#ya dog barely missed getting braces but still had problems so

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Welcome to Backwater ch.12 (spicyhoney)

Summary:  Stretch has some wheels now and he has directions, now he only needs to start down the path!

Read ‘Down the Garden Path’ on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

Stretch’s good mood lasted right about as long as it took to get back to the store. Not that he replaced it with a bad mood, nah, he was still pretty darn cheerful. But now that paybacks were done, it was time to put on his working hat, so to speak. To begin with, his new bike needed a thorough checking over; a skeleton could not travel on wheels alone, not unless he went back for roller skates. He needed to make sure the rest of the bike would get him to where he needed to go, too.

There was a ramshackle garage squatting behind the store, the siding a grungier match to the building up front and the cracked windows too filthy to peer inside. The roll-up door was rusted shut, but the side door was unlocked. Stretch opened it a crack and dared to look inside, braced for anything. Bats, rats, creepy crawlies, who the hell knew what grew inside the sheds in a town with possibly man-eating corn.

If there were any beasties, crawly or otherwise, they stayed hidden behind the wispy cobwebs or in their holes. What he did find was a lot of junk, piled in heaps, spilling out of bins and stacked on shelves. There was enough crap that if Red wanted, he could start a side business as a resale shop and give Miss Maggie some competition, mysterious message from the oracle not included, although tetanus was still on the table.

As curious as some of the objects were, and damn, he could stir up some trouble on the /whatisthisthing reddit with all this, now was not the time for distractions from the main questline, not when victory was in sight.

It didn’t take too much rummaging to find a bike pump and a small metal toolbox that for a wonder, actually had tools in it. He carried both back into the sunshine where the patient was waiting and got to work.

Stretch was never going to earn a paycheck as a handyman, but he did know a little about bicycles. Chara had one and so did their friends and he’d gotten suckered into helping with maintenance a few times by a set of big brown eyes pleading their case. Even had his own bike back home, though it hadn’t been used in a long time. A nice little ten speed with glittery orange paint and a thick padded seat to make up for his lack of pillowy booty surrounding his tailbone. Once upon a time, that bike got pretty decent amount of use, but that fairytale wasn’t one he wanted to get into right now.

This old rattletrap had exactly two speeds; go and stop. The tires were a little bald, but luckily, they took air without issue. The chain was rusty, but it responded readily to some WD-40 lubing and a little foreplay, the tramp. He checked all the bolts and sprockets, wiped off the seat and the little wire basket, and for good measure, gave the horn a good squeeze, setting off a hoarse ‘awooga’ into the still afternoon. Height was a bit of an issue, Stretch wasn’t ever gonna earn the nickname ‘short stuff’, not unless the next fairytale he stumbled into was Jack and the Beanstalk, but he managed to get the seat up enough that he wouldn’t jam himself in the chin with a knee.

Once he was done, he wheeled the bike out to the road and gave it a test drive, tooling up and down the main road. It worked fine, the tires crunching over the gravel, and when he gave the horn a honk as he sailed past Mama’s, he could see people looking through the windows at him, some of them raising their hands in a wave.

He turned around past the sheriff’s and headed back, pedaling slowly. The inkling of an idea was taking hold at the back of his mind, winding its way in like paint dripping down a wall and puddling in his brain pan. Yeah, the bike was fine and all, but he’d been ‘fine’ pedaling along back in Ebott, hadn’t he. Taking little rides in the traditional manner on his shiny, fancy bike that he hadn’t bought and didn’t use the other nine speeds on.

Well, he wasn’t in Ebott anymore, and maybe fine wasn’t good enough. All things could use a little improvement, right, even bikes.

Decision made, he headed back to the shed. He didn’t know if any of this crap was Red’s (and seriously, what was that thing with the handles and the springs, it looked like an eggbeater on steroids) or if it’d been here when he moved in, but it was all covered with enough dust that there probably wasn’t anyone around to mourn the loss. The rolling door responded to a tickle and grope of WD-40 as well as the bike chain had and Stretch ran it up, forging his way through the trash jungle. He managed to clear out enough space to haul out the bulky item he’d noticed early partially hidden under a drop cloth and got to work.

By the time he was nearly done, he was sweaty and filthy, but about ready to celebrate his triumph and thank the Academy. He’d shed his t-shirt, using it instead as a rag to wipe his forehead and if anyone spotting him as they walked down the sidewalk had a problem with his bare bones, no one made a fuss about it like they would have back in Ebott. There was a whole Karen Brigade back there worried about nudity and Monsters, seriously, those people would force a moldsmal into some boxer shorts if they had a chance.

He glanced up at the bang of the side door closing to see Red and the dog headed his way. Red was carrying a brimming glass of iced sweet tea as he limped along. He cursed with colorful flair as the dog danced its way in front of him, making him slop tea over his fingers as he tried not to trip himself with his own cane. He aimed a halfhearted kick at the dog that missed by a mile. The dog only barked gleefully, darting over to Stretch, tongue at the ready for a taste test to verify Stretch was as yummy today as he’d been last night.

Stretch only laughed and tried to hold the dog back in a feeble effort to avoid those eager licks. “easy, pal, you saw me a couple hours ago!”

“he probably don’t remember, mutt has a brain the size of a peanut,” Red growled. He handed it over the tea wordlessly, giving the newly-redesigned bike a once-over as Stretch gulped it down gratefully.

“what the hell are you up to out here?” Red asked. He paused by the remains of the push lawnmower that was laid open like an autopsy, poking it absently with his cane, “and what happened here?

“i…uh…may have borrowed the engine,” Stretch admitted sheepishly.

“borrowed,” Red snorted. “uh huh. seen this kind of borrowing before, usually turns into keepsies right quick.”

“i can put it back—” Stretch started uncertainly. Red waved him off, watching in bemusement as the dog took advantage of the distraction to lick right into Stretch’s mouth and left him sputtering in disgust.

“nah, ain’t used the damn thing in ages,” Red said. “i pay a local kid to mow these days. may as well donate the innards before it gets buried.”

No surprise there. Even after last night's stormy weather tantrum, the ground had dried right up again in the morning sunshine. The mud puddles all dried into cracked divots and whatever grass was left was a charming shade of dead. Walking across it was like taking a stroll through a giant bowl of shredded wheat,

Red wandered back to the bike, his browbone slowly rising as he examined it. “you get that from old madge?” he asked neutrally.

Stretch closed his sockets briefly to block him out. The glass in his hand was down to rapidly melting ice cubes and dripping with condensation. He pressed to cool surface to his forehead, letting the cold wetness soothe him as he said, "okay, what. what's wrong with it.”

Red gave him a startled look, “huh?"

“no, i mean it,” Stretch said insistently. “don’t blow smoke up my ass, what's wrong? do purchases from her come with a darker, deeper price unknown? is all her shit haunted? does riding it commit my soul to the forces of evil? if I rub it does a genie come out, what?” He waved a hand at the possibly monster bike and not the kind of Monster listed on his personal I.D. “tell me now, don’t play sphinx with me, not today.”

Red snorted loudly and pulled out a little cylinder from his pocket. He shook out a toothpick and stuck it between his teeth. “nah, but it might break on ya two miles down the road.” His grin turned wolfish. “getting a little paranoid, dontcha think, city boy?”

“no,” Stretch said, shortly.

