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chezzkaa · 6 years

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Lumberjack AU Pairing: Ryan Haywood x Reader WC: 3200+ Warnings: graphic depictions of violence

Your bag hits the floor with a loud thud, but it’s nothing in comparison to the beat your heart sings too. You’d hoped it would quieten once Ryan wasn’t around, but the sound that rushed through your chest had followed you home. Up the snow banks and stairs, and through the lodge until it stands in front of you. Granting it your attention, it sings for a few more minutes before eventually fading with the nervous smile you put out of your mind. Absent fingers dive into your pocket, pulling out two small, smooth and dark stones, passing them across one another in your hand. Flashes of the gold inscribed against their surface sees you calming, tight giddiness in the centre of your chest relaxing. It doesn’t dim the smile, but it’s enough to think straight.

Then your phone is pressed to your ear, waiting for the distant rings while you continue to fold the stones. Your best friend’s voice greets you after the click, making your heart leap and the smile on your lips widen into a grin.

“Hey Y/N, what’s up?”

You try and sound as flippant as possible, suppressing the excited stretch of your lips. “Oh, hey Lauren, how’s life-”

She cuts you off, familiar with the tone and willing to take none of your teasing. “What’s his name?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Y/N. What’s his name?”

“How rude,” you hedge through a smile, “my energies are struggling in this new environment and my stones need charging, and you think I’m all foggy because of some-”

“Shut up, Y/N. I know damn well that your energies are fucked, I can feel it all the way from here. Stick your fucking stones in the moonlight, damn it. But don’t you dare try and get out of this. What’s the fuck’s name?”

“Ryan,” you cave, the eager blip fluttering in your chest seeing you glare at the stones, abandoning them on the windowsill in the hopes bathing in the moon will help. “Stupid fucking things, I swear ever since I’ve moved they’ve been acting up. I tried using them the other morning, right? And nothing, absolutely nothing. They’re not even touching the weird fuzzy whatever-the-fuck thing is going on and making me feel kinda out of it. But oh my god dude, he’s amazing. His eyes are so fucking blue, Loz, and oh my god his fucking smile!”

“Spill, spill! So help me, Y/N, if I don’t get every juicy detail I’m gonna fly to those mountains and-”

But you don’t give her to opportunity to finish, pouring your heart into the phone line, agonising over every description, every flirtatious smile, and every heart skipping laugh. “His puns are fucking terrible.”

“Marry him,” she demands, “marry him right now.”

“I’ll make sure to propose as soon as I get to work tomorrow.”

“Wait, he’s your coworker?”

“Lauren,” you fold the words over slowly, feeling her excitement vibrate against your cheek, “he’s practically my boss.”

“YOUR BOSS?! Fuck, Y/N.”

“I know!” you throw yourself sideways, splaying across the couch and grinning at the ceiling. “Trust me, I know. But hey, enough about me. My face is gonna fucking split if I keep thinking about it. Speaking of bosses, how are things with you? How’s Trevor?”

It’s her turn to gush, voice quickening with her enthusiasm. “Dude. DUDE. Cus of you guys moving and shit he decided to take me out. We got all dressed up, and I mean dressed up. Heels, black lipstick - I looked like I might kill a bitch. And bitch, I might. But he picks me up and we’re driving, right? And he pulls into a burger joint. My favourite burger joint. So we’re sat there in this grease filled room surrounded by people in pj’s while I’m in this fucking expensive dress and he’s in this hot as fuck tux and bow tie, and Y/N?”

“Don’t tell me,” you giggle, “you fucking loved it, right?”

“I FUCKING LOVED IT.”

---

It takes a while for you to start moving, slumping off the couch and to your knees. Shuffling towards the fireplace, it's as simple as lighting a match; last night's set up of tinder and newspaper catching almost instantly. Lost in the hypnotic flames and the comfort your best friend is always able to provide without even trying, the room is engulfed in amber; warmth wrapping its arms around you as you wander to the kitchen, flick on the kettle, and get a cup ready. Scrounging up what the herbal ingredients you’ve stashed inside the island counter, you’re careful when measuring out quantities, muttering under your breath before starting your tea. A few quick stirs and deep inhales levels you, the feeling of the floor far more solid beneath your feet.

