, which is honestly a bit of a red flag considering the steak should’ve taken longer to cook if it’s fresh, but whatever. She’s consumed enough food that’s been vaporized with a microwave that it’s surprising her third arm hasn’t grown in yet.

They dig in, and thoughts about complicated childhood dreams and careers quickly go to wayside in the presence of actual food. The steak is decidedly not bad, though the way Travis’ face turns smug at the sound she makes upon first bite has her swallowing back a compliment.

The drink, though, is perfect. Anything with vodka is perfect, though it appears she’s turned into a lightweight with no alcohol for a month. Travis also appears to loosen up a bit with meat and beer in his stomach.

At least, that’s what she assumes, given that he keeps their conversation flowing.

“I was bound to come back eventually,” he says, apropos of nothing. “Hackett’s Quarry has been in my family for generations.”

“How many are in your family?”

“There’s… seven of us,” he says evasively.

“Any other nieces or nephews I should know about?” she asks, semi-jokingly, but Travis actually smiles ruefully.

“No,” he replies, then cocks his head. “Not that I’m aware of, at least.”

“Ah. So your brother’s a bit of a ladies’ man?” she pokes lightly.

Travis shrugs a shoulder. “As much as any man in our family, I suppose.”

Her brows raise.

“N-Not that, I— I’m not saying that we, or I, are out there being irresponsible with women, or. Fuck. You know what I meant to say.”

“Um, I don’t think I do.”

Travis looks like he’s two steps away from melting under the table, which is both weirdly endearing and hilarious to witness.

“We’re a fairly close family,” he says matter-of-factly.

Ew.

He closes his eyes, shaking his head frantically against the red that slowly encroaches upon his face. “And what I mean by that is that my brothers and I aren't exactly bringing every girl home, so compared to the average guy— You know what? I’m not having this conversation with you. This is inappropriate.”

“Says the man whose family is ‘fairly close,’” she says with air quotes.

His mouth hangs open in indignation, and she can’t help but giggle at how ridiculous this whole thing is. The way he crinkles up in utter confusion is even funnier, and Laura devolves into cackling.

“Your— face!” she manages to get out between the laughter, clutching her drink to her chest. God, she’s missed this. It’s like the stress in her body is finally melting off for just a few minutes. Going out, getting drinks with a friend—

Oh. That’s right.

Her laughter stutters out, but she forces the smile to last so she doesn’t embarrass herself any further. She keeps her eyes focused on her plate. The last scraggles of mashed potatoes are smeared together with meat grease and corn.

Thankfully, the waitress comes back before either has a chance to speak again.

“Are we getting dessert tonight?” she asks with a painted smile. “We’ve got the cherry pie special, seven ninety-nine for two pieces!”

Travis frowns. “No, thank you. I’ll have the check, please.”

The waitress collects his card and disappears, and Laura leans in conspiratorially. “You know, you could’ve asked. It’s been a while since I’ve had something sweet.”

He purses his lips. “I don’t like pie.”

You could’ve ordered something other than pie, cheapskate. But she considers the odd look on his face.

“Every pie?”

Travis shifts in his seat, directing his gaze over her shoulder. “Every time there was a dough roller out on the counter, I knew Ma was looking to whack someone with it. That someone was usually me,” he says with a light huff, smiling crookedly. “So, I don’t really look forward to that Thanksgiving pumpkin pie like the rest of America.”

The story is meant to be funny, like some tongue-in-cheek reference to the nuclear family. She’s not sure what to make of it. He appears to notice her train of thought.

The waitress returns with the check before anything can come from it.

“Thank you,” he abruptly says with a smile, grabbing his debit card from the little tray. He stands up. The walls are back in place.

“C’mon,” he says. “It’s late, and we still have to check in for the night.”

The motel, as it turns out, is like any cheap run-of-the-mill lodging with an added twist: there’s a gargantuan loon out front. Its red LED eyes glow ominously amongst the sad decorative shrubs.

Laura can’t help but make a sound in the back of her throat, and Travis lazily raises a brow as if to say, The only one who can complain is the person footing the bill.

“What the fuck is with these people and their weird birds?” she mutters, following him to the guest office. There’s no light on inside, but a key box hangs crookedly off the siding of the building.

It’s just as well, considering Travis also openly carries the shotgun on his back. He may be dressed like a cop, but she isn’t sure just how much they can get away with until the public begins to ask questions.

Travis opens his phone, tapping something on screen. “It’s a bit of a mascot for the area,” he says offhandedly, scrolling till he finds what he’s looking for.

The light of the screen makes his eyes look impossibly dark. He fiddles with the lock code on the key box till it opens, and grabs two room keys with a look of satisfaction.

“Don’t overthink it,” he says, handing one key over. “It’s just a bird.”

“I’m not—” she stutters. “I’m not ‘overthinking’ it,” she defends dumbly, and catches just the edges of his amused smirk before he walks ahead. “I’m just calling it like I see it!”

The building is only one floor, and Travis leads them to the side that’s closest to the treeline of the dark woods that bracket either side of the main road. Once they reach the set of rooms, Laura unlocks hers and starts to walk in only for Travis to stop her.

“What are you doing?” he asks, bewildered.

She, too, is bewildered. “...I’m going to bed?”

Travis unholsters his gun, stepping past her and beyond the threshold. “I haven’t cleared it yet. Wait here, I’ll be just a minute.”

And off he goes. He leaves her to puzzle on the doorstep, and the summer air settles around her like a shawl. It’s a bit creepy out here, if she’s being honest. The uncomfortable realization that she’d rather be inside with him than wait out here alone hits her like a freight train.

Yikes. Laura takes a few steps to put some distance between her and the motel.

Despite the sun having gone down an hour ago, it’s still fairly easy to see within the darkness. The moon is nearly full. Tonight, instead of observing it through bars or branches, she has an unadulterated view of its face.

Maybe she shouldn’t stil find it beautiful, after everything.

Travis reappears. “All clear,” he says, satisfied. He hands the gun off to her. “Our rooms are connected. Leave your side unlocked in case anything happens.”

Laura swallows hard, hoisting her bag up. “Okay. Keep yours unlocked, too.” He gives her an odd look. “In case you need anything.”

“Right.” He’s standing around as if waiting to say something else, which is her cue to get inside.

With a quick “Goodnight!” the door is shut and locked, and for the first time in a long time, she has some semblance of actual privacy.

The room is old, though there’s been an obvious attempt at modernizing the decor. A bright painting of Paris hangs on the wall across from the bed, which is blanketed with a heavy duvet of black and white swirls

The overhead light is simple, but a quick check in the bathroom reveals more cheery colors of reds and blues, all melting together in the kind of art found in an office lobby. It’s bland, and also the nicest thing she’s had in a while.

She sheds her outer clothes and throws on an oversized t-shirt, and after giving it some thought, peels everything off for a shower.

Late-night showers aren’t typically her thing, but there’s something to be said about washing off after a particularly long day. The warm water feels like a balm against her exhausted body, and she almost manages to fall asleep while detangling her hair. Afterwards, she uses up the majority of the complimentary motel lotion and finally flops onto the bed.

Oh, the bed.

The mattress gathers in her body like a long-lost lover, or a cloud, or just a really fucking nice bed. Honestly. Maybe the fall wasn’t that bad on her back, and the lingering stiffness is from sleeping on a prison cot for so long.

It’s the closest she’s felt this content for a long time, and the last thought that creeps into her brain before the need to sleep overwhelms her is, Oh my god. It’s like I’m on a shitty vacation.

Someone’s screaming.

The realization injects a shot of adrenaline through her bloodstream, and Laura springs out of bed. Two very important things become apparent as her feet hit the carpet.

One, it sounds like a man. Like Travis.

Two, she has a gun.

You need to take the shot.

Laura grabs the gun from under her pillow and stalks near the conjoining door. Her heart pounds against her ribs, making little earthquakes ripple through her shirt, but her hands are steady when she reaches for the handle.

The mantra of her childhood repeats itself in her head of its own accord: Stay low to the ground. Don't let them hear you. Listen.

It's this last point that compels her to pause before twisting the handle, and everything falls into place seamlessly.

It wasn’t a scream that woke her up. At least, not anymore.

Laura cautiously presses her ear against the door, holding her breath. In the end, she doesn’t have to strain to hear it again. When the voice speaks, it sounds like it’s coming from directly under her ear.

“Laura, hey! It's me." Her mom’s voice is reedy and thin with false cheer. "Listen, could you come home right now?”

A sick, festering pit opens up in her stomach. It’s like she’s suddenly trapped behind a glass, on display like an insect with its wings pinned, and the same words she uttered years ago come bubbling up her throat like vomit.

"I'm sorry mom, but I can't. I have a test next period."

Her mom takes an unsteady breath on the other side. “I know you’re at school, but I really need you to come home.

"You'll see me in a bit.” Laura squeezes her eyes shut. This is wrong This is wrong Thisiswrongwrongwrong— “School's almost over."

"Laura, no, please.” The voice cracks in desperation. “I just want to see you. I miss you."

“I love you, mom.” Fat, thick tears slide unwillingly down her cheeks. “But I’m not coming home till after school.”

It's silent on the other end.

BANG!

The gun clatters to the ground from her limp fingers. Laura flees from the door in wide-eyed horror. Did she pull the trigger? Did she—

No, she didn’t. It’s a truth that she scrambles for, clutching onto its gritty edges like a child and a sand dollar. She didn’t.

Laura didn’t pull the trigger because the damn thing still had the safety on. She didn’t, because her mom was never here in the first place.

That conversation happened years ago, and somehow, it just replayed in her mind so vividly that it felt like she was there.

“Fuck,” she whispers, leaning back against the wall. Not again. It’s been three years since her last episode.

Water always helps. Drink something, wash your face. The old therapy tips come to mind as if someone with more sense is injecting them into her brain. She absorbs the list with numb detachment, and shuffles over to the bathroom with no real purpose.

Max used to constantly pull her out of this cave. It’s how they inevitably started dating, funny enough. Despite attending the same high school, Laura met his twin sister in group therapy.

In a morbid way, they had something in common that made it easy to connect.

They weren’t really supposed to hang out together outside of therapy, with warnings like group privacy and cliques being a rule at the old YMCA, but it worked. It was through Skye that Laura and Max started dating, and because of that, he got to know her at her lowest point and cheered her on as she overcame it.

And now, with him and her planned future vanished in thin air, the old rot has seemingly begun to move back in.

I’m so proud of you, honey. Max’s warm voice echoes in her mind. You’re doing so good. You know that, right?

Laura splashes her face with cold water, letting the droplets collect on the tip of her nose. Her pale, tired reflection stares weakly back at her. What would he say now?

Something sweet, she can’t help but admit tiredly. He was always sweet. Even when she’s being hard on herself, she can’t lie by imagining that Max would be cruel to her.

She wants nothing more than to go home, but where even is that, now?

Shit, that’s depressing. The cool night air sticks to the beads of water on her face. Laura allows herself to wallow in pity for just a moment longer before taking a deep breath.