Red only chuckled. “only thing wrong with that bike is what you frankensteined onto it. hope that thing actually runs or blowing smoke up your ass is gonna be the least of your problems.”

“it’ll run.” Okay, so he was about 95% sure it was gonna run. Maybe 90%. The engine he’d scavenged from the old lawnmower was strapped to the package carrier on the back of the bike, hooked up to the back wheel with a few extra gears and chain he’d dug out of the garage and he’d jerry-rigged a sort of throttle to the handlebars. It wasn’t pretty, but he was sure it would run without blowing up. Pretty sure.

Sure enough to give it a try, anyway.

“uh huh,” Red rolled the toothpick to the other corner of his mouth with his tongue, neat trick around those sharky teeth of his. “where ya think your headed on that death trap, anyway?”

Yeah, okay, that brought him up short. Aside from warning him off of any booty calls, (not that Stretch was looking for any shape of booty and sure as hell wasn’t taking any calls), Red had been pretty mum when it came to opinions about him hanging out with Edge. Stretch wasn’t under any illusions that Red was unaware of the happenings in town and not only because Edge probably damn well called him so they could keep their mystery woo woos on the same frequency. Red seemed like he knew all the local gossip, hell, he was probably the unofficial town bookie, who knew what he got up to on those weekend poker games?

But Edge was Red’s baby brother and as a big brother himself, Stretch was pretty sure he’d have some mighty strong opinions on Blue inviting someone like him out for pie, much less inviting them home to meet the family. No prospects, nothing ahead of him in life. Hell, he wasn’t even wearing underwear.

And anyway, like he had any right to any fucking opinions about Blue’s life after the way he left—nope, not going there right now.

So, yeah, it wasn’t that he didn’t want to admit he was going to see Edge, except how he really didn’t. He didn’t want to see any disappointment on Red’s face or distaste or…or whatever ‘dis’ might sprout up and if Red told him to leave his bro alone, told him not to go, Stretch wouldn’t, he would never, he owed Red so much, owed him in ways Red didn’t even know about, but—but—

His mental waffling took far too long, and Red was unfortunately just as clever as Stretch feared or maybe it was the simple fact that the options of where someone could go in this town on a motorized bicycle was a pretty short list. One corner of Red’s mouth curled up in a half-smile. “headed out to the farm, huh.”

Stretch struggled with an answer and didn’t manage anything better than the obvious, “i think so?” he said meekly, “i mean, edge sort of invited me. not invited invited, it’s not like a date, not that i wouldn’t date him, except you know, i wouldn’t because it’s a bad idea right now like you said, but he said i should meet his roommate and that I’d have to go to his house to do it and—" Stretch broke off to gasp for breath and his ‘fuck, please kill me to shut me up’ was left unspoken.

“okay, okay, ease down on the gas there. you must think i'm missing my wits on top of my foot.” Red snorted. “go wherever you want, kid, don’t make me no nevermind.” The dog was settled into Stretch’s lap, sound asleep and drooling enthusiastically, and Red leaned over to give him a pat, then struggled back up to give Stretch a similar one on top of his skull. He glanced at the bike again and asked speculatively, “’bout how fast you figure this hunk a junk can go?”

“not sure,” Stretch admitted, “not too fast. maybe twelve miles an hour?”

“that a fact,” Red spat the toothpick into the dust and sucked loudly on his teeth. “hang on a mo’.” He limped through the open garage door and the sound of brisk rummaging echoed out. When he came back, grinning triumphantly, it was a bicycle helmet in hand. It was leopard-spotted, only that hideous pink-and-purple shade never graced any beast Stretch ever heard about. Perched on the top of the helmet were a pair of slightly bedraggled plastic cat ears and Stretch took it as solemnly as if he’d been handed Excalibur itself. Beggar vs chooser? Not him.

Red stuck his hands in his pockets, his cane hooked over his elbow as he rocked unsteadily on his heels, “well c’mon, then, start ’er up. i can’t stand out here forever, someone’s gotta mind the store.”

“oh!” Stretch gave the back door a guilty look, “shouldn’t you head in, someone might loot the register or something.”

“no one steals from my shop.” Coolly assured and yeah, Stretch believed it, and not only because the townsfolk were good people.

Stretch pushed the dog off his lap, ignoring its pitiful whine, and went to the bike. Here was the moment of truth. He gave the primer button a few pushes, then yanked the pull cord as hard as he could. It didn’t catch the first time, or the second, but on the third it sputtered a few times, coughed out a cloud of black smoke, then caught, puttered evenly along.

“see!” Stretch said triumphantly, speaking loudly to be heard over the blatting noise. “it didn’t blow up!”

“don’t know if that’s as reassuring as you seem to think, kid,” Red called back, but his grin was easy, “you know how to get there?”

Stretch cut the engine. He snagged his dirty t-shirt and made a fruitless attempt at wiping the grease off his hands. “down the exchange for about a mile, hang a left, don’t stray from the path.”

“s’right,” Red nodded, “you leave soon, you'll get there right around suppertime and that’s always a good time to show up on my bro’s doorstep.”

“thanks, red,” Stretch said gratefully, “thank you.”

“don't thank me yet. and kid?” Red’s crimson gaze seemed to bore into him, “whatever you see or hear, don't you leave that path."

Well, Stretch should’ve known he wasn’t getting out of here without at least a vaguely cryptic warning.

“i won’t, promise.”

Red nodded and started the slow trudge back to the store. The dog roused himself enough to follow along, tail wagging happily. Red paused at the door and called back, “tell the kid i said hi.”

“i will, but didn’t you just see edge this morning?” Stretch asked curiously.

“didn’t mean him.” Before he could ask, Red was gone back inside with a bang of the screen door, taking both dog and answers with him.

Welp, chasing after him was pointless and anyway, that question would be answered as soon as he got to Edge’s place, which it seemed he now had Red’s unofficial approval to visit. Stretch couldn’t help grinning and he hugged himself tightly, managing to smear even more grease on his bones.

Yeah, okay, he needed at least five minutes for a quick wash up before he headed out or the woods would be the least of his worries. Edge and his roomie would kick him and his stank right back out to the road before he could make it to the porch.

Stretch left the bike and his mess where it was, promising himself guiltily to handle the junk cleanup tomorrow as he headed in to wash and change, and he did not spend an extra minute considering what t-shirt would make the best first impression for the unknown roommate.

He really didn’t.

~~*~~

The first thing Stretch figured out as he started on his journey was that it was honestly a nice day for a ride. Overhead the sky was an endless blue with only a few careless puffy clouds that had no interest in interfering with the affairs of the sun. The blowing wind wasn’t afraid though, it chased away the heat, and that combined with the blatting engine made it impossible to hear much of anything.

Not that there was much to hear. He stayed off the actual road, keeping to the wayside so as not to distract any of the cars as he puttered his way along.

The directions weren’t exactly complex, only one turn that he knew of, right into the woods. Stretch found it easily enough, the paved road vanishing into dust and gravel that led into the trees.

That was where he paused, easing off the throttle and putting his feet down as he looked at the entrance.

It was only trees, their tall, sturdy trunks reaching up towards the sky and the wide, green spread of their leafy branches casting the path in shadows. There were a pair of tire ruts in the path which meant someone drove it regularly and not just Edge’s motorcycle.

Only trees, that was all. Right, just like it’d only been corn, and Stretch didn’t move, sitting there with the engine blatting cheerily and the blue sky watching over him as he waited here on the cusp of…what? Fate? Or fatality?