It's only once you draw your bag closer that you stop, tea pressed to your lips and fingers coming across something smooth.

Drawing the folder out of your bag, you stare at the file. It’s worryingly large. Jam packed with stapled sheets and post it notes, paper clips so heavy the top threatens to fold under the weight. Turning it over in your hands, you come to face the case printed on the front before you drop it like you’ve been stung. Your palm burns, recoiling away as the energy that’d started to smoulder diminishes. Still, the title glares from the floor, demanding your attention as it screams.

Case no. 30574208 Head in Charge: Det. Insp. J. Dooley Lumberjack of Motbury Active: 2016 -

It’s not the whole file - but it doesn’t have to be; because you can already see the first name poking from beneath the discoloured card. Can already see the smallest section of a lime green coat littered with tiny frogs, caught in the corner frame of a photograph. Can already feel a painful sting encasing your neck uncomfortably. A sharp pain that shoots through the centre of the back of your skull, harsh and demanding.

You’re on your feet in an instant, circling it as though it’s going to lash out with quick, erratic steps. But it doesn’t. It stays deathly still, like the bodies you’re sure remain buried within it. Just photos, sketches blotched with trauma and cross hatched with wounds while the real things rot in the morgue.

As quickly as you were moving you’re stopping again, cold despite the heat that leaves you suddenly sweltering, skin slick with sweat beneath the numerous layers plastered to your body.

You know what will happen when you pick it up again. It’s going to consume you, you think reproachfully, discarding the offending fabric that has you struggling to breathe, shedding and strewing it across the living room. It’s going to destroy you, just like last time. And just like last time, you won’t be able to help them.

You’d realised what being a detective meant a long time ago, and you’ll never forget. Never be able to ignore the fact that for you to do your job, people had to die. Names had to stack up so you could find the pattern, so you could ram their faces beneath the suspect and hope for some crack in their facade. Hope that one would die covered in stains, or with fingernails chock full of DNA. And when you’d come to rely on a tiny body still clinging to the crime that had seen it taken too soon, you’d been sick. So violently that you’d shaken for weeks. So violently that everything you ate came back up, so you just stopped eating.

And you could feel it. Feel every sharp wound and tattered bullet hole, limbs so restless that you’d wanted to scream.

Never again, you’d sworn, never fucking again would you pray that the next body would be more broken than the last for the benefit of another. You don’t care if one death could save the many. It didn’t fucking matter if that tiny, tiny person held the key to stopping the next body arriving on the coroner’s doorstep; because a life had still been lost. You’d hoped for it, you’d felt it, because it’s what you needed to do your job.

A shock of pain shoots through your scalp as your hand swipes through your hair, the old habits of stress already seeing you pull too hard. Gingerly withdrawing your hand, the clump of hair caught between your fingers is enough to spur you forward. Snatching the file from the floor you toss it on the counter, completely intent on storming into the station and ramming it down Dooley’s throat.

But you stop as it falls open, the photo staring at the ceiling far too familiar to ignore. You approach it as though it’s explosive, peering at the treeline you see outside your window every morning, covered in red markings and arrows. Taking it in your hand, you flip the photo over and read the notes jotted on the back with a falling stomach and burning palm.

17/04/2018

Body, male 10 yo (no. 6). Found 500 meters past tree line. Footprints entering. None leaving. Within vicinity of victim 3 and 5. Wounds consistent. Small incision at base of neck. Lacerations.

You recognise the handwriting. Jeremy’s scrawl had always been all over your notes, and the later he’d stayed at the office, the worse it had gotten. The curves of his ‘g’s and ‘y’s are clumsy, ink smudging as he’s forced his numb, tired fingers to write down another death. Number 6. And now you have to look, have to see the body that’d reduced him to such sloppy functionality. The body found just beyond your treeline only a week before you’d moved in.