“Okay,” she whispers to no one. “It’s fine. Go back to bed.”

She dries her face off, sending one last glance at her reflection. Eliza is standing behind her.

She whips her head around, but no one’s there. In the mirror, however, a familiar gaunt face watches her shock with amusement.

There’s no rust and blood-caked pole, no crooked limbs or rags. Instead, the old woman wears an outdated white gown, the kind that’s more likely to be found at a renaissance fair than a department store, and a spattering of age spots and freckles dip below the neckline.

Her metal pentagram necklace glints faintly under the dim light of the bathroom. Laura hardly notices it in light of the uncanny glint within the hag’s eyes.

“Good evening, girl,” Eliza greets with a cryptic smile. “It’s about time that you and I had a conversation.”

Her voice is different from what Laura had imagined. It’s light but stern, almost noble, and completely opposite from the sinister whispers that haunt her psyche throughout the day.

Eliza studies her with a serene expression, but it soon twists into impatience when Laura continues to stand there dumbly. The edges of her hairline are still wet.

What do you even say to the ghost that’s been haunting you for weeks?

“Out with it, girl,” Eliza finally snaps, her pleasant facade dropping into a scowl. “I haven’t got all night.”

Oh, fuck that. Laura’s own barely-surviving patience collapses into a heap.

“You’re dead, so I think you have a lot longer than that, actually,” she says with a sneer.

“Mind your tongue,” Eliza commands sharply. The old witch’s eyes seem to almost glow in the shadows, and Laura sobers up at the reminder that in all of this, she’s the mortal human. There’s no telling what Eliza is actually capable of.

“Why are you here?” It comes out more resigned than she intends, but the question seems to temper the witch’s ire. Eliza smiles like the cat that caught the canary.

“I want to help you,” the hag answers matter-of-factly.

“And how could you possibly do that?” Laura deadpans.

Eliza narrows her eyes. “I bring you a warning. Continue on this path, and you’ll leave a trail of corpses in your wake like your father.”

Hooded eyes catch the way her shoulders stiffen, and a look of satisfaction passes over the hag’s face.

“You know this as well as I do,” she adds.

I’m talking to a ghost witch, Laura thinks in detached horror.

“Actually, I don’t.” She ignores the trail of goosebumps along her arms. “I don’t see how you could know the future, either.”

“Think, my dear,” Eliza replies with an air of long-suffering patience. “I’ve read your fortune a hundredfold since you’ve arrived to our patch of earth. The choices you’ve made, and the ones that lie before you… all of them have the potential to happily leave a trail of corpses in their wake.”

Laura shakes her head. “I’m not happily wanting to kill anyone.”

“Do not mistake me for a simpleton,” Eliza says harshly. “I know exactly what you’re after, hunting an innocent boy all for the sake of a dead one.”

“We’re following the same path as yours,” she insists, voice turning a shade desperate. “We’re trying to help—”

Eliza scoffs loudly. “You’re not fooling anyone, least of all yourself. That stained bag of scum and the rest of those Hackett vermin aren’t trying to help anyone but themselves.”

“What, Travis?” she says incredulously. “He’s trying to cure his niece of the curse that your son gave her.”

“Not everything is as it seems here, my dear,” the old hag says vaguely. The air of the bathroom turns alive with static.

“I wish I could tell you the whole truth, but some things must be left up to fate. All you need to do now is leave, and everything else will fall into place as it should. Go home, and never return to North Kill. ”

Laura narrows her eyes, and Eliza tilts her chin with a haughty look. For someone who used to travel with a circus, she certainly carries herself like royalty. Something’s brewing behind those eyes.

She’s obviously gearing up to say something particularly dreadful, and Laura isn’t proved wrong.

“You’ve already got blood on your hands,” the hag adds with a verbal stab.

Laura knows she should just leave it. The ghost witch is clearly goading her, but at her core is a long-lost child who is careless, and needy, and has to know.

“...What do you mean by that?” she asks quietly

Eliza purses her lips into a disdainful smirk. “Oh, poor girl,” she replies with mocking sympathy. “You can’t hide your wickedness from me.”

Okay, no.

“We’re looking for a cure,” Laura emphasizes beyond the growing horror in her stomach. Think of something, anything. “A cure that could maybe even fix Silas—”

"LIAR!"

The lights flicker, and for just a fraction of a second, Eliza’s visage twists apart to reveal a black maw with soulless eyes.

“You and I both know the truth,” the hag says, intact once again.

Laura forgets to breathe for a moment. “That’s not possible,” she says unsteadily.

Eliza continues as if she hadn’t spoken. “You’re going to continue adding to that Brandt legacy unless you do as I say, you stupid girl.”

It’s as if she’s a boat lost at sea, like the one from Kaylee’s painting, soft and helpless against the violence of the waves. Her resolve takes a hit, and she clenches her hands into fists to keep from shaking.

The hag’s face twists into a cruel smile, eying the movement. “I suppose you’re going to make me be the voice of reason, aren’t you? You left your mother to die like a dog instead of sparing a breath to save her.”

The memory of that last phone call lingers like bile on her tongue. I really need you to come home.

I’m sorry, mom.

And then, a realization steadies her like an anchor. Laura watches as if from another body as her own face transforms with devastating clarity.

That hadn’t been an episode.

God, how could she be so stupid? The dead witch somehow dredged up her memories to steer her off course, and then appear like Casper the fucking ghost to get her to leave. She wasn’t losing her mind, after all. It was Eliza’s doing.

Fury, deep and untapped, flashes through her like a power surge.

“I’m going to kill your son.” Laura’s voice is low and deadly. The positively feral look in her eyes is unrecognizable. Eliza blinks, looking taken aback.

Laura steps closer to the mirror, and doesn’t flinch as the air becomes as cold as a freezer. She smiles as wide as her face allows, and leans in as if sharing a secret.

“And then I’m going to find a way to destroy you, too.”

The skin at Eliza’s neck begins to turn gray.

“I know you,” the hag promises hastily, wearing a nasty smirk. “You knew your mother’s skull would be shattered like a bowl of porridge, and you were thankful.”

Spittle flies from Eliza’s lips. Her teeth look rotten.

“So thankful, always ready to bend under your father’s steady thumb. Ever since—”

Laura swings forward without thought, punching the mirror with enough impact to create a spiderweb of cracks throughout the entire thing. Some of the pieces scatter across the counter and fill the sink.

For a moment, all is silent, save for her labored breathing.

Then, the tortured screams begin again anew. Louder and louder. Louder still, until they distort into a hysterical cackle that sounds like it’s erupting from every direction.

The bathroom lights flicker with the growing noise, and Eliza’s taunting smile reflects back at her in the hundreds, multiplied by each shard of glass. Whatever trance that came over her is broken, and Laura dives for the bathroom door.

Eliza’s laughter transforms into a chorus of low, demented voices. “Blood on your hands! Blood on your hands!”

The handle won’t budge. She clasps her hands over her ears, bending over at the onslaught.

“BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS! BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS!”

“Leave me the fuck alone!” she shrieks. The door inexplicably bursts open, slamming into her hip. Laura careens back.

Here’s Travis, wide-eyed and lethal, looming over her with his gun drawn.

“What the fuck is going on?!” he shouts.

Laura doesn’t wait around. She weaves in-between him and the door frame and wrenches open the conjoining door, quickly flipping on the light switch. Once she stumbles into the middle of the room, she stops, suddenly at a loss for what to do.

It’s not like she has long to decide, anyway. Travis follows her in, slamming the door shut and locking it. Maybe he heard something, too, and is trying to bar it out. Maybe it’s so she can’t escape.

“Mind telling me what all that was about?!” he growls from behind her.

There’s an odd note to his voice. When Laura doesn’t immediately respond, he grabs her shoulder.

“Talk to me, Kearney.” His touch is warm.

“I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I asked,” he says gruffly, and when he turns her by the shoulders, she doesn’t fight it. He scans her over, taking a sharp inhale after a pause.

Travis grabs her wrist, holding her bloody fist up to the light. There’s small pieces of glass still stuck to her knuckles. “You’re bleeding.”

She tries to wrench her hand out of his grasp, but he doesn’t budge. The touch of another living human is grounding, which means she probably looks as pathetic as she feels.

“Travis, stop,” she says quietly.

“Hey—”

“I said, stop!”

He relinquishes his grip immediately, taking a wide step back with his hands up in surrender. She hates him.

She hates all of it— the way he can switch between treating her like a pillar of stone to something fractured and brittle. The way her body draws stiff at the sudden absence of his heat.

The way she wants, needs someone other than herself right now, or the paranoia might drive her insane.

“Wait. Come here for a second,” she blurts. He eyes her dubiously. Even she isn’t sure what she’s asking for until he doesn’t move.

"Please,” she adds in a whisper. She doesn’t know what she’ll do if he denies her this.

Finally, he takes a single step forward, one hand still holding the shotgun, the other raised in caution. Laura hesitantly tucks herself into his chest.

It’s definitely not the kind of hug she’s craving. He’s as stiff as a board, and any moment now, she’s positive he’ll shove her away. Surprisingly, he doesn’t.

The wiry muscle under her face is taught and unyielding, but her body knows his musky scent of sweat and aftershave. Laura takes a deep breath. She’s needed this for weeks.

From losing Max and getting falsely imprisoned, to having to outmaneuver a cop to get her freedom back, to trying to hunt a werewolf. She hasn’t managed to catch a break until the past few days, and even then, she was pushed off a fucking cliff by a ghost.

And hunted by the same one, even now.

Her thoughts swirl around like surface scum on a pond, and within the thick quiet, she’s hit with the realization that she’s just tired of it all. And that’s not who she’s supposed to be.

She’s Laura Badass Kearney, the girl who’s survived it all. Who outlived her abuser, the allegations, the ensuing societal hell. Who actually made it into college after years of therapy and support from the family she never had.

She’s Laura Motherfucking Brandt. Like it or not, that has to mean something.

And yet, here she is. Eliza finally managed to shake her up beyond a few scratches, and all of it is so terrible and overwhelming and fucking terriying because—

What else does the hag know?

“...Are you alright?” Travis asks, voice lower than normal.

When she doesn’t respond, he exhales softly, and does something she doesn’t expect.

He wraps an arm around her.

The steel effectively bleeds out of her spine, and everything else fades away. All of the effort being put toward staying alert recedes like the tide.

She isn’t alone in this. There’s someone else here who’s in just as deep, and he needs her at her best in order to find his way out of it. They’re partners in this moment. Whatever happens next is moot.

Brick by brick, she allows herself to quietly rebuild on the strength he lends her. Travis doesn’t try to rub her back or whisper comforting nonsense to her. He endures, stoic and removed, and that’s more helpful than anything.

It doesn’t take long for her to start feeling more like herself. Unfortunately, the better she feels, the more that self-awareness begins to set in.

God, this day just won’t end.

One look down confirms her worst fears: plaid boxer-briefs and dark leg hair. Shit. She isn’t doing much better; aside from an oversized shirt, she’s only wearing underwear.