There was only one way to find out.

Behind him, a couple trucks zoomed on past on their way down the exchange, either heedless of his inner turmoil or foolishly assuming he knew what he was doing and honestly, he wasn’t sure he’d known what he was doing for years now.

His concerns weren’t all simply about traveling in these woods, either, despite them being the same ones Red warned him away from and no less than two people went off with the cryptic about not straying from the path. No, there was also the fact he was gonna be meeting Edge’s unknown roommate to ask questions about some of the mysteries of this place and he’d be lying if he didn’t attribute a nervous butterfly or two to that.

The blat of a horn nearly sent him leaping right out of his shorts and when he jerked around, barely catching his balance before both he and the bike spilled into the dust, he saw a group of Humans in the back of a pickup truck waving at him and probably laughing at his helmet.

He waved back, unable to help a sheepish grin, and then turned back to the path. The trees only rustled softly in the light breeze, branches lightly swaying. It didn’t seem scary and hell, he knew scary. Scary was the first time he stepped out into the sunlight after a lifetime beneath a mountain and scary was another first step, much more recently, this time onto a Greyhound bus.

“fuck it,” Stretch said, aloud. He goosed the throttle, the bike lurching forward into the woods, and the trees swallowed him up.

Only not really, not even close. Stretch really didn’t know what he’d really been expecting. That maybe he’d come across a little gal in a red hood with a picnic basket for grandma heading down the path? Or he’d stumble over some kids with a nasty stepmother backstory on a stroll, scattering breadcrumbs along the way?

Neither of those things came true. (Although if Edge and his roommate lived in a gingerbread house, he was done. He was turning his putt-putt mobile around and heading right out of this fairy tale, tout suite, and into another story. Maybe he’d see if Red’s swashbuckler needed a first mate.)

There was nothing out of the ordinary, not even the creepy vibes that the corn had given him. The woods seemed no different than wandering through the city park in Ebott.

It was a lot cooler here in the woods, not only from the speed breeze. The heavy branches were also shielding him from the overpowering heat of the sun overhead, shading him in cooling green. There were squirrels and birds darting around overhead, unperturbed by his puttering little engine-that-could, and once a deer even crossed the road in front of him, pausing to stare unafraid with large liquid eyes before heading back into the scrubby underbrush.

Hell, if he was honest, Stretch was almost disappointed. Not that he’d wanted anything to happen, he didn’t exactly relish the idea of Red having to make that search party to find his dumb ass.

But after all those warnings, he’d sort of expected something to happen, a little trouble of some kind to be peeking out from behind the trees. Then again, he’d heeded those warnings, hadn’t he, it was always the disobedient types who got turned into frogs or had flower petals spill from their mouths when they talked, wasn’t it. His interest in adventure was definitely on the other side of the scale over his desire not to spit slugs or something, so he was erring on the side of not borrowing trouble.

His disappointment in the woods vanished completely though as he came up on what Red had so quaintly referred to as ‘the farm’.

The dinky path rounded a curve, the trees opening up into a clearing, and Stretch could only stare, dumbly easing down on the throttle until the bike slowed to a stop.

Well, it looked like all his expectations were taking a trip through the funhouse today, now didn’t it.

After seeing Red’s place, he hadn’t really been thinking much about the state of Edge’s homestead, what was there to consider, anyway? It was a cabin in the woods…on a farm…okay, so his logic was a little thin, he hadn’t prepped his anticipation very well on the journey. But whatever he’d imagined paled in comparison to reality.

The actual house looked like a log cabin, sure, but one that took a nibble from Alice’s ‘eat me’ cake. It was huge, with large windows shuttered in green beneath a wide, gabled roof trimmed in scrolling eaves, and a covered porch lined with cozy rocking chairs circling the first floor. Flat stones made a winding walkway that led to the front door and there were flowers lining the path in a riot of brilliant, ankle-high colors. Smoke was curling from the rooftop despite the overall warmth of the day and it scented the air with the welcoming aroma of woodsmoke.

The overall effect was one of one of invitation and Stretch was immediately suspicious of it; not a gingerbread house, no, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a witch inside.

Then the door opened and all the doubts flitting through Stretch’s mind dissolved into impossible static. He could only stare numbly at the person that darted down the path towards him, their hair bouncing beneath their chin as they scampered down the path because it was…it was impossible.

A young human, maybe only a couple years younger than him, and they looked so much like Chara it was downright disturbing, the resemblance taking a detour from possible siblings right into uncanny valley. So much like Chara, only, Chara was just a kid, a kid, and this person who couldn’t be Chara, could not be, but looked as if they’d aged like fine wine since he’d last seen them. Or maybe curdled like old milk.

“Hello, Stretch,” they said, warmly, those familiar eyes shining, and their smile was as bright as the sun that was hidden behind the trees, “Welcome to our home.”

~~*~~

tbc

[babybluebanshee]

Seared with Scars - Chapter 6 (Mystery Nerds AU)

Hey, kids. Did ya miss me?

Trigger warnings for this chapter include: Smoking, PTSD, descriptions of graphic injuries, descriptions of miscarriage, and panic attacks.

I am so sorry this took so long to get out. That’s all on me. I hope the wait was worth it, and that you guys actually still care enough about to read.

Previous chapter

---

“I survived, but it’s not a happy ending.”

- Tim O’Brien, “The Things They Carried”

-------------------------------------------------------------------

The guts of the gun sparked again, and a low rumbling of thunder shuddered in the night. Fiddleford wanted to blame it for his shaking hands, but he had always been a terrible liar, even to himself.

He set down his screwdriver with a quiet sigh, and chanced a glance up at the clock. 1:37 am. He had no idea why he didn’t feel more tired. Helen had long since downed the rest of her beer and gone back into the living room, swaying slightly. He heard the couch squeak loudly as she plopped down on it. Soon, Fiddleford heard her snoring softly.

She had not spoken a word to him in the time it took her to leave the room and fall asleep. Hadn’t even looked him in the eye.

After the sort of day she’d had, he understood. Pity played in his chest. She was a decent women. She didn’t deserve to be dragged into the waking nightmare that was Stanford Pines’ so-called research. It was clearly taking its toll on her now. He wished that he could comfort her, in spite of her current feelings towards him.

He’d been wracking his mind the entire time he worked, trying to find something, anything stashed away in there that would assuage her fears about Dr. Matthews. To ease her mind that her friend and colleague wasn’t the one who’d broken into her home and terrorized her. That he wasn’t mixed up in anything unsavory.

And sure, he knew that, even if Dr. Matthews was part of his flock, there was nothing to fear, but Helen didn’t. If he was being perfectly honest, he could see how the whole thing seemed rather off-putting. All the secrecy and hush-hush stuff might seem practically cultish to an outside observer, but now that Fiddleford had found out about the defect in the gun, it was easy to understand why he’d decided that the Society needed to work in secret. Memories that the gun tried to suppress could be called forth with any sort of trigger - a smell, a sound, even an errant thought about some seemingly innocent thing could force the unwanted memories to come rushing back.

And that was the last thing Fiddleford wanted. If he wanted to carry on his work, he needed to fix that when this was all said and done. It was all too important not to.

The front door opened, and he heard the merry jingling of dog tags as Ripley trotted in, right past the kitchen archway, and into the living room. Another jangling of the tags and a satisfied huff led him to believe Ripley had jumped on the couch to join Helen. The thought made Fiddleford smile. At least Helen could get some comfort from someone.