It’s the lime green coat again, tiny frogs leaping across the thick, puffed fabric donned by a smiling little boy. Mousey blonde hair sticks out at every angle, but he doesn’t seem to care, brown eyes wrinkling in delight while he laughs. You don’t want to look at the picture behind it, but you do. Taking in the tiny body curled in the snow, knees tucked into his chest. If he wasn’t wearing the coat, you wouldn’t be able to tell it’s the small boy from before. Tom, you tell yourself. Number 6. Tom.

You’ve seen a lot in your professional career, seen more vile, disturbing acts of violence than many can even dream of existing. Felt them prickle across your skin and scratch in your veins, itchy and raw. But this was more perplexing than it was nauseating, but it’s more certainly both of those things. Because rather than a beaten face covered in blonde and bloodied hair, there’s simply nothing at all.

The neck just… stops.

The wound is there, granted. But it isn’t messy. Blood and gore doesn’t coat the snow, nor does it soil the jacket. But it’s not a clean cut, either. Tattered around the edges, curling, bruised and blackened. Sagging.

And they’re all the same. As you search through the file’s contents you can’t find a single child with a head. Every body found in the same position, curled up as though they were sleeping. Found in the woods directly surrounding your home.

No wonder this place was so cheap to buy.

Curiosity burns intense over your concern, sitting heavily on one of the stools surrounding the island and shifting through the papers. The more you try to understand, the more confusing the case becomes. No matter how many times you fold it over in your head, you can’t comprehend the information you’re taking in. Only able to feel the pinch at the base of your skull, and a terrifying calm that numbs your chest and makes it harder to breathe.

And honestly it sounds more like an urban legend to scare children into behaving, or scare parents into disciplinary action. Because it just doesn’t make sense.

At first, it seems, the police force was inundated with complaints. Petrified townsfolk calling in as a snow storm rages through the night, the sound of knocking hammering against their doors. None dared answer. A group of kids messing around, you assume. And you notice that Jeremy had thought the same. Or perhaps a lost traveller caught in the harsh weather and seeking help. But there were no one there in the morning. Porches untouched by the snow but tattered by something, deep grooves tracing the frames of the entrance with vicious brutality. Camera’s cut out and sensory lights left undisturbed.

And then the trail of death started. Livestock, in the beginning. Bloody, brutal maulings that eventually left sheep with lolling necks and a glaringly absent skull - as though the bone has been sucked from the skin. But what bothers you isn’t the carnage, nor the senseless violence that has an animal killed and unused.

It’s the damage, the aggression once the creature was obviously dead. You can see it; can feel just how frenzied it all was. It’s not the first time, either. Every case you’ve witnessed like this leaves you with only one thought. Passionate, you’d argue. Angry. But the closer the timeline gets to the current date, the cleaner the kills become. Until they stop all together.

And the kids start disappearing.

The first one was just as messy as the livestock. Beaten and bloody, a pile of skin the only remnants of a face. But eventually, even that too disappeared. Like whoever it was, was getting better. Getting into the rhythm.

Your stomach twists, staring down at the file you’ve scattered across your counter.

It’s going to consume you, a small, defeated voice whispers in your head while you collect the pages, taking them to the scanner and copying the file before arranging it back the way you’d found it. It’s going to destroy you, just like last time. And just like last time, you won’t be able to help them.

You head for the car once you’re done, not bothering to wrap up against the cold.

---

The station isn’t fancy, barely recognisable as a place of authority when nestled between the other buildings. But regular shop fronts don’t normally have this many patrol vehicles lined up out front. 2, you correct while your foot meets the curb, only 2 cars. The late night doesn’t both you, and neither does the sterile atmosphere you step into. It’s a small space that offers a short line of chairs before the room is cut off by a reception desk, sliding glass protector open wide. Behind the divide you can see what you assume to be the staff room dotted with couches, and offices and files on the opposite side.