Alright, enough with the kumbaya. Laura gently leans back, and Travis releases his hold as if she spontaneously combusted. She’ll have to look him in the eye sooner or later, so might as well rip the bandaid off.

She lifts her chin and almost regrets everything. He’s still so close.

The stare he gives her lacks its usual bite, but it might be due more to the fact that his hair is still mussed from sleep. However, one look at the bed reveals that the sheets are hardly disturbed. Either he’s barely slept, or the man slumbers like a corpse.

Travis is even still holding the shotgun loosely in one hand, which he carefully lays against the wall.

“C’mon,” he says wearily, tone brooking no argument. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

They head to the bathroom, and though she could easily clean and bandage it on her own, Laura says nothing as he pulls out the first-aid kit out of his duffle bag. She perches herself on the counter, back firmly against the mirror, and watches his lips move in concentration as he gets to work.

“Eliza paid me a visit tonight,” she reluctantly volunteers. This gets his attention.

Laura tells him about the eerily loud screams that woke her up, and how Eliza’s ghostly apparition appeared in the mirror and urged her to leave. She fails to mention the details about her mom, or the phone call, or the accusations.

But at the part where Eliza specifically called out the Hacketts, Travis’ expression hardens.

“What did she say?”

“Nothing really,” Laura answers with a shrug. “She called you a bag of scum, though. Do you know why she has it out for you?”

He tilts his head to the side, mulling over something. Whatever's on the tip of his tongue stays there, and he finishes wrapping up her knuckles in pointed silence. He looks somewhere over her shoulder, and she turns, half-expecting Eliza to be lurking behind her.

“Take my bed tonight,” he says firmly, still not looking at her. “I’ll take the spot by the door.”

“Travis,” she starts.

“And if anything wakes you up again, let me know,” he emphasizes. “Don’t go off on your own.”

She scowls, but it’s weak at best. The motel bathroom wasn’t necessarily ‘going off on her own,’ and she’d say as much, if it weren’t for her own bone-deep exhaustion.

The answers will still be there in the morning. Sleep beckoned for her hours ago; now, it’s simply waiting for her to keel over and die.

If she were a better person, she’d object to taking the bed. But as it were, Laura slips under the sheets with a guilt-free conscience and yanks the blankets right up to her chin, watching.

Travis goes throughout the motel room, reappearing in a pair of sweats. He avoids looking her way, which is made all the more obvious by the fact that the room is cramped and she’s directly in the middle of it.

Once the lights are off, his silhouette settles into the flimsy chair by the shared door. Thin lines of blues and golds, moonlight and streetlamps, reach out across his face from the windowblinds.

He returns her stare, solid as a sentinel. The shotgun lies beside him. Waiting.

#another lost soul #travis hackett #laura kearney #laura kearneyxtravis hackett #the quarry fanfic #the quarry game #eliza vorez #there be ghosts #the quarry fanfiction #the quarry #hackearny

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dngrs-untld-hrshps-unnmbrd · 3 years ago

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God the sex these two are gonna have when they finally just lose is gonna me so messy but like in the hot way 😩😩😮‍💨🤤

Nonny I’ve just been writing said smut and oh my god it’s so gloriously messy and panting and urgent.

It’s not the main smut for this part of the fic but it’s the first thick finger to go near Laura for a whole year and the girl is losing her mind. Coming soon to a chapter near you!

TMI but I jump back into my Hackearny fic and I’m the horniest I’ve been since I last thought about them all day. Coincidence? I think not 😂

*bites my own arm off waiting for the football to be over*

#ask and answer #werewolf bites and hot summer nights

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fangirlapril2004 · 3 years ago

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Will you make a hackearny edit? 👀 I saw your rdr2 edits and they’re really good! ❤️

LMFAO you know I wasn’t going to… but I think I might 💀

I was going to make a little something regardless but I wasn’t planning on posting it because of all the shit people have been getting, but the thing is I’m getting shit for reblogging fan art of the ship and I had some angry anon message me all hours of the morning. The way I see it I’ve already been dragged onto their shit list so I may as well go for it at this point 🤷💀 What more can they do

ALSO thank you so much!!! That means a lot to me ☺️♥️♥️ that’s one of the best compliments someone can get so thank you I really appreciate that! ♥️ I’ll make a hackearney edit soon, I might have to replay the game again because I have subtitles in the clips I’ve collected 😬 so it might take awhile but I’ll definitely make one 👌

(I just realised it might take a little longer because I still have to make an edit someone requested a few weeks back)

#the quarry #travis x laura #hackearney #asks

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tiburion · 3 years ago

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Soooo... no one Is gonna draw Hackearny AU with Laura x werewolf! Travis?

Seems like I'll gotta do it myself

#the quarry #travis x laura #hackearney

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lovesomehate · 3 years ago

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I was watching those gif sets of Ted from the episode of CSI, expecially the one where they tear his shirt off.

Now, it's more than a week I'm reading Hackearny fanfics like candies, and everytime it was mentioned Travis was fit I personally had an hard time beliving it.

Guess now I have to bow to y'all galaxy brain people

If you haven’t watched it yet, I recommend Skinner for all the half naked Ted content 😏

But yeah, that man is big all over and thick 🥴🥴🥴🥴

It may or may not be driving me up a wall 😩

#ask #tiburion #ted raimi

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pixie-mask · 3 years ago

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More precisely Travis Hackett & hackearny in my case

the quarry brain rot really isn’t letting me go

#The Quarry #Travis Hackett #Laura Kearney #hackearney

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tumbleassbitch · 3 years ago

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another lost soul (letting my instinct take control) | The Quarry | TravisxLaura

Characters: Laura Kearney, Travis Hackett, The Hackett family Summary: Max dies in the cellar. This changes everything.

Chapter 8/? | Chapter 7

The drive there is silent.

The gold of the dying sun softens the dark wood, though creeping shadows act as a harbinger of the night to come. Save for the white noise of the road, all is swallowed up by the stark knowledge that one way or another, this is ending tonight.

Travis hasn’t said a word since they left, and Laura hasn’t necessarily felt up for conversation, either. When they reach the sight of the crash, Travis pulls off the road so the cruiser is partially hidden by the dense understory, and he’s outside and opening her door before she finishes unbuckling.

Gone is the man who folds her towels and listens patiently as his niece tries to explain color theory. Here, he’s the Sheriff of North Kill, and he scrutinizes her with an air of absolute authority.

“I can’t guarantee your safety out here," he says brusquely. "If you want to stay behind, no hard feelings.”

She scowls. “I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”

“You ever shoot before?”

She nods, and he holds the shotgun out to her. “As a last resort,” he explains after a pause.

The level of trust he's placing in her is profound, and she couldn’t misinterpret this gesture if she tried. He spent last week locking her up, and tonight he’s handing her a gun.

You can end this now.

Except, try as she may, her hands refuse to take it.

"You have to use your hands to shoot it, girl,” he says impatiently. God, he's such an ass.

“I can’t.”

His brows shoot up to his hairline. “Excuse me?”

She musters up a glare, steeling herself against the cold sweat that’s building at the mere thought of holding a shotgun again. “I can’t.”

“You’re gonna have to,�� he says bluntly. “Silas may not be a werewolf tonight, but he’s sure as hell managed to live off the grid, undetected, for six years. You really want to go fucking around with someone like that?”

“Give me your Glock.”

Travis considers her with a dark stare, sucking on his teeth. For a moment, she thinks he’s going to shut the door in her face and lock it, but then he breaks the stare.

He meticulously unclips his holster, and hands his gun over.

The handle is still warm. The familiar weight of a gun settles in her palm like an old friend. She feels the weight of his stare, but checking the magazine for live rounds is second nature.

It’s full.

He eyes her warily. “You realize I have to account for each bullet out of my issued firearm?”

She graces him with a twisted smile. “Let’s hope I don’t miss, then.”

Even at dusk, the forest has a cloyingly thick atmosphere.

The fading daylight makes it easier to navigate the rocky ground, and Laura has so far managed to avoid landing on her skull like last time. But each crackling leaf and scratch of dirt against the soles of their shoes, their breathing, all of it is too damn loud .

Travis is in his element. Despite his stature, he manages to creep along with an uncanny grace that makes her sound like a raging bull in comparison. She can practically feel his pointed glare with each snap of a twig.

His shadow looms in front of them, leading the way as much as her own cautious steps forward. Laura would rather be buried alive than ever admit it, but she’s glad he’s covering her back.

It’s far better than being alone. There’s this uncanny feeling of being watched the deeper they go in, and it’s compounded the deeper they go. The alien sensation buried in the back of her conscience comes alive once more.

If you keep going this way, you’re going to end up exactly like dad.

She falters in her stride. Now is not the time to be thinking about her father. And yet, as the last of the daylight bleeds into shadows, her mind won’t stop.

You’ve already got blood on your hands.

This path leads only to death.

You always knew you'd turn out this way, helping someone murder another innocent.

The closer they get, the louder her conscience screams. Sweat is dripping down her back, and her palms get so clammy that she has to keep wiping them down or risk her grip.

Fuck. It’s like her skull is trying to bust in half.

The power is in your hands! End this for once!

"Are you good?" Travis’ voice startles her. Through her bleary eyes, she manages to make out his look of impatient concern.

She scowls back. A sarcastic quip is on the tip of her tongue, but the way his attention drops to her hands makes her pause.

Belatedly, she realizes she’s trembling.

He eyes her shrewdly, but she just tightens her grip on the gun. There's no way she’s going to puss out with Silas so close.

Murderer, murderer, MURDERER—

Travis swivels to the side. “Did you hear that?”

I can't hear anything over my own voices, she thinks, casually hysterical.

“Hear what?”

He assesses the area a moment longer. “Could’ve been an animal,” he says hesitantly. “Keep your head up.”

Her heart jumps a beat, and Laura quickly scans the trees. "Travis. Look."

He follows her gaze with the bladed-focus of a predator, honing in on the worn edges of a Harum Scarum poster posted to a tree. Eliza Vorez’s hooded eyes shine back in the light of his shotgun.

They're close. He takes the lead with new fervor, and the moment they enter the clearing, all goes silent.

Silas' cage towers over the remains of Harum Scarum. Beneath the crown of branches and cloak of thorny vines, there's an almost distinguished air to the warped metal.

They’re in the wolf’s den, and this is his throne.

Travis moves first, bathing the area with the light from his shotgun. No one seems to be home.

“Don’t touch anything if you can help it,” he says after a moment. The whites of his teeth glean. “If he’s not here, we don’t want to leave our scent.”

He closes in on the cage, and Laura studies the trees overhead, half expecting Silas to jump out of the branches. Nothing.

The forest floor is littered with detritus that she hadn’t noticed the first time. Broken glass from shattered lightbulbs, a red and white striped popcorn bucket. The suitcase holding a straight jacket sits right where she last saw it.

It’s still open, too, which makes the pit in her stomach drop even further. If Silas did come back after the last full moon, she doubts he’d leave it like that. Which means…

A twig snaps at the edge of the clearing.