He was pulled out of himself when he heard the front door shut. Stan was still outside, had been since their argument. That had been over an hour ago.

Fiddleford sighed again, trying not to let that awful faded scar he’d seen dance too vividly across his mind. He reminded himself that, although the other man’s hardships were indeed tragic, that didn’t change the fact Stan was a brute - swearing at him and threatening him and tossing him about like an old ragdoll. Fiddleford’s shoulder ached a bit from the way Stan had wrenched it, dragging him downstairs, throwing him at the foot of that...that...monstrosity in the basement.

Stan Pines didn’t deserve Fiddleford’s sympathy, and he was not going to get it.

Fiddleford shivered again as the draft from the previously open door finally hit him. It had already been so cold out, and the storm wasn’t making things any better. It was probably freezing now.

If Stan had been on his own for ten years, he was certainly used to cold nights, possibly even colder than this. But just because you were used to something didn’t make it pleasant to endure.

His wrist throbbed again. No. Stan was choosing to stay outside, like a huffy child. He could freeze for all Fiddleford cared.

He lifted his screwdriver, intent on losing himself in his work once more. Stan Pines was not going to distract him anymore.

A gust of wind rattled the windows.

Gosh darnit.

Fiddleford set the screwdriver aside and got up from the table, trying his hardest not to scrape the chair against the wood floor too loudly and wake Helen. He even tiptoed past the opening into the main room, just to be safe. Aside from Ripley waking up momentarily to offer him a bleary glance, he managed to make it to the front door without any problems.

A frigid blast of icy air bombarded him as soon as he opened the door a crack. He thought about turning tail and running back in, but something stopped him. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to get anything done until he made some kind of amends with Stan. Apologize for his insensitivity, for all that Stan had been through, whatever. Just so long as Stan knew that Fiddleford wanted to make things right.

Bracing himself, he rounded the door, and was immediately greeted by the stink of cigarette smoke...

“I can’t sleep,” the man said, his cigarette burning down between his fingers. He barely seemed to notice as it was reduced to ashes. “It’s all I see anymore. You have to help me.”

Fiddleford shook his head. As welcome as memories sometimes were, now was not the time for them. He had to focus on what he came out here to do.

Leaning against the wall, partially illuminated by the weak porch light, was Stan. A cigarette was between his fingers, a trail of smoke drifting lazily from the tip. Stan himself was sopping wet, his red jacket plastered to his skin. His brown hair hung limply around his face. Stan barely seemed phased though. Instead, his surprisingly intense gaze was focused solely on Fiddleford.

Fiddleford tried his best not to shrink away. He’d come out here with a purpose, and he reminded himself that, no matter how intimidating this man was, he was still just a man, and one who’d been through quite a lot. The least Fiddleford could do was give him the dignity of not acting afraid of him.

After a moment or two of realizing Fiddleford was not going anywhere, Stan slowly blinked, then turned his gaze back out to the black forest just beyond the house. Fiddleford couldn’t imagine what was out there that he’d want to see, but if Stan was anything like his brother, he was sure that there was something, some mystery he wanted to solve or creature he wanted to study.

Fiddleford gulped silently, and took a step closer to Stan. After another moment of stamping down his anxiety, he said, “Hi there.”

Stan didn’t reply.

“I bet it’s cold in that wet jacket,” Fiddleford said softly, grateful that the rain had let up enough so his words weren’t swallowed up entirely.

Not that it mattered, since Stan didn’t reply. He merely brought the cigarette to his lips and took a deep drag.

Fiddleford pressed onward. “I was thinking about making a cup of tea,” he said. “Did you maybe want to come in and have some? It’d warm you up.”

The cigarette was brought away, and Stan held in the smoke.

“Maybe you and I could talk. Because I really think we need to.”

Stan tapped the ash at the end of the cigarette, and it floated down to the porch like gray flakes of snow.

“I…” Fiddelford faltered for a moment. Why wouldn’t Stan say something? Anything? How angry could he possibly be? “I just wanted to say I’m sorry about what I said. It wasn’t my intention to upset you. You were right - I didn’t know you existed until now. But if I did...if I’d known the sorts of awful things you’ve had to endure, I never would have said what I did.”

Stan released the smoke through his nose as he flicked his steely gaze back at Fiddleford, making him look positively dragon-like. It was almost fearsome enough for Fiddleford to forget his soft nature and go back in the house to hide. Almost. But then he caught a glimpse of Stan’s eyes in the pale yellow porch light.

There was no anger left in them. No malice. Not even any frustration. Stan simply looked tired.

Fiddleford felt as if he’d swallowed a rock. Taking another step forward, he hesitantly reached out his hand, and placed it on the cold, wet fleece of Stan’s jacket, and said, “I think you might benefit from having someone to talk to. You’ve obviously been holding a lot in.”

Although it might sound boastful, Fiddleford was very good at getting people to open up to him. He’d always been small and non-threatening, patient and understanding; the kind of person that made people feel comfortable about dropping their defenses. It’s why the Society had been so successful. He didn’t need to seek out new members; they came to him, desperate for his support and kindness to soothe their frenzied minds.

He offered Stan his sincerest smile as he waited for him to reply.

After a beat of silence, Stan sighed and shook his head “You ain’t interested in helping me,” he said, tone flat. “You just don’t wanna feel guilty.”

Fiddleford yanked his hand away from Stan’s jacket as if it were an open flame. “I...I beg your pardon?” he said. It was all he could think to say.

“I think you heard me pretty clearly,” Stan replied, bringing the cigarette back to his lips.

Fiddleford felt heat bubble up behind his cheeks, his mind groping for some kind of response. He found nothing. Finally, a little more sharply than he intended, he blurted out, “And I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. This mess we’re all in is hardly my fault. It wasn’t my idea to poke around with the dangerous things in this town. I didn’t want to come back to this house and relive this nightmare. And I certainly didn’t decide to build that thing down in the basement!”

“But you did help.”

Fiddleford closed his mouth so quickly his teeth audibly clacked together. As he turned away from Stan’s gaze, his mind belched forth an image, an image of Stanford excitedly explaining his plans for the portal to him. A warmth, a feeling of giddy anticipation, blossomed in Fiddleford’s chest, spreading out and into his fingers and toes. He’d shared his former partner’s enthusiasm. They’d been ecstatic to start such a monumental feat together, to reach new heights of achievement and understanding. He’d wanted to make the portal as much as Stanford had.

But that was before the incident. Before whatever happened that drove Fiddleford away. The memory was still hidden away, beneath layers of fog and protection, and he knew it was better off that way. He gave his head a shake and said firmly, “I didn’t know what we were doing. I didn’t know where that awful gateway would lead. And once I did, that was it. I walked out and didn’t look back.”

“But you stayed in Gravity Falls.”

Fiddleford whipped his head around to face Stan again. The other man looked completely unfazed, like he’d made a casual remark about the rotten weather.

Stan continued, “You had a wife and kid waiting for you back in California. A pet project that Ford said you were pretty interested in. Hell, the reason he never tried to help you till now is because that’s what he assumed you did.” Stan flicked the stub of his cigarette away. Fiddleford heard it hiss softly as it landed in the wet darkness beyond the porch. And then that intense gaze was on him again as Stan asked, “You had a life ready to be lived. So why did you stay here?”