The door shuts gentle behind you, and with it’s quiet click you can hear the frustrated voices approaching the room. You don’t wait for them to arrive and beckon you forward, already moving to the reception and leaning against the ledger.

“I’m serious, Michael,” comes Jeremy’s exasperation through the walls, “I swear I just fucking had the damn thing.”

“Obviously not, asshole,” replies Michael smugly, “otherwise we wouldn’t be turning the station upside down.”

“I don’t get it. I had it at Jon’s, had it when I got into the car…”

“So you must’ve lost it on the way in this morning.”

“But I didn’t do anything else with it!” cries Jeremy, finally rounding the corner with his head hung in defeat.

“You must’ve,” insists Michael, coming into the room moment’s behind him. “If the boss finds out, he’ll be pissed.”

“I am the boss,” Jeremy groans into his hands, oblivious to your presence.

Michael, however notices you, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “What do you want?”

You go to respond, but Jeremy interjects. “The damn case file before my fucking head explodes.”

“Not you, idiot,” laughs Michael, nudging his superior’s hands from his face and motioning to you. “You’re lover.”

“Gross.” Your nose wrinkles distastefully, as does Jeremy’s when he finally spots you. It doesn’t take long for him to beam, despite the teasing. “Never in a million years.”

“I’m way out of your league,” he insists around a comedic frown, “I’m arguably too good to be talking to you. But I will, because it’s weird seeing you back in a police station and I’m concerned.”

It’s your turn to laugh. “Don’t get used to it. I just wanted to return something I picked up by accident earlier today.”

“If you pull out this missing file I swear Jeremy is gonna fucking come.”

Jeremy’s expression agrees with Michael’s off-hand joke, the file you pull out of your bag seeing him light up. “Oh thank fuck! I thought I’d lost it, I was about to fire myself!” He takes it eagerly, holding it to his chest with a sigh of relief.

“Don’t leave your shit lying around next time,” you scold, “especially something as important and weird as that.”

He’s nodding until he realises the insinuation of what you’ve just said. Even Michael turns to you, the pair studying you critically. “How would you know it was weird?”

You shrug, seeing no harm in answering Michael’s question honestly. “You think I wasn’t going to look at it?”

“You said you’d never look at another case,” says Jeremy slowly, concern and excitement creating a strange, bubbling concoction in his chest.

“I didn’t really have a choice,” you admit ruefully, rubbing the back of your neck. “But it looks like you’ve got a serious problem to deal with. They all look… very angry.”

“Angry?” His brows furrow, casting Michael a quick glance before snatching a pad and jotting the word down. “What do you mean by angry?”

Instead of answering his question you pose your own. “What do you think it is?”

“A wild animal attack, mostly.” Michael grimaces as the words leave his lips, seemingly upset that they have nothing else to go off.

But you’re shaking your head, dismissing the thought. “No way this is an animal.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, more out of curiosity than ill intent, “but who the fuck are you, exactly?”

“Shit,” mutters Jeremy, jumping in before you can introduce yourself. He holds out a hand to you with a broad, proud beam. “This is Detective Inspector Y/N of the L.D. FBI squad. We used to work together, she was my boss.”

“My god.. You’re legendary around here.” Michael’s eyes are wide as he offers out a hand for you to shake, his grip firm and eager. “I didn’t realise you and the woman Jeremy’s been raving about were the same person. I thought you retired?”

“I am retired,” you say flatly. “What’s he been saying about me?”

“Nice things!” interjects Jeremy rather quickly, his hand covering Michael’s face to shut him up. He struggles, grunting and pulling away with a yelp. But Jeremy pays the complaints no more mind, now looking at you intently. “Does this mean you’re going to join the team as an external source?”

“No, I’m sorry Jeremy.”

His face falls. “No no, I get it. I appreciate you bringing it back. I owe you one.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that.” He eyes you up suspiciously, not trusting the smile crawling across your face. “Actually, I know exactly how you can pay me back.”

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