She flinches, gun at the ready. When a crazed albino man doesn’t lunge out from the bushes, Laura slowly creeps over. Beyond the brush is a steep decline, almost a drop-off, and the bottom is shrouded in darkness.

Still, straining past the inky blackness, Laura can barely make out some movement.

“Travis,” she hisses.

She pings him further back, digging through the bushes near the cage. Typical. Of course, the moment she wishes he was breathing down her neck, he’s doing the exact opposite. But the last thing they need is for her to look away and miss the shot at whatever’s down there. A curse bubbles up in her throat and she swallows it, leaning forward to get a better look.

Something plants firmly in the middle of her back and shoves.

Laura chokes out a gasp, spinning back to grab at something, anything. There’s no one there, and she pitches backwards, falling,

falling,

falling—

Her body hits the ground with a sickly crack. All of the air in her lungs is immediately evacuated, and for a brief, horrible moment, she’s convinced that this is it.

“F…uck,” she manages to croak.

Everything’s spinning. A haphazard self-assessment suggests that nothing’s broken, though— she lifts an arm, hissing at the way her skin unpokes itself— she landed in a fucking sticker bush. It probably saved her life.

“Silas.”

She inhales sharply, looking skywards. A familiar gaunt, pale face peers down at her from the ledge. It grins.

“Laura!”

Travis’ alarmed voice shouts from above, and light blinds her. Dimly, she realizes that probably means a shotgun barrel is pointed at her, too. A hysterical laugh bubbles out of her throat.

“Goddammit,” he growls. “Hold on, I’m coming down!”

“Someone’s… up there,” she wheezes out, and Travis jolts back, taking the light with him.

She’s not sure how much time passes, but it isn’t too long before she hears his heavy footsteps come to a stop. Calloused fingers lightly skim across her face, brushing the hair out of her eyes.

“Did’ja find ‘em?” she says with minimal slur.

He answers by mercilessly passing the light between her eyes till she groans, turning away.

Travis clicks his tongue. “You have a concussion.”

“No shit,” she mumbles, blinking away the blotches of light that burned into her vision. Ugh.

“It’s bad, but not that bad. I’m more worried about the rest of you. Tell me if this hurts,” he says, and she’s still processing his words when he presses on her stomach.

Laura flinches, gritting out, “The fuck?”

“Hurts?”

“Yeah it fuckin’ hurts… s' a sticker bush.”

Travis mutters a curse, withdrawing immediately. The warmth of his touch lingers on her skin like wildfire. He turns the light away, and they're shrouded in darkness.

Panic swells on the other side of her mind, the side that isn’t detached, that’s still up on that ledge. Laura tries to focus, searching for that pale face, but it’s like the whole world is too slippery to catch.

“Take a few deep breaths for me,” he says, voice pitched low and soft as if she might spook. “Can you move your fingers and toes?”

Absolutely she can, and she wiggles them fervently. He snakes an arm under her waist and shoulder, and she gasps in reflex.

He freezes. “Does that hurt?”

“No.”

Travis sighs heavily, and his fingers flex into her back. “We need to get you up,” he explains slowly. “Can you put your arm around my neck?”

She unsticks herself with gritted teeth, and he ducks into her reach and lifts without warning. Her stomach tilts with the sudden movement. Thorns pull at her clothes, and there must be dozens still buried in her skin. Despite her best efforts to keep it in, a whimper escapes her lips.

Travis doesn’t set her down; instead, he shifts his grip with a small grunt, and walks. It’s like living in someone else’s body for a brief moment. Mortification doesn’t last for long.

The last time we were this close, I was naked.

Over her head, Travis clears his throat.

She mulls over the quiet observation with distant interest, feeling the edge of that strange fear begin to swell up again. The smell of sweat and laundry detergent is grounding, and she gingerly buries her face into his chest.

“You can’t fall asleep,” he mutters.

“I’m not,” she mumbles. A breath later, she adds, “We’re in the woods.” If only she could sleep right now.

He says something affirmatively, and the timber of his voice rolls through her rib cage. Damn , he makes her feel small.

It shouldn’t feel like a sigh of relief, or the aftermath of a long, drawn-out battle. It shouldn’t sound like the clear, honest confession of, finally. And yet, it does.

Finally, she doesn’t have to be leading the charge. Someone else can take care of it, for once. Take care of her.

The thin wire keeping her lucid snaps.

“Hey.” His voice takes on a stern bite, but it doesn’t really matter—

—and Laura honestly must black out because next thing she knows, her head is painfully clear, and everything fucking hurts .

That, and she’s still in Travis’ arms.

She stretches her toes to the ground and he sets her down wordlessly. The world threatens to go sideways, muscles cramping with the effort to stand straight, and she just about keels over until Travis steadies her with a firm grip.

Another human touch feels good. It feels too good, and she almost regrets waking up, which is why she absolutely cannot . Nope. That is one line she refuses to cross, shattered body be damned.

Laura steps away, and Travis eyes the stiff movement.

The forest around them feels dead; no insects chirping or critters scurrying under the brush. Something deeper than werewolves is happening here. Something far more sinister .

“Let’s talk in the car,” Travis says with finality. The white curve of the cruiser peers out from behind the trees. Damn, she thinks, both impressed and mildly disturbed by his apparent endurance. He carried her this whole way?

“But Silas—”

“—isn’t here,” he says without a hint of mourning. He’s dealing with it nicely, but maybe that’s the result of years of failure.

She isn’t sure what to think right now, except for, “Fuck.” He immediately looks around in alarm. “Your gun.”

The apprehension drains from his face. “I’ve got it.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but he’s stepping into her space again, guiding her over to the cruiser with a grip that, though gentle, borders no room for argument. It’s a testament to how shitty she feels that Laura doesn’t even put up a fight.

“I can come back tomorrow and set up the game cams.” Travis leans over her, buckling her swiftly. “But for now, we need to get you back and cleaned up.”

She slouches back into the headrest. Nausea builds up once more, and she squeezes her eyes shut as the car begins to move.

Travis grips the steering wheel with white knuckles, jaw set. He’s angry. She can’t argue with that.

She feels as if someone beat her with a baseball bat. Her back is the worst part of it. Sitting still allows for each little thorn to painfully make its presence known, but underneath her skin is one solid ache that wraps around to collect in her sternum.

Apparently, it takes a bit for the pain to settle in when you fall a good twelve feet.

She’s picturing herself back at her dorm, warm duvet cocooning her battered bones, when they arrive.

The engine dies, and Travis eyes her down shamelessly. Under his piercing eyes, there’s little to hide.

“You should’ve been more careful,” he says abruptly.

She must’ve bumped her head harder than she thought, because there’s no way she’s getting a personal safety lecture right now. Laura scowls.

“You act as if I went cliff jumping for fun.”

“Well, it sure damn looked like it.”

“I was pushed,” she says defensively.

Travis frowns, and though it’s too dark to make out his exact expression, something in his face shutters closed. “I wasn’t anywhere near you.”

“I know. And I don’t think it was… alive.”

She’d recognize the face of Eliza Vorez anywhere.

The realization should make her feel frightened, and later, it probably will. But right now, it just feels like a huge weight is lifted from her chest. She’s not going crazy.

So I guess that means I’m being haunted, she ponders . It’s fine. She can work with that.

Travis’ mouth is a thin line of steel, and wordlessly, he surveys the empty parking lot. His seatbelt clicks open, and deft fingers release the clip on her own.

“Inside,” he mutters darkly, slipping outside.

She’s not sure it matters, considering Eliza’s been whispering in her head for days now within the cell. But she gets out all the same, shrugging away from his offered hand and reaching the double doors at a snail’s pace.

He hovers behind her. The second time his hands barely graze her shoulders, she snaps. “Could you back off? You’re making me feel like I’m about to keel over.”

Travis raises his hands in mock surrender, but it’s a flimsy victory at best. His breath is still hot on her neck, thick and overbearing as ever.

It's infuriating to admit that maybe she does need help; the longer she's awake and moving, the more her body wants to clam up. By the time they reach the cells, she has to lean most of her body weight on him to keep upright.

He lets her slump bonelessly onto the cot, and she promptly buries her face in the creased linen of the pillow. Sleep is practically knocking on the door.

Unfortunately, Travis is already reappearing with an armful of supplies, tossing a pair of cotton shorts and a thin t-shirt next to her head and handing her a few pills that she happily swallows.

Laura takes a second look from her blanket nest. “You’ve had these the whole time?”

He glances up briefly from unpacking the supplies. "It's not like you were packed for the comfort of a jail cell.”

“Um— I have plenty of things that I could’ve been wearing.”

Travis scoffs. “Oh really? I don’t remember being asked by other prisoners for crop tops and booty shorts.”

Ew. She scrunches her nose. “Please don’t say ‘booty’ ever again.”

“Besides,” he continues with a dignified eye roll, “the last thing I needed was hearing you complain that I ruined your favorite shirt in the washer. Especially with those lacey—”

He clamps his jaw shut, but it’s too late.

“Lacey what?” she asks with a raised brow.

He falters, and the lid to the antiseptic drops on the ground with a soft clink . Travis snatches it back up with a pinched face.

“Could you just get changed so we can get this over with?”

He turns his back, and she makes the grudgingly slow process of rolling over and peeling her pants off, unsticking a thorn every so often before prying them off further.

The damage is revealed in layers, and every so often she has to stop and breathe through the black spots that start blotting out her vision.

Travis clears his throat. “Are you done?”

Her legs are covered in bloody welts, though the worst of the damage is where she can't see. Her back is probably in the same shape, and she reaches the awful conclusion at the same time Travis chances a look over his shoulder.

He immediately turns back. “Sorry. I thought you passed out.”

“I need help,” she blurts. The words almost trigger her gag reflex on the way out.

Travis hesitantly glances over his shoulder as if to confirm she actually spoke, and he fixates on the stiff set of her shoulders. To his credit, Travis doesn’t leer. He looks at the pair of shorts still sitting off to the side.

“Okay,” he says, simple as that.

He sets the pair of tweezers down and picks up where she left off, carefully picking out thorns before continuing to slowly free her legs. It’s perfectly detached and precise. Once her pants are off, he casts them to the side.

It’s easier when he’s looking down, Laura decides, tracking the way his throat bobs as he swallows. Because right now, sitting in her prison-issued panties, this is fucking awkward.

Might as well rip the bandaid off.

“I, uh. Can’t really lift my shoulders.”

Whatever was keeping him cool and collected before momentarily shatters, and it’s almost comforting to see actual fear peer through the cracks.

Good, she thinks vehemently. He’s pristine and thorn-free while she’s a human pincushion. The least he can do is be embarrassed with her.

Travis releases a breath. Mouth thin and taut, he grabs the hem of her shirt.

This close, the pale flush of moonlight softens the lines in his face. Sure, he’s showing his age like any middle-aged man, but it suits a guy like Travis. There’s a patch of stubble on his jaw left over from the last time he shaved.