Fiddleford quickly stammered out, “Well...I...because I wanted to help people. Help them deal with the supernatural things…”

“This town is almost 150 years old, Fidds,” Stan said. “And the weird stuff has been here since before the town was even an idea. There wouldn’t be a Gravity Falls if the folks here couldn’t deal with all the weird shit in those woods. You’re gonna have to come up with a better excuse than that.”

“It’s not an excuse!” Fiddleford spat back. The ferocity in his words shocked him, and he took a moment to close his eyes and inhale deeply, trying to calm himself down. When he felt the flush of his cheeks subside a bit, he added, fighting to keep his tone even, “The people in this town rely on me.”

“Yeah, but why?” Stan asked. “You didn’t owe these people anything. I know for a fact that none of them ever had the guts to come out here. You guys weren’t exactly town celebrities. You could have gone home, lived your life, and left my brother to whatever was waiting for him beyond that portal. But you’re still here. So, I’m gonna ask you again: with a family waiting for you, and a town that didn’t need you to martyr yourself for them, why the hell did you stay?”

Fiddleford wanted to respond. He wanted to brush Stan off, tell him he was crazy, that he didn’t know what he was talking about. He wanted to find some clever thing to say to finally get this man - this violent brute who’d slung him around like a ragdoll and called him names - to stop asking him these questions.

Because he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to find an answer for them that didn’t prove Stan right.

So he stayed silent.

Stan watched him for another moment, before he turned his gaze back out to the inky black forest, and said, “The portal may have been Ford’s idea, but you had a hand in it. And deep down, you know he’d never have been able to build it without you. That’s why you stayed, even after it scared you so bad you left. That’s why you started this whole Blind Eye thing. Because you felt like you had to make up for it. You screwed up, and you didn’t want to live with that. So you tried to fix it.”

“And what makes you so sure about that,” Fiddleford asked wearily. He found he no longer had it in him to argue.

“Because I’ve been watching Ford do the same thing since we found you,” Stan replied.

Fiddelford thought of Stanford, eyes brimming with tears a few hours ago. He sighed softly.

“It sucks doing something out of guilt,” Stan said. He sounded less like he was talking to Fiddleford now, and more like he was just thinking out loud. “No matter how much you do, no matter what ends up happening, you never feel like you’ve done enough. You just keep beating yourself up and beating yourself up until one day, it just kind of dawns on you that you haven’t really fixed anything. Nothing’s better, nothing’s changed. You just feel that much shittier about yourself.”

Off in the distance, in the dark, an owl hooted. It was such a lonely sound.

“Look,” Stan continued, “in a way, I do get where you’re coming from. There are days when I’d give anything to never remember some of the things I’ve been through. You weren’t wrong when you said there are some things that no one should ever have to endure.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Fiddleford watched Stan reach up and gently run his fingers down the length of his arm. Now, more than ever, he regretted his words about “everyday” trauma. There was nothing commonplace about the pale scar under that sodden fabric. And the fact that he’d tried to turn something like this into something inspirational? It turned his stomach more than the thought of the scar ever could.

Stan spoke up again, jarring Fiddleford from his thoughts. “But as much as the memory hurts, it’s still there. It’s as much a part of me as the scars it left behind. All I can do now is make my choices with what I know. And I chose to try and keep living.”

He turned back to Fiddleford, gaze beseeching. “You’ve got a choice now too. You can keep hiding, keep forgetting, and one day, maybe, it’ll all finally be gone. But I can’t guarantee that you’ll be the same man as when you started.”

The owl in the forest called out again.

“Or,” Stan added, “you can face those scars, and finally start doing some real good.”

Fiddleford maintained his gaze at the other man, this man who’d proven he was more than just brute strength and cheap insults. This man, who, for all his bluster, was surprisingly wise, even though it hurt Fiddleford deeply to think about all that happened to him to obviously make him that way.

Maybe Stan was right.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of dirt crunching under tires. He lifted his head and saw a pair of headlines slicing through the pitch blackness. In the distance, the owl hooted indignantly and fluttered away, a speck against the night sky. As the car came closer to the house, Fiddleford realized that it was a blue Buick. Helen’s blue Buick. The one Stanford had taken off in.

Beside him, Stan muttered, “Oh my god,” and before Fiddleford could even offer a reply, the other man was across the porch and down the stairs, loping like an excited dog to meet the car. He even raised up his arms and started waving the vehicle down, a relieved smile splitting his face. It was actually rather sweet.

The car stopped a few hundred feet from the house, and the driver killed the engine. The headlights went out, and Fiddleford could finally see the silhouette of someone behind the steering wheel.

But as he looked, he realized something wasn’t right.

The figure didn’t look like Stanford at all. It was much shorter, even sitting down. The driver’s face had a bushy mustache. Fiddleford couldn’t make out the mop of messy brown hair, but there was the outline of a slight belly.

Whoever was driving was not Stanford Pines.

Stan hadn’t seemed to notice yet, and ran up to the passenger side door. “Get out of that damn car, Sixer,” he cried, clearly with laughter in his voice. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, you stupid nerd.” He rounded the car as the driver’s side opened, but stopped short when he saw a five-fingered hand reach up and grasp the window, in order to pull the driver the rest of the way out.

His face fell completely when Dr. Ed Matthews emerged from the car, wearing a bright red, hooded robe. His face was grave.

Stan quickly backed away as if he were facing a loaded gun, but Dr. Matthews didn’t seem to notice. His iron gaze settled on Fiddleford. “I thought I might find you here,” he said.

Dr. Matthews finally seemed to realize that his cigarette was going to waste. He tossed it on the floor and crushed it under his foot. “Please,” he said again, sounding ready to break, “please, Mr. McGucket, you have to help me. I can’t take it anymore.”

“You are in the Society,” Fiddleford said as the memory faded. “Stan was right.”

“And if I’m right, that means you sold us out,” Stan said, the bubbling anger apparent in his voice. He took a threatening step towards Matthews, looking ready to throttle him. “You were the one who broke into Helen’s house. You were the one who attacked us.”

Matthews didn’t even look in Stan’s direction, but a flash of irritation flashed across his face, like the other man was an annoying fly buzzing in his ear. “No,” he replied plainly. “I wasn’t the one who broke into Helen’s house.” He turned his attention back to Fiddleford. “I promise I’ll explain everything, but you have to come back to the sanctum.”

“He’s not going anywhere with you,” Stan growled. His fists were balled up by his sides, ready to fly.

Matthews ignored him and continued to plead with Fiddleford. “Please, sir. Ivan is out of control. You have no idea the kinds of things he’s been doing in your absence. You’re the only one who can talk some sense into him.”

Fiddleford arched an eyebrow. Ivan? Out of control? It seemed impossible. If there was one person that Fiddleford trusted to keep the Society alive while he was gone, it was Ivan. He may have been young, but he was mature, intelligent, and could read people like they were open books. He was dedicated, perhaps a little too overbearing in regards to Fiddleford’s health, but he meant well.

Stealing another glance at Stan, seeing the murder in his eyes, knowing it came from a place of righteous fury at being assaulted and manhandled and victimized by the group the old man before them belonged to, Fiddleford realized that tonight had proven to be a night dedicated to showing him he didn’t know anyone as well as he thought he did.