Coal eyes meet her own, then. She breaks the stare as if scalded.

Gently, he works the fabric up her back, easing it up her stiff body. Despite his clinical precision, his nails lightly graze the skin of her waist, and she inhales through clenched teeth.

Travis pauses in his efforts. “Still good?”

Once again, she’s struck with the absolute insanity that is her life.

“Good enough,” is her clipped answer.

Travis actually huffs a laugh at that, amusement replacing the near-constant glower, and Laura can’t help but return a lopsided grin. His eyes seem to stray on the fervent blush that stains her cheeks.

Despite the layers of grime and blood, and the very likely possibility of a few cracked ribs, Laura can't help but think. It’s utterly ridiculous, and definitely the concussion talking, but…

Underneath the pressed collar and crooked mouth, he’s still a man.

“Could you bend forward?” Despite his lowered tone, the sound shatters the silence between them like a bomb.

She obliges, curving her spine in like a swan’s neck, and he tugs the shirt over her head without a hitch.

Definitely the concussion, she thinks with a blink. It’s like she’s seeing him clearly for the first time, and she’s absolutely not going down that train of thought.

She just barely catches the way he looks her over before turning away, the shells of his ears tinged red.

“Lie down on your stomach and I’ll get you bandaged up,” he says.

She doesn’t have to be told twice. The antiseptic sloshes in the bottle somewhere above her shoulder, and then, shit, that burns. Travis starts dabbing at her back, each scrape screaming just a bit louder beneath the touch.

“I… feel like Silas should’ve been caught by now,” she grits out.

“Yeah, well, let’s not get too cocky, young lady,” he says gruffly, and the tweezers dig into her skin. “You haven’t even gone out on a full moon to try and hunt the bastard.”

“But you have.”

“Exactly—”

“And that’s my point. I mean, it’s not like he has any shortage of enemies. He’s had her help this whole time.”

Another thorn is pulled.

"When Max and I showed up to camp, I could've sworn that I saw someone in the cellar. But when we got down there, it was dead silent…"

Travis stills.

"It was only when we were cornered that… that Silas appeared. I think Eliza lured us down there."

He’s quiet for so long that she cranes her neck over to make sure he didn’t have a stroke or something. A distant, thoughtful look is on his face.

“Are you even listening?”

“...What?"

"She was some kind of witch, right?” she presses. “Maybe she's been trying to keep her baby boy safe and fed, put us in a kill zone that would make an escape almost impossible.”

“Have you heard of the Hag of Hackett’s Quarry?” Travis asks.

“... A hag?”

“It’s what the locals call Eliza Vorez’s ghost.” His fingers glide over her shoulder, pausing to dig another thorn out. This one’s deep, and she clenches her fists to keep from flinching away. When he’s done, his thumb smooths over the bandage.

“I think that’s what you must’ve seen in the woods,” he says.

“It makes sense,” Laura says breathily, looking over to see he’s already gauging her reaction. “What?”

“Well…” he trails off. “You don’t seem to be too concerned.”

That’s not quite accurate, and she mulls over her answer. Fuck it. All the cards are on the table.

“I thought I was losing it,” she confesses. “I’d been… hearing things. I heard her the night we came.”

“Like what?”

“She said ‘Silas,’ I think. Among other things.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Not particularly, no.”

A sigh escapes his lips like steam into the night. He pivots on his knees, turning his attention to the cuts on her legs.

She most definitely has thorns halfway up her ass, but that’s definitely not in the itinerary for tonight. Laura buries her face into her pillow. “What now?”

Travis hums. “Now, we wait.”

“Fuck no,” she answers vehemently. “We just hit a breakthrough tonight!”

“An investment, Laura,” he says with emphasis. “And it’s still the summer, meaning he likely hasn’t gone too far. He’ll be back before the season’s end, in all likelihood, and I’ll be able to track when he comes with the cams.”

“But that isn’t good enough,” she says, propping herself up on her forearms. It’s instantly a bad move, and her back twinges loudly enough that she flops back down.

Travis meets her challenge with an unimpressed air. “Really? And what do you plan on doing when you’re like this?”

“If he isn’t here, then he has to be elsewhere,” she says thoughtfully.

“No,” he says.

“You haven’t even heard what I have to say.”

“You don’t need to voice it, because I can already smell the bullshit that’s about to come out of your mouth. I can’t leave town.”

“Aren’t you the sheriff?” she asks wryly. “Don’t you get to make the rules?”

He clicks his tongue in frustration, pasting another bandage on her thigh. “It’s not that easy.”

“And what if it is? What if it’s a matter of driving away for a day or two, checking in on that last town cemetery to see what they were looking for?”

She rolls over, fixing him with a fierce look. Travis cants his head to the side, narrowing his eyes in obvious discontent. But the gears are still turning.

“You’ll slow us down like this.” She opens her mouth to protest and he raises a tired hand. “So, let’s wait a few days, confirm that he really has left the area and give you a chance to fuckin’ heal. Then…”

“Then?” she repeats.

“Then we’ll see if he has other nests. That’s it for tonight.”

He gets up to his feet with a grunt, then hands over a black cloth pad she hadn’t noticed before.

“For your back,” he says. “I use it when mine,” he waves his hand vaguely, “acts up. It’s fully charged.”

He isn’t looking at her.

“Thanks,” she says, sliding it under. The warmth is like a balm against her agitated muscles, and she melts into it, eyes slipping shut.

Without a word, he tosses a blanket over her body and pauses, clearly mulling over his next words. “Do you want a clean bed?”

“Travis, I’d sleep on this floor if I didn’t think I’d get tetanus,” she says tiredly, leaving no room for argument. “I’m going to bed now.”

He nods, but instead of leaving her to pass out in peace, he gives the cell another once over.

She pops an eye open. “Can I… help you with anything?”

His hand flexes at his side. “Let me know if the pain gets worse and I’ll bring you something stronger. I’ll be just down the hall.” With that, he sweeps out of the cell.

Laura dreams of red eyes.

#travishackett #travis hackett #the quarry fanfic #the quarry fanfiction #laura kearneyxtravis hackett #another lost soul #laura kearney #the quarry #hackearny

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tumbleassbitch · 3 years ago

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another lost soul (letting my instinct take control) | The Quarry | TravisxLaura

Characters: Laura Kearney, Travis Hackett, The Hackett family Summary: Max dies in the cellar. This changes everything.

Chapter 9/? | Chapter 8

July 15, 2022

All things considered, it’s not that bad.

Underneath the fluorescent lights of the shower room, the bruises along her ribs look… normal. No internal bleeding or squashed organs.

Probably, Laura thinks dubiously.

Looking over her shoulder hurts like hell, but she only finds a collage of purples and blues beneath a scattering of crimson scrapes and pricks, the worst covered up by bandages. It kind of looks like an ugly Jackson Pollock painting, but at least it’s non-lethal.

She pulls her shirt back down with a wince and makes the stilted walk back to her cot, trailing one hand along the wall to keep upright. By the time she’s made it halfway, sweat is beading along her brow and she feels uncomfortably close to passing out.

That is, until a steady arm loops under her own.

“You should’ve called,” Travis says, irritation lacing his words.

And do this whole dance and song again? she thinks dismally, but there's no point in starting a fight with the person who’s literally holding her up.

“Thanks,” she says flatly.

They make it back to the cell in quick time, and she slumps down with a heavy breath, taking no effort in masquerading just how much that short walk took out of her.

Travis lingers by the cot, folding his arms in stern judgment.

There’s a reason she didn’t ask for help. Looking at him now in the light of day makes last night all the more worse.

“I brought you your things,” he says after a moment of loaded silence. “They’re tucked under the bed.”

“Cool. I’ll make sure to dig around for them later.”

“I didn’t—” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I put them there so you wouldn’t trip when you got up.”

Laura grunts, but there’s no real malice behind it. He eyes her shrewdly.

“I brought you some ice to switch out for the heat pack, and I’ll charge that while you rest. Breakfast and coffee will be ready in a bit. I figured something with protein might feel good, so I’m defrosting some sausage and—”

He’s rambling.

“—is your pain level? Do you need something stronger? I guess now’s about the time to take another dose, huh?” He feels around his shirt pocket, and his mouth dips into a deeper frown.

“Shit. I’ll get you the pills before breakfast. Afterwards, I can help you to the showers if you want, maybe put a chair in there so you can sit—”

Travis pauses, and his eyes narrow with accusation. “Are you even listening to me?”

“...Yes?”

He purses his lips, looking both exasperated and uncomfortable all at once. “Okay, you know what? I’ll go get your meds. Don’t do anything stupid in the minute that I’m gone.”

He casually tosses something on her pillow, and her world goes still. It’s her phone. The bright but scratched, polka-dot casing stands out amongst the grays. Max’s mom got it for her two Christmases ago.

When Laura looks up, he’s already gone.

July 16th, 2022

“You missed the funeral.”

“Yeah.”

"Yeah?" Skylar Brinly's breath is heavy against the receiver. "That's it? Where have you been, Laura? I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for weeks!”

A beat.

“Max. Max is. He's... You haven’t even called until now."

“I know.”

“You know?” Her laugh is a staccato, bitter note. “I know that my brother’s body was so mangled that they gave us his fucking shoes to ID him. I know that my mom, who took you in like a daughter, didn’t eat for a week. We had to admit her into hospice. She’s still there, by the way.”

A whine builds up in the back of her throat.

“Are you even listening to me? Say something, Laura! Say anything! …Laura?”

“Yuh- yeah.” Laura’s words break off into a silent cry, and she curls up in agony. Her muscles scream against the sudden stretch.

Skyler makes a discontented note on the other line, but Laura interrupts her with a gasp of air, like she’s finally breaking the surface of a long dive.

“I’m s-suh-sorry," her breath hitches, "I’m s-so sorry, Sky, I-I can’t explain⁠— I wasn't there and I should've been there, I wanted to be there for you and Dave and Jules but I wasn't. I fucked up. God, I fucked up."

"Hey," Skylar says hesitantly, her own voice suspiciously wet sounding, but Laura blubbers over her.

"No. Fuck, Sky, listen. I'm a fucking curse. I shouldn't have made Max go with me in the first place. But I'm gonna m-make it better, alright? And then if yuh-you guys still want me then, I can come h-home—"

"Oh, Laura."

"—but I can't do that right now, 'Kay? I can't. I can't."

Skylar shushes her. Her contact photo is one of the both of them at high school graduation, and even through the cracks in her old phone screen, they look flushed and sweaty and happy.

It aches to look at now, after everything, but Laura latches onto it like a lifeline. Her shoulders rack around another sob.

"Are you…" Skylar asks hesitantly. "Is this about…?"

She's talking about That.

"No," Laura says as firm as her voice will allow. It isn’t much.

"It’s not your fault.” Skylar’s voice goes soft, familiar. It’s the tone she used when Laura used to have an episode. “There wasn’t anything you could’ve said or done to stop him. You know that. The cops were already there.”

“It’s not,” she starts, licking her lips. “It’s not about that.”

“Well, it kinda sounds like that. Because you’re saying you can’t come home after my brother died, and yet you weren’t even there when it happened. So it seems to me like you’re blaming yourself again for something completely out of your hands, again, and I don’t want to see you go down this path. Again.”

“I’m not, Sky. I won’t. I’m just not… ready.”

“...Okay.”

“I miss you.”

Skylar’s voice hitches, and it takes a moment before she speaks again. “I miss you. I miss Max, too…”

They go on like that for a while, even if most of the conversation is the two of them sobbing and stumbling through their grief. But, still. It feels good to talk to family again.

Skylar ends the call with a promise and a threat to talk again soon, and that if she isn’t home in the next few weeks, she’ll hunt Laura down herself.

Coming home would be good, if not quite feel right. It’s hard to imagine going back to the old room in the Brinly household, eating cereal with Dave at the old and dented kitchen table.

What really stops her above all else— Even beyond your revenge fantasy, girl?— is the thought of seeing Max's face again. His dorky, bright, beautiful smile is forever memorialized in the dozens of family photos littered around the house.

She hasn't dared open the gallery on her phone, and she zoomed past the home screen photo of them at the zoo as if it would leap out and grab her. Fuck, it took her a day after getting her phone back to call his sister, her best friend.

She's a coward. That's the truth.

And maybe she hasn't stumbled out of this cell because of it. This werewolf curse is too convenient of an excuse to go back into the "real world" of funerals, and college, and starting over. Maybe that makes her a bad person.

Honestly? This isn’t even the defining moment of making her a bad person. This is just another nail in the very real, heavy coffin that is her life. Just one more mark against her that she has to wipe clean before other people can see it, too.

A cough pulls her from her thoughts, and Laura sharply inhales.

Travis stands in the doorway of her cell like an awkward penguin. She’s still curled up in a fetal position like some unstable person.

Of fucking course. It’s almost like he waits for her to crack before appearing like some ghoulish phantom.

“What,” she says flatly.

“I—uh. Wanted to check on you.”

Laura furiously wipes at her face. “I’m fine.”

“On your injuries,” he elaborates, fidgeting with his belt. “Won’t take a minute.”

It’s going to take a fucking hour, she thinks ruefully. Her back hurts so bad that she had to crawl to the toilet in the middle of the night, and it’s not like the rest of her is doing any better after that emotional dump of a phone call.

She lets the silence stew, and Travis eyes her warily. Maybe he expects her to lash out. That, or break into tears, which is a mortifying enough thought that she musters up a glare that could wither stone.

“I already checked them this morning,” she replies. With her clogged nose and grated throat, it sounds little more than a whine. The weight of his stare makes her crack first, if only to get this moment over with sooner.

“You may approach, officer,” Laura says sarcastically.

Travis rolls his eyes, though something about him clicks back into normalcy. This back-and-forth routine is far more comfortable than whatever they teetered on so carefully just two nights ago.

Slowly, grimacing with pain, she manages to roll onto her front. It’s like her back is seizing up more by the hour, and she’s tempted to abort halfway.

“Just do it,” she mumbles into the pillow when he hesitates. “Don’t get handsy.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Travis says with a disgruntled note. But his hands are still careful when they roll her shirt up, and his touches are short and quick along her spine and sides.

“It’s looking better. At worst, I think you just bruised your ribs,” he says after a while, rolling her shirt down. “But it might not even be that bad, from the looks of it. Your breathing’s still clear?”

“Yup.”

He hums in acknowledgement. One finger lightly traces over the skin of one of the scabbed-over cuts, and his touch leaves a trail of nerves in its wake.

“There’s nothing we can really do, ‘cept continue to wait,” Travis says quietly. He places another fresh pack of ice on her back, and stands with a grunt.

As abrupt as he first appeared, he turns to leave. She stops him. “What did you tell them?”

“Who?” It’s obvious who she’s talking about. He’s stalling.

There’s a lingering stretch of quiet, like the balm after a long storm. His mouth dips like a bobber in the waves.

“You and Max were traveling to the motel. He forgot something back home. Rather than make you drive with, he dropped you off to reserve a room and left on his own, and took a corner too fast. These back-country roads aren’t easy for out-of-towners. It was… quick.”

“It was,” she says, worrying her lip absent-mindedly. He clears his throat, suddenly averting his eyes to the wall.

“Travis.” Laura waits for him to look at her before continuing. “Thank you.”

His lips part softly in surprise. Thank you for doing what you could to save my life, is what she was going to say, but the sudden openness to his face, the vulnerability, stops her short. It’s like the years have melted off of him.

It’s too much, is what it is. This side of Travis feels weird to know. Maybe ‘weird’ is too strong of a word, but all she knows is that it makes her insides twist uncomfortably and that, in itself, is weird.

“And that’s my kindness quota for the day,” she blurts. “So, if you don’t mind…?”

His brow crinkles in confusion, then irritation when she makes grabby hands.

“Don’t get addicted,” he says gruffly, slapping two painkillers into her palm. She accepts them greedily.

And since she’s in a better mood than usual, Laura doesn’t even tease him for the way his ears have gone pink.

July 18th 2022

It’s a little past midnight, and Laura is woken up by the sound of someone else in the building.

“...the middle of the night?”

It’s hard to say if it’s a man or a woman, but Travis’ hushed words leading to the office carry over from the main room like an agitated bee hive.

It’s a while before their voices come back around. They must be heading back towards the entrance.

“...none of your business…”

“Couldn’t you, y’know, handle it?”

It’s definitely a man. It would be weird for Kaylee to come by this late, she supposes, yet the disappointment comes all the same.

“...you even hear yourself? ... a police officer!” Travis has never quite sounded like this before. He’s angry, obviously, but there’s a different note to it that she can’t place a finger on.

Laura strains to hear more, but their voices continue to fade.

“ ...won’t...keep your mouth shut.”

They’re gone.

She must drift back to sleep while listening for anything else, because the next thing she knows, a strike of a car engine overhead jolts her back to awareness. The headlights cast fingers of light across the stone, reaching past the bars on her little window, and settle into the lines of the stone wall and Travis’ face.

Her throat closes up. There’s Travis, leaning against the wall, a bottle of something dark in hand. The light flits away as the car moves on, the crunch of pavement sounding faintly. All that’s left to illuminate them both is the pale touch of moonlight.

Her mind instantly runs through every question, her possible escape routes, but… he’s just sitting there. He isn’t in her cell, and he doesn’t even seem to notice that she’s awake.

He probably couldn’t even walk a straight line. The bottle looks more than half empty.

Travis releases a heavy sigh into the night, and he slumps further down the wall. Seeing him this way feels… wrong. Like she’s witnessing something forbidden.

It’s not my fault he camped out here, she thinks defensively.

“Didn’t mean for this to ‘appen.” His slurred voice catches her off guard. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

She lies painstakingly still.

“Y’shouldn’t have thanked me,” he goes on to say. “M’not worth that.”

The way he appears before her is typically so self-assured. He stalks around here with an air of well-worn exasperation, always ready to unleash his own brand of confidence through dry wit and blunt honesty.

This? This sad man stretched out on concrete and moonlight, drinking straight from the bottle? She doesn’t recognize him.

Yes, you do, she thinks ruefully. What other kind of man goes to the trouble of covering up his family’s mess?

He huffs a bitter laugh, and sloshes the bottle’s contents around before setting it down with a look of disgust.

“I’m fucking pathetic, is what I am,” he comments wryly, gazing up at the window. It’s eerily close to her train of thought, and for a second, she’s worried she spoke aloud.. A lopsided grin twists his face in a mockery of amusement, and the smile dies after a few breaths.

He swallows heavily, throat bobbing with the movement, and slowly rises to his feet. It takes a few unsteady steps before he remembers the bottle, and it takes even longer for him to lean down and swipe it.

“Sh-iiiit,” he mumbles, stretching out the curse. “Fuck me. Fuck.”

Laura holds her breath as his shuffled gait disappears down the hall.

Later, much later, she’ll wonder if he understood the gravity of what he was apologizing for.

July 20th, 2022

“I’m ready,” she announces.

Travis looks up from the coffee pot in surprise.

“Ready?” he repeats drily. A packet of oatmeal is in hand, and a bowl is already out for her. It looks like she came by just in time.

“I was able to walk all the way here without help, so yeah, I’m ready.” She puts a hand on her hip, relishing in the soft, familiar material of her leggings. The matching cropped jacket and baseball cap make her feel almost normal, as if this were a casual summer trip and not a manhunt.

His calculating gaze sweeps over her, and if it were coming from any other man, she’d feel like a piece of meat. Instead, she just feels irritated.

“We agreed. It’s been three days.”

The last couple of days has been a slow crawl of pain meds, hot and cold packs, and one awkward session of bandage changing that Laura immediately vetoed from ever happening again.

It’s been painful in nearly every faucet, and Kaylee still hasn’t stopped by.

Travis himself offered up the compromise, “if only so you could please shut up for five goddamn minutes,” so, here she is.

Though, given what she happened to witness a few nights ago, some productive time away will do him some good, too. He can blame it on her impatience as much as he wants, but she’s seen beyond the mask.

Travis needs a distraction, and she needs a partner who isn’t five steps away from getting drunk and watching pretty girls sleep. Yikes.

Her boot taps impatiently against the side of her bag. It’s a little shoulder pouch she packed to ferry around bandaids and snacks at camp, and it doubles as a perfect overnight bag.

He eyes her unimpressed. “We agreed to reassess in three days.”

“And the full moon is in just a few days!”

“That’s right,” he says matter-of-factly. “Which means I have prepping that I need to do, and you still have to take it easy. I’m not dragging your ass up another ravine.”

“C’mon,” she says flippantly. “Don’t act like you haven’t already taken the day off.”

He makes a sort of indignant sound, but he doesn’t deny it. “The day, I could maybe swing. But what’s with the bag?”

“In case I need it,” she says vaguely. “It’s a bit of a drive, right?”

His eyes dart up towards the ceiling. Thinking. Perhaps… waiting, is a better word.

She can see the moment his resolve cracks. Wordlessly, he puts the bowl back in the cupboard and walks past her, scooping up her bag in one smooth motion.

They take no detours. His broad stride takes them to the main entrance, and when he locks up behind them, it feels like the closing of a chapter.

Laura pauses to take it in. The sheriff station stands like a monument to another time; the chips on the double doors reveal layers of old paint, years of cosmetic cover-ups stacking up into a sheet of grime. Last night’s soft summer rain still lingers in the air, and her old hiking boots scuff lightly against the pavement.

Here, in the pale light of morning, something’s changed.

“I thought you said you were ready?” he asks next to the cruiser. A light note of sarcasm dances along his tone.

“I’m surprised we’re not taking a personal car,” Laura says. Travis shoots her a look, which she takes as an invitation to continue. “I just figured… the ‘North Hill County Sheriff’ cruiser might attract a lot of stares.”

“I don’t have a personal vehicle.”