“Look, Doc,” Stan barked. “Whoever this Ivan character is, he can figure out his own shit. Fidds isn’t going back to Jonestown with you. And if you don’t start running as fast as you can back the way you came, you won’t be making it back either. So get the hell out of here.”

Matthews finally turned his gaze on Stan, and said, “Do you really want me to leave, Stanley? Even if I’m the only person who can help you rescue your brother.”

Stan’s face fell in shock, like he’d been struck by lightning.

“He’s in poor shape,” Matthews added. “Ivan has not been kind to the man he believes responsible for our group’s troubles. Your brother doesn’t have much time left, and we have no time to argue about it.”

Before Stan could even open his mouth to speak, Fiddleford heard the front door slam open, and Helen’s voice call out, “Ford?”

Matthews’s eyes went as round as dinner plates, and slowly moved towards the sound of the voice. Fiddleford looked over his shoulder and saw Helen standing there, framed in the weak porch light, wearing a wrinkled white t-shirt, her hair hanging wildly around her face. Her glasses were slightly crooked on her face, her dark green eyes wide behind them. She looked like a madwoman who’d just stumbled her way down from the attic. Her gaze jumped between each man on the lawn in front of her, all standing stock still, watching her watching them. It was like a macabre stage production.

Finally, in a low voice, Helen said, “Ed...what the fuck is going on?”

Fiddleford couldn’t exactly explain why, but when he saw a glimpse of Stan and Dr. Matthews’s faces, he knew that facing Helen and trying to explain all this to her was going to be more painful that anything he’d ever done.

------

Glass Shard Beach had never been so cold. It leached through his clothes, his skin, and settled into his bones, making him shiver and quake like a newborn deer. He tried to wrap his arms around himself, to stave off the chill as best he could, but his limbs felt rubbery, and wouldn’t obey his commands. All he could do was lie prone on the sand, as hard and frigid on his back as a slab of marble, and stare up at the steely gray sky. A harsh wind blew across his face, sharp enough to cut. It was going to storm.

A pale yellow light entered Ford’s vision, and suddenly, a slit pupil was staring back at him. Fear pulsed through him as Bill materialized completely before him, his unwavering gaze boring into him like a drill to the forehead. He wanted to run, but whatever was keeping his arms plastered to the sand was doing the same to his legs. He could only lie there, limp and useless.

“Geez, Sixer,” Bill finally said, his body flickering in time with his nasally voice. “I’ve seen you look pretty bad before - and I mean, like, really, really bad. But this? This is almost depressing.”

One of Bill’s black stick arms came to the spot his chin would be if he had one, his single eye furrowing in thought.

After a moment, his face brightened and he snapped his fingers. “Oh, wait!” he said. “Did I say ‘depressing’? I meant ‘absolutely hilarious’!” Bill let loose a peal of mocking laughter, his floating body turning lazily in the chilly breeze of the beach. “I gotta hand it to you, Sixer, you fail abysmally at a lot of stuff, but making me laugh at your ineptitude sure ain’t one of ‘em!”

Bill righted himself, and leaned down so he was right in Ford’s face. “I mean, look at you,” he said. “You tried to make up with that dumb hayseed after he saw me in an indecent moment - super rude, might I point out, guy needs a talking-to about knocking first - and look where that got you! All alone, on some bald weirdo’s basement floor, selling out your friends and brother as soon as things get a little too hard for you. This is almost funnier than you thinking dismantling that portal is gonna stop me! Which, let’s be real here, was already pretty darn funny.”

Shame boiled behind Ford’s cheeks. “I-I will stop you…” he ground out.

“Hey, it talks,” Bill said. “And is completely delusional, apparently.” He chuckled again. “Look, Fordsey, I’ve got a life outside of you. And one bad break-up isn’t gonna stop what I’ve got in store for your world. You don’t make plans as big as mine without having a few safety nets. Now, to me, you’re nothing more than a dancing monkey, here to amuse me when I take a break for some time punch.”

Suddenly, Bill shot out a hand and grab Ford’s index finger, yanking it back violently. Ford let out a strangled cry of pain.

“And speaking of amusement,” Bill said, voice suddenly low and dangerous. “I think that Ivan guy had the right idea. Breaking fingers sounds like a riot. Maybe I’ll give it a whirl. It’ll almost be as fun as that time I flung you down the stairs!”

Ford felt like weeping.

“Now, let’s see, where to start. Hmm...eeny...meany...miney...yooooou…”

Someone was shaking him, and Ford opened his eyes with a shout. He inhaled heavily, gathering up as much air as he could in his burning lungs. He felt as if he’d been holding his breath for years. His hands shook under the ropes binding him to the chair.

As Ford’s vision cleared, it dawned on him that he was still in the dark room in the inner sanctum of the Society of the Blind Eye. He was slightly unsettled that the sight filled him with a strange sort of relief.

“Are you alright?” a voice said. Ford looked up, and realized that a robed figure was watching him from the shadows. In their hands, they held a tin bowl full of water. When the figure realized Ford was looking intently at the bowl, they said, ���I thought you might need some water. I came in and you were talking in your sleep. So I woke you up.”

Ford recognized the gentle voice of the follower from before. The one who’d so gently inspected his injuries and tried to comfort him. The one who’d convinced him to give in to Ivan’s demands to save himself. Ford’s fists balled, his hands still shaking, but now in anger instead of fear.

The figure took a step towards him, and Ford snapped, “Don’t come anywhere near me.” As if suddenly glued to the spot, the figure stopped moving. Ford could feel them watching him from under their hood. “You’re crazy if you think I’ll take anything you give me,” he continued. He was acutely aware of how his voice cracked ever so slightly, indicative of the strain his mind was under, but he didn’t care. “You probably planned that little stunt earlier from the beginning. Bait me with some kindness so I’d roll over and do whatever you wanted. I’m on to your game, so you can just get the hell away from me.” His voice broke miserably, and he screwed his eyes shut against the shame that shot through him, his breath coming out in ragged heaves.

He heard footsteps approaching him and was suddenly aware of a human presence very close to him. He opened his eyes again. The figure set the bowl gently on the ground, and let out a quiet sigh. “What happened with Ivan was never my intention,” they said. “I truly did want to help you. I don’t like seeing people in pain. It’s just my nature.”

“You’re a liar,” Ford spat back, but he felt his anger petering out quickly. He was just so tired. The chill that he thought was just a product of his dreams suddenly squeezed him like an icy fist, sending a powerful shiver down his spine.

The figure sighed again, then reached up and grasped their hood. Before Ford could ask what they were doing, the hood was tossed back, and a young black man, roughly his own age, was staring back at him. His features were careworn, and he looked about as tired as Ford felt. “My name is Darryl,” he said. “I’m a paramedic.”

Ford gaped for a moment before he breathed, “Wh-why would you...”

“I thought actually seeing a person under here - a real, living person - would maybe make you feel a little safer. I know you’ve got no reason to trust me, but I swear, I wasn’t playing earlier. It’s literally my job to fix up injuries like that one.” He gestured broadly to Ford’s head. The wound near the base of his neck took that moment to throb dully.

“I really did want to help,” Darryl added. He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a dented tin cup. “And now, I’m trying to again.” He dipped the cup in the bowl at his feet, filling it with water, and held it out to Ford. “Do you want a drink or not? It’s whatever you want to do.”