She frowns thoughtfully. “Is that a… cop thing?”

Travis’ mouth twitches. “I suppose… you could say it’s a ‘cop thing.’ I just never used mine, so I lent it to a family member who needed it.”

Laura hums in consideration and gets in, shooting a quick glance to the backseat. And— yup. She smirks; his duffle bag is already there. He doesn’t look at her, but he does switch on the radio almost immediately.

“Get comfortable,” he says. “It’s a three hour drive to Colton.”

Def Leppard thrums alive over the speakers, and Travis turns the volume up. So much for conversation, she thinks wryly.

It’s been a while since Laura’s gone on a long drive. Being with Max was all about noise; the bright notes of the latest pop song, his constant need to fidget, his driving urge to make her laugh.

Travis is the exact opposite. This man is made up of thick, solid lines drawn in the sand. The center console is paramount to the Iron Curtain. But after an hour of thick tension, she has to break it.

“Have you heard from Kaylee at all?”

He looks at her out of the corner of his eye. “No.”

“Really? Nothing?”

“Surprisingly, she has nothing to say,” he replies slowly.

“Have you tried to reach out?”

He snaps his head over with a scowl. “Out with it.“

“Nothing, geez. I’m just asking, I want to know that she’s okay. It’s weird that she hasn’t come by, so…”

Travis sighs through his nose, glancing off to the side. His fingers flex on the steering wheel. When he looks back to the road, his face is set in stone.

“Look. I appreciate your cooperation with me, despite how all this… started out. But I don’t think it would serve either of us if this agreement went any past that.”

“...Um, what?”

She watches as irritation passes through his face, but he locks it down, face resetting back to that same impenetrable stone.

“Let’s not mix business with pleasure,” he says.

Laura blanches. “Pleasure?”

Travis is already shaking his head before she finishes speaking, and this time, annoyance is plastered all over him.

“Okay, no. God. You know what I mean.” He takes a deep breath. “Look, I appreciate you caring about my niece. I really do. But I don’t want things to get more… complicated than they already are.”

“I think this is as complicated as things can get, Travis,” she deadpans, but he moves past it.

“Once this is over, you can move on, live your life. Hell, you can even go and turn me in for false imprisonment,” he says wryly, then fixes her with a serious look. “But I ask you this— leave my family out of it. Leave Kaylee out of it. I know that might be asking a lot of you, but. Please. I don’t need another thing to get tangled up with.”

Another thing.

His words twist something ugly in her chest. Laura Brandt. Another thing.

“Sure,” she says neutrally, looking at the passing scenery.

She doesn’t feel much in the mood for conversation after that.

Eventually, the highway unrolls into the meandering sprawl of country roads. There, nestled within thick evergreens and heralded by an American flag, is an old sign reading, “WELCOME TO COLTON.”

Aside from an odd cow statue that greets them with a plastered hoof full of cheese, there’s nothing much to the town.

It’s small; maybe a bit larger than North Kill, but only just. Travis takes them down the quiet main street for several blocks before turning down a side road bracketed with pines, houses scattered in-between.

They reach a backroad that feels like it was intentionally set aside, and Travis pulls over to the side. Across the street is the town library and a gas station a bit further down. It takes a moment for Laura to actually notice the purpose of their road trip.

The cemetery is, frankly, underwhelming.

It’s split into two levels, which may be a bit odd, with the typical tombstone and flat marker laid out in rows. The dirt lot next door looks big enough for a neighborhood to fit, but it’s hard to imagine a literal circus being held in a place like this.

It’s not like she’s been to a lot of cemeteries before; only once, and that was to visit her mom’s grave. But this one doesn’t exactly scream, ‘Hey, witches and werewolves! Come check this out!’

Though there’s obviously been an attempt at upkeep, the bushes lining the fence are heat-fried, and their dried corpses look less than friendly beneath the wrought iron words, COLTON CEMETERY: HERE LIE OUR FALLEN FRIENDS.

They step out of the cruiser in silence, and come to a pause outside of the rusted gate.

“Any idea on what we should be looking for?” she asks, peering down the lanes.

"The Vorez name, I’d assume.” Travis’ hand lingers near his gun. “Anything else that seems… otherworldly.”

“Right.” She crosses the threshold, and despite not expecting it, she’s still vaguely surprised that nothing… happens. No goosebumps, no chills down her spine. Just another Sunday morning at the graveyard.

“I’ll start on this half,” she says, gesturing to the right half that’s down a few steps.

“You really want to split up?” he asks with a raised brow.

Absolutely. “I don’t see any cliffs nearby,” she says drily. Her face splits into a shit-eating grin that doesn’t quite feel natural. “What, you scared?”

His flat stare speaks volumes. Travis takes the other half of the cemetery without a word. And something in her uncoils.

After being stuck in a car with him after that stellar conversation, leaving his orbit is like a breath of fresh air. Literally. It’s like she can actually breathe again without snapping whatever tenuous peace they’re see-sawing off of.

She rolls her shoulders with a wince, and descends the concrete steps into the next level. At first glance, the graves aren’t anything unique. She mentally rattles off each name while passing through.

Edna Graceson, 1886-1929

Steven Callick, 1935-1972

Geoffrey Beaumont, 1955-2003

The late morning sun starts to heat up, and she unzips her jacket. At least her baseball cap keeps the sun out of her eyes.

God, she’s missed wearing a hat. Maybe it’s stupid, but it’s been so long since she hasn’t had one at hand. Having the choice to wear something? Priceless.

The sound of grass whispering under foot rasps a ways above, and Travis’ stalking figure passes by in the upper rows. The sharp, dark lines of his body fit in with the decor.

“See anything?” he calls.

“No,” she replies. “Just… a lot of dead people.”

He studies her face. “Once I finish up here, I’ll join you down below.”

“Alright,” she starts to say, but he’s already disappearing behind the ledge. “O-kay,” she mutters. Pretty dramatic for an old cop.

The longer she looks, a trend makes itself apparent: the cemetery is very, very old. There’s more than a few markers from the 1800’s, and several of the darker, weather-beaten stones read birth years from even earlier.

One group of tombstones catches her eye. There’s no mementos in this section— flowers, photos, the like. Etched in weather-beaten stone, she reads years from the 1700’s. These probably belong to the earliest settlers in Colton.

Laura crouches down, squinting at the barely-legible carvings.

ÉLÉ NOR M RIE VALET

Below the faded name reads, ‘no longer shall you face.’ That doesn’t make sense. Face what?

Travis’ footsteps creep up behind her while she’s still trying to figure it out, and she shifts to the side to give him room.

“Check this—” she starts, but the words lodge themselves in her throat.

Because this isn’t Travis.

She isn’t sure what it is.

The mass of contorted limbs and flesh is so unlike anything she’s ever seen, that it takes a moment for her brain to recalibrate. It looks human. Or, at least it was.

The angles are all wrong, so, so wrong. Shoulders and elbows and hips and knees have been dislocated and forced in unnatural bends. Its sallow flesh is tinged and hanging with rot, sticky with dusty scraps of fabric that have long since passed the point of recognition.

But the middle— that’s where her eyes stop. Because lodged in whatever is meant to be its midsection is a large metal pole. There’s no blood. Just… dark folds of skin, swallowing it whole.

The moment hangs by a thread. Laura slowly rises from her crouch, white noise humming between her ears.

She can’t say what holds her in place as it jerkily reorients its limbs; a leg flips to the other side, the spine practically snaps in half. In the center of it all, blooming like a flower from hell itself, is Eliza Vorez’s face twisted around a gaping maw.

She takes a step back, and the thing twitches forward.

Holy shit.

Everything clicks back into place. Adrenaline hits her bloodstream like a bullet, and Laura takes off in a run. The steady pop of joints and bones and the metallic clang of the pole bouncing along the ground confirms the horrible truth.

It’s hunting her.

“Travis!”

She doesn’t have a gun. Why doesn’t she have a fucking gun?

Laura hops over the tombstone on jegs made of jelly, pumping her arms in time with the thump, thump, thump of her heartbeat. The bruises along her back and thighs, the dozens of cuts splitting open with the movement, none of it registers as she sprints amongst the graves.

Later, she won’t be able to describe what compels her to do it. But one moment, there’s a strange high whistle in the air, and Laura pivots sharply to the left out of instinct.

A half a second later, something unyielding crashes almost directly into her leg. The impact knocks her over with a cry.

Next to her, the pole is lodged into the ground, caked with rust and some other brown substance. If she hadn’t moved, if she’d just been one millisecond too late—

Eliza’s mangled body skewers itself on the pole once again, slamming into the ground with a solid thud. Laura doesn’t waste any more time.

Her fingers dig into the manicured grass for purchase, and she scrambles up to her feet in a staggered run. Pain doesn’t even register at this point.

The stairs are so close. Where the fuck is he?

She desperately leaps over another tombstone, and the sharp ring of metal against stone follows quickly after.

She takes the stairs at a breakneck pace and almost loses her footing on the last step, if it weren’t for someone grabbing her arm. Laura chokes on her gasp, and in her panic, she tries to shove away and almost tumbles down.

“Hey! Hey, it’s me!” Travis has her locked in place. “What the hell’s going on?!”

The tint of fear in his voice is enough of a drive to push him back, moving them both away from the ledge.

“There’s a- it’s chasing—!” she garbles out.

Travis pulls her behind him without another word. His gun is already drawn, and he scans the area with the end of his barrel. Laura spins around so they’re back-to-back, and her eyes desperately scan the rows upon rows of graves behind them.

“Do you see it?!” she asks breathlessly.

In the distance, the gas station sign across the street flickers.

“No.”

“It was- was some kind of monster,” she says, voice embarrassingly cracking. “It had Eliza’s face.”

His back goes tense, and the muscles coil against her spine. It’s silent, save for their heavy breathing.

Travis starts to rotate, and she follows his lead slowly, heel by heel. They’re too out in the open, but is it truly better to run at this point? Could it outrun the car?

A dry rustling sound breaks the silence, and he sharply pivots in front of her. She grabs the back of his shirt out of instinct, and immediately feels stupid. It’s just a fucking bird in a bush.

She swings back around, desperately looking back for something, anything, that crawling mess that will forever live on in her nightmares, but… there’s nothing. Belatedly, Laura steps back.

She looks up to find that he’s already been watching her.

“I’m not crazy.”

“I know,” he says, and drops his chin meaningfully. “If you’re seeing things, then that has to mean we’re getting close. I’d tell you to go back to the car—”

“No way in hell.”

“—and that’s what I thought.” His eyes have a knowing glint.

He searches her face, looking for some wordless confirmation. Finally, Travis lowers his gun, but he doesn’t holster it. “Let’s go back to where you first saw this thing.”

The rational side of her brain is screaming to leave and never come back. But it’s not so rational, is it? They’re getting closer. She can feel it.

Fuck, she could be Helen Keller and still realize something’s up. It would be idiotic to turn back now.

Don’t bitch out, Kearney, she thinks furiously. That’s not what we do.

“Okay,” she acqueices, and Travis’ face glimmers in satisfaction.

Shoulders squared and eyes alert, they retrace her steps. The soft summer light felt warm before, but now it feels harsh and stark against the rich greens and sun-bleached browns.

Neither of them can deny it, now. They’re not alone.

The old graves haven’t changed or moved an inch from where she found them. Nothing monstrous or supernatural looks to have taken place. Still, she can’t help but lower her voice.

“This is the one,” she says quietly. “Éléanor Valet.”

Travis moves in, crouching down to inspect the markings. After barely a moment’s worth, he inhales sharply.

“Does this look familiar to you?”

Brow crinkled, she leans down beside him. “Um… no?”

“No longer shall you face your blight,” he reads breathlessly. He fixes her with a lopsided grin that borders on manic. “It’s part of the poem. Look,” he caresses the stone, “there’s more here, it’s just faded.”

She looks again, and holy shit. “Or fear the dread of the full moon’s light,” Laura reads aloud. He’s right.

Travis sits very still.

“I found my copy of the poem in the wreckage thinking that those motherfuckers wrote a ‘101 Guide on Werewolves’ for tourists,” he says softly, voice weirdly detached. “Turns out, Eliza and Silas were on the scavenger hunt of a lifetime.”

He dips his head. The pressed shirt on his back begins to ripple with how violent he begins to shake.

For a moment, she thinks he’s crying.

But then he throws his head back in a silent laugh, little cracks of air puffing out of his lungs. It builds into a desperate chuckle that leaves him bent over his knees.

This side of him is unlike anything she’s seen before. The pathetic man drinking alone in front of her cell was a different creature entirely. This? This is unhinged.

He stands abruptly.

"Family is everything,” Travis spats in a mocking tone, turning his face of unbridled fury on her. Laura involuntarily takes a step back. “That’s why they came to my fucking town. She was probably looking for a fucking cure."

She watches as he puts himself back together piece by piece, chest heaving around some unimaginable pressure. His eyes remain wild, but where there was a burning devastation radiating from his bones before, a wasteland has replaced it. The fortress has been rebuilt.

It’s unnerving to watch.

Laura is fighting to say something, do something, when Travis strides past her without a second glance.

“Hey!” she calls. “Where are you going? What about the rest of the graves?!”

No response. The petty part of her wants to stick around and force him to either leave her or come back, but then she’d have to be alone. Gritting her teeth, she strides after him, up the stairs, past the gate.

Unexpectedly, he stalks right past the cruiser and heads for the library down the road. There’s a new intensity to his gait, and an added edge to his jaw that wasn’t there before.

Travis crashes through the front doors. The middle-aged woman at the help desk regards them as if she’d been staring into the void, and the void spat them up.

“Um,” she stutters.

“I need access to your computers,” he commands.

The woman’s eyes dart over to Laura for help, but then she gives her a onceover and her face turns even more pale. Travis follows her gaze.

“It’s for police business,” he offers up.

The woman’s eyes go wide as if Travis lightly mentioned there being a homicide taking place in the science fiction section. She nods desperately. “Yes, absolutely! Let me get you in with a guest account.”

She scurries over to one of the computers, and the only other one occupied within the same vicinity is a pimply teenager who takes one look at them and awkwardly flees.

The moment they’re logged in, the woman leaves and Travis settles into the chair like it’s his personal throne. Laura remains standing.

“What the fuck are we doing here?” she hisses. “Let’s keep looking.”

“I thought you said you do research,” he says airily.

She blinks. Laura takes the chair beside him, scooting close enough to slide the keyboard and mouse over. A quick search of ‘Éléanor Marie Valet’ and ‘Colton, New York’ yields several ancestry websites, but the one she clicks on first is a grave index.

It’s a photo of the same plot, and the inscription is as disappointedly faded as the one in person. However, the sidebar has a bit more information.

Born June 18th, 1765 Gévaudan, France

Died November 10th, 1796 Colton, New York

“She was French?” she repeats. Something pings in the back of her brain. “That town sounds… familiar.”

She tries another search, typing “Valet” and “Gévaudan,” adding in “Werewolf” as an afterthought.

It’s as easy as that. Hundreds of thousands of search results come up, and Travis leans in.

“The Beast of Gévaudan is one of the most famous werewolf stories in modern history… Of course. This Valet family knew enough to leave their knowledge behind in a way that wouldn't be destroyed by time.”

Wondrously, his face splits into a wide, unadulterated grin. “This is good, Laura.”

She can’t help but smile back. It’s contagious, and his hope seeps into her own chest. She clicks on a page and scrolls, scanning till she finds it.

“‘The Beast of Gévaudan made its first recorded attack in 1764,’” she reads aloud. “‘A young woman, Marie Jeanne Valet, was tending her cattle when she claimed a wolf-like beast came upon her. She managed to keep it at bay, though terror striked the region as more and more victims were reported.’”

“‘Lone men, women, and children were repeatedly attacked while tending to their livestock… Researchers surmise that upwards of five hundred deaths were attributed to this beast over the three-year span of attacks.’”

Laura exchanges a wordless look with Travis. That’s a lot of death over a very short span of time. And at some point, Marie and her kin must have taken it upon themselves to gain some tricks up their sleeve.

It’s not that hard to believe. Hell, it took one encounter for her to be sitting here next to the cop that kidnapped her, searching up werewolf lore on a library computer. But five hundred deaths? All the work of one werewolf, or more?

Speaking of… Laura types in a few more searches with the added information, pulling up an old genealogy site.

“Shit,” she mutters. This Valet line died out by the mid-1850’s.

“What about cousins?” Travis suggests, and there’s still a hopeful tint to his words. He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. To the average eye, he looks calm and in control, but she’s been around him enough to recognize his tells. Right now, a frenetic energy practically vibrates off of him.

“Maybe they don't hold the surname, but there’s a chance that if this family did know something, they could’ve passed it along,” he adds.

“True, but the American immigrants didn’t exactly thrive over here,” she says grimly. "What do you think brought them over?"

Travis shrugs, the excitement loosening him up a bit. "From what I can recall, France had quite the witch hunt for werewolves. I think… thirty thousand were executed in the mid-17th century out of suspicion.”

Given the attacks almost a hundred years later, the tables obviously turned at some point along the way.

“Maybe that’s where the Vorez family originates from?” she ventures. “If these guys were… werewolf hunters, then there were probably families fleeing from persecution.”

It’s a dismal thought, hunting down fellow immigrants suspected of being a werewolf.

Isn’t that what you’re doing? a little voice needles back.

This is different, she thinks. Silas is dangerous.

So are you. So is he.

Travis’ finger lightly taps the desk. "There's a good chance this poem might not be over. Wherever their next stop would’ve been after North Kill… we need to check there first. Go back to the graves website.”

She pulls it back up, and he leans over to type in the most recent death. Their shoulders brush.

Théo Louis Valet, 1810-1853.

Lincoln, Maine

Travis scrutinizes the computer with a heavy brow as if he could scare the words into changing. The sudden mood shift makes no sense.

Laura frowns. “What? Travis, we have a lead.”

He’s silent for a long moment, still glued to the screen. Finally, he swivels towards her with a grave expression. He steeples his hands like a man about to make a deal with the devil.

“It’s in Maine,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Yeah. It’s close.”

“You’re kidding,” he says flatly.

The ease in which he gives up is infuriating and disappointing all at once, and she grits her teeth, turning back to the computer.

“Where’s Lincoln?” she mutters aloud, opening a new tab and typing it in. “Holy shit, it’s eight hours from here? We could start driving today.”

“We can’t. Not today.”

If they weren’t in a library, she’d probably slap him. “You’re ridiculous,” she hisses. “I thought you wanted to end this?”

There’s no other way to describe it. Travis unravels.

“Of course I want to end this. I want my fucking life back,” he growls. “I want a full night’s rest. I want my niece to go off to college and get out of my shithole of a town. But I can’t just, just be gone for another day like this.”

“How the fuck—” she cuts herself off after an older gentelman in the VHS section gives her a dirty loo, and leans in impatiently. “Why are you always making things so damn complicated?”

“Because there’s lives on the line!” he outright snarls. More people are starting to give them looks, and Travis notices, buckling it back down with visible reluctance. “C’mon.”

She has no real desire to go anywhere with him like this, but she does it all the same. They leave with a wide berth around them, the scant library visitors parting around them like waves.

Only when they’re back outside does Travis rub his face, looking down on her with a bleary set of eyes.

“I can’t just— I-it’s not. Fuck,” he says with a deep breath. “You keep forgetting that you’re not supposed to be here. Right? You’re not supposed to still be alive. My family would kill you in a heartbeat if they knew about you, all in the name of keeping themselves safe.”

“You can’t… let that be what stops you,” she says awkwardly. Yeah, she’d prefer not to die, but he can’t seriously be saying that they’re not going to go any further just because of what might happen to her?

“You’re not stopping me from doing anything,” he says increduously, as if the very notion is stupid. If they weren’t in the middle of an argument right now, her face would probably flush like a tomato.

As it is, she scowls. “Well, that’s what I’m hearing. You’re worried your ‘little ma’ is going to put a bullet between my eyes, isn’t that right?”

He shuts his eyes as if the very effort of looking at her is beneath him.

“You’re being awfully reckless with your life, Miss Kearney. I don’t think you really get just how important it is that I don’t, ah, rock the boat. Y’see,” he says with emphasis, leaning in like she’s a lost kid on the playground, “There’s expectations of me that I gotta meet, or it’s going to tip them off, and that’s the end of this little venture we have going on. Did you get all of that?”

“So, we just wait for the grave to grow legs and walk?”

He scoffs in disbelief, his little effort at intimidating her failed. He moves to get into the cruiser, and she can’t just, just give up like that.

Laura catches his wrist and pulls him back. “No, look. I’m sorry,” she says earnestly. “I’m just saying… sooner or later, you’re going to have to go. That, or continue to wait for things to line up for you, but I don’t think either of our luck is that good.”

His eyes stray towards her hand, and she belatedly releases him.

“I don’t like this,” he says finally. “These risks.”

“I know,” she replies delicately.

He wets his lips. “No detours.”

“None.

“And no more splitting up,” he adds, softer this time. The change in tone takes her aback. She follows his gaze; he’s looking at the blades of grass still sticking to her legs.

When she doesn’t respond, he cocks a brow meaningfully.

“Done,” Laura agrees readily.

Travis nods, giving her another onceover before getting in the car. “Wipe your shoes before you step in!” he calls before slamming the door shut, and she rolls her eyes. He doesn’t even blink when she plops down, mud and grass and all.

He pulls onto the quiet road, and they leave the town cemetery behind without another word.

They don’t need to talk. Enough has already been said.

#fuck this was long #another lost soul #laura kearney #the quarry #the quarry fanfic #travis hackett #the quarry fanfiction #laura kearneyxtravis hackett #hackearny #slow burn #enemies to lovers #so many tropes in here #you might want to read on ao3 at this point #but I post here for people like you #I love you

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