Ford looked at the cup, then back up at Darryl, trying to read his face, see anything that might indicate subterfuge. But he saw nothing. The bright brown eyes looking back at him, holding his gaze with a strange, soft command, reminded him of Stan. Limply, he nodded. A brief flicker of relief crossed Darryl’s face as he moved closer and put the cup to Ford’s lips.

Ford hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until the water was snaking its way down his throat. It was lukewarm and had a bit of a metal tang to it, probably from the town’s old pipes, but it tasted amazing to him. Darryl took it away far too soon.

“Sorry,” the other man said, setting the cup aside again, “but I don’t want you to get sick. I’ll give you some more in a minute.” He reached down to his belt, and pulled loose a threadbare blanket. “I know it’s not much, but I figure anything is better than nothing in this damp little space.”

He laid the blanket out across Ford’s chest, tucking it in a bit at the arms. Despite how worn it looked, the blanket did help, and the aching chill that had settled in Ford’s body began to lessen.

“Now, let’s try to get that horror show on the back of your head fixed up,” Darryl muttered, more to himself than to Ford. Reaching into the pocket of his robe, he pulled out a handkerchief. As he stooped down to pick up the bowl, Ford saw a glint of gold on his left hand in the dim light. Looking harder, he realized it was a simple golden wedding band. It made sense, honestly. Darryl wasn’t much older than him, and Ford was an outlier when it came to relationships. Of course most men his age were settling down, marrying and having children. But it raised a question in Ford’s mind, one he couldn’t help but vocalize.

“Why is a young married paramedic in a memory-wiping cult?”

Darryl froze. A flash of panic flickered across his face, as he muttered, “I wanted to forget. Same as everyone else.”

“But I want to know what,” Ford asked. “I know this entire group thinks I’m some kind of dangerous madman, but I’m not. I tried to tell Ivan before, I go looking for the unexplained so I can explain it. You can protect yourself if you know what you’re up against. And if you told me what made you...join, maybe I can help you understand it.”

Finally, Darryl turned to face him. Ford had expected him to be angry, or at least defensive, but instead, his face was drawn and sad. The bright brown eyes now looked a thousand miles away. In a quiet voice, Darryl said, “Only demons I’m running from are my own, Dr. Pines.”

Despite himself, Ford quirked an eyebrow. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“The Society only has a few rules. The people who want their memories erased have to be willing. We don’t tell anyone who isn’t a member about it. And, most importantly, the only memories we erase are paranormal ones. That was something McGucket was always very firm about.”

“But Ivan told me that the memory gun can get rid of anything.”

“It can, but McGucket never wanted to use it for what he called the “everyday” stuff. He always said those are the sorts of things humans were meant to handle. It was the most important rule. But Ivan hasn’t been following the rules for a good, long while now.”

“He’s been erasing other memories now?”

“Exactly.”

“Why didn’t Fiddleford do anything about it?”

“He didn’t know. Ivan realized that the more McGucket used the gun on himself, the more it rattled his brain. There’d be days when McGucket would wander around, looking like he didn’t know where he was. We’ve found him outside more than once, curled up next to the garbage cans because he was trying to figure out how to get home from here.”

Ford thought of Fiddleford in that alleyway, looking so thin and haggard and, most of all, lost.

“Ivan’s been taking full advantage of it,” Darryl continued. “McGucket can’t argue about ethics when he doesn’t even realize that Ivan is working against him, so Ivan has been offering to erase any bad memories, in exchange for loyalty.”

“But why? What does he gain from it?”

“I don’t know, entirely. Maybe it’s a power thing. Maybe he just liked to be in control of people It sounds crazy, but from the looks of things, I think he’s amassing an army.”

“For what?”

“Like I said, I don’t know entirely. But whatever it is, he’s obviously not gonna let a little thing like humanity get in his way.”

Darryl dunked the handkerchief in the bowl of water, scrunching it up in his fist to squeeze out the excess water. As he began moving behind the chair, Ford said, “You didn’t answer my question. How’d you get mixed up in all this?”

Darryl hesitated a moment, then walked briefly back into Ford’s line of vision, reaching a hand down into his robes. Ford heard a clinking of metal as the other man pulled forth a simple metal chain from around his neck. Attached to the end were two dented dog tags. “Private Little, of the 113th Infantry Brigade,” Darryl said simply. “One tour in South Vietnam, 1969 to 1970.”

Sympathy settled in Ford’s stomach like a heavy stone. “Oh…” he mumbled.

“Not to offend or anything, but I’m guessing you didn’t serve.” Darryl gave him a wry look as he ducked back out of sight, behind Ford.

Ford felt the soft, cool handkerchief being gently pressed into his neck. He tensed only for a moment, expecting pain, and was amazed when none came. He felt himself relax. “No,” he replied. “My dad did, but that’s about as close as my brothers and I got. College kept me out of the draft. My older brother had asthma, so he was exempt. And I’m not sure how Stanley managed to avoid it, but I’m sure it had something to do with fleeing to another country.”

Darryl chuckled a bit at that, and said, “Wish I’d had the brains to do that. Would have saved me a whole mess of trouble.”

“What happened?”

The handkerchief stilled for just a moment. Finally, Darryl said, “We got ambushed. It happened so fast that sometimes I have a hard time believing it happened at all. But my dreams always remind me. They just mowed us down. Ten seconds, tops, and it was over. I took a bullet right to the knee cap. Dropped where I stood. My buddy, Hank...he took one to the gut. He must have hung on for half an hour…”

Darryl trailed off, and Ford didn’t urge him to continue. Oddly enough, he thought of his father. He knew Dad had served, but beyond the basic facts, he never told Ford or his brothers about his tour of duty. It wasn’t until Ford was at least eleven that he accidentally stumbled across the Purple Heart his father had been awarded, stuffed away in a box in the hall closet.

He thought of when Shermie came back from the recruiting office, and how Dad’s shoulders seemed to slump when his older brother informed everyone that he was medically unfit for military service. It was the first time Ford ever remembered his father being excited about something.

He wondered what memories his father would want pulled from his head, if he was given the choice.

“And that’s why you came to Ivan,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” Darryl responded quietly. “For a while, I managed to live with the memories. Believe it or not, the job helps. I see a lot of blood and death, but at least now I can do something about it, ya know? It’s not like with Hank. It...it kinda helps me cope. Does that make sense?”

Ford thought of the portal back home, how he sequestered himself for hours with it, this living testament to his failure, how accomplished he felt when he managed to make any kind of headway with it. He nodded and said, “It makes perfect sense to me.”

“Loud noises are the things that tend to upset me now,” Darryl continued. “Cars backfiring, slamming doors, that kind of thing. Had to stop going out on the Fourth of July. But those are things you can live with. After my daughter was born…that’s when the dreams started. Vivid shit, almost perfect recreations of that day in the jungle.”

Darryl squeezed more water from the handkerchief, and added, “By the time Ivan found me, I was desperate. I felt like I had no other choice. I couldn’t sleep. It was affecting my job, which used to be one of the only things that kept me grounded. And at home...I knew seeing me this way was hard for my family. Even if I hadn’t done it for myself, I would have done it for them in a heartbeat.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Darryl dabbed tenderly at the base of Ford’s neck, then gave a small grunt of satisfaction before he ducked back into Ford’s field of vision. His face was unreadable.

“I’m sorry, Darryl,” Ford said. “I’m sorry you ever had to feel like this cult was your only option.”

Darryl gave him a sad smile, and said, “Thanks, man.”

Another question suddenly dawned on Ford. “Wait,” he said. “If the reason you joined the Society was to erase those memories, then how do you still remember them enough to tell me?”

“Because there’s something wrong with the memory gun,” Darryl said gravely. “McGucket thought it would be a permanent process, but other members have started remembering whatever it was they erased. And that scares them more than you ever could.”

“That’s why Ivan wants Fiddleford back so badly.”

“Exactly. He’s getting desperate. The only thing he’s got to ensure people’s loyalty is that memory gun, and if it doesn’t work, then the others have no reason to stick with him. To fix it, he needs McGucket.”

This was so much worse than Ford ever thought. His original idea was that Ivan wanted Fiddleford back simply because he was their leader. But all Ivan was interested in was Fiddleford’s engineering skills. Fiddeford wouldn’t just be worse off if he was dragged back to this hellhole. His very life could be in danger, once Ivan had gotten what he needed from him.

“We have to stop him,” Ford said firmly.

“I know,” Darryl said. “If he’d go after two people who mean absolutely nothing to him, think of what he’d do to McGucket.”

Ford’s stomach dropped to his shoes. “What are you talking about?”

“I wasn’t being arbitrary when I said that Ivan would go after Helen and your brother. I know he will because he already has. When Helen and Stan went back to her house, someone was waiting for them. A Society member, trying to find Fidds.”

“What?! Who?”

“I don’t know. They managed to fight whoever it was off. As if anyone needed another reason to be afraid of Helen Bergstrum when she’s mad, now she’s slashing faces with car keys.” Darryl shook his head a bit. “But Stan got a pretty nasty blow to the head. They called me in to patch him up. That’s when I realized what Ivan had done.”

“Was he alright?”

“Yeah, I stitched him up. He was a little dizzy, but no worse for wear. But it made me realize that Ivan has gone too far.” He cast his gaze back up at Ford, the brightness in his eyes verging on fiery passion. “I don’t really understand why you do what you do, Dr. Pines. It even kinda scares me a little. But you never intentionally hurt innocent people. Dr. Bergstrum is a good person, and she doesn’t deserve to be terrorized in her own home. And your brother? Anyone who’s willing to throw down just to protect his friend is cool in my book.”

Darryl looked down into the bowl of water he still held in his hand. Ford wondered what he saw staring back at him.

“So,” Ford said, “what are you proposing?”

Darryl looked up, directly into Ford’s eyes. “I’m gonna finish patching you up, Dr. Pines, and then I’m getting you out of here.”

-----

Helen drummed her fingers against the sticky kitchen table. Across from her, doing everything he could to avoid looking her directly in the eye, was Ed Matthews. Her friend, her colleague. A man she’d worked with for almost seven years, who gently teased her about her interest in the paranormal. Who’d been there when life was almost too much for her.

The man who helped a memory-wiping cult break into her home and violently attack her.

Stan and Fiddleford sat in chairs between them, on the side of the table. Their eyes bounced between Helen and Ed, as if they were watching a pair of bombs, primed and ready to explode.

Helen didn’t blame them. That wasn’t very far off from how she felt.

“Helen, I know you’re angry, and I don’t blame you. You have every right to be.” Ed’s eyes were tired as he lifted them up gingerly to meet Helen’s glare. “But I promise you, I’m done lying. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

Helen narrowed her eyes, fighting hard to keep her voice level and her fists from swinging in rage. “I’m counting on it, Ed,” she muttered. “I figure any explanation you give me has gotta be a pip.”

Ed ducked his head, away from her withering stare, ashamed. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get out even a syllable, Helen cut him off and said, “You lied to me.” She was ashamed how her voice wavered ever so slightly. “You lied about Fiddleford, about that girl, about the old man...how? How could you do this?”

“I didn’t want to,” Ed said miserably, putting his head in his hands. “But you have no idea the kind of power the Society has. The kind of power Ivan has. And what could have happened to me if I didn’t play his game.”

Helen stole a glance at Fiddleford, whose brow was furrowed heavily, lost in thought. He was obviously trying hard to remember anything to do with this Ivan character, to see if there was any validity to Ed’s claims.

Until then, there was no way they could trust Ed.

“Helen, you of all people understand who absolutely insane this town is,” Ed said emphatically. “I know going to the Society was wrong, but it wasn’t until I actually saw for myself what drives people to it that I finally understood.”

“What exactly did you see?” Stan asked carefully.

Ed sighed, and replied, “My house isn’t that far beyond the lake. My wife loved the sounds of it at night.” He paused for a moment, his eyes suddenly very, very far away, but he quickly shook his head and continued on, “But then she started saying she...heard things out there. Low, rumbling noises. Almost like growls. I dismissed it as a dream, but she insisted there was something out there until the day she died. One night, not too long after her funeral, I couldn’t sleep, so I went down to the dock. That’s when I finally figured out what she was talking about.”

Helen, Stan, and Fiddleford all leaned in, like scouts hearing a spooky campfire story.

“Poking above the water, staring right at me, was a pair of glowing yellow eyes.”

“So there really was something out in the lake,” Helen breathed. “That girl really did see something.”

“Yes,” Ed said sadly. “As soon as I heard her talking about seeing something in the lake, I knew exactly what she was talking about. So Ivan went looking for them.”

Fiddleford’s eyes went wide with horror. “You wiped their memories without their consent?!”

Ed flinched, like a chastened child. “I didn’t,” he said. “Ivan did.”

“And you just let your band of hooded freaks target a scared teenage girl?” Stan said, the contempt in his voice barely masked.

“You make it sound like I personally put the gun to her forehead,” Ed retorted. “I would never have told Ivan about her, about any of my patients, but I didn’t have to. Gossip travels fast in this town, and it wasn’t long before Ivan found out and went after the girl and her friends. I knew it wasn’t right, but it’s like I said, I was too much of a coward to admit that what Ivan was doing was wrong. He has the entire Society convinced that the townsfolk are better off living in ignorance, even if we have to show them that by force.”

“How could he do this?” Fiddleford suddenly cried out. Helen, Stan, and Ed all whipped their heads around to look at him. He was angrier than Helen had ever seen him, and didn’t seem to notice at all that everyone’s attention was no on him. He raked a hand through his hair, grabbing up a clump of it halfway through and squeezing, as he continued to babble. “I thought Ivan understood why I was doing this more than anyone. I...he...he upheld the Society’s rules more than anyone. I just...I don’t understand where this all came from. It doesn’t seem like him at all.”

After a moment, Ed said, “Tell me something, sir. Do you remember the last conversation you had with Ivan before all this insanity began?”

Fiddleford gave him a confused look, and said, “Of course I do! I...we...oh, my god…”

Slowly, realization dawned on Fiddleford’s face.

“You don’t, do you?” Ed asked.

Fiddleford squeeze his hair tighter in his hand. “I...all I really remember is that Ivan was upset. He was yelling about something. But after that…” Fiddleford’s hand fell from his hair. He looked so very small as he muttered, “After that it’s all a blank.”

Suddenly, something clicked in Helen’s mind. “You must have caught him wiping the memories of that old man!”

Stan hummed thoughtfully, then said, “It adds up. It explains why you were in such piss-poor shape when Ford and I found you. It couldn’t have been more than a few hours since Ivan shot you. And you’ve been surrounded by reminders of your past all day, so you’ve been recovering faster.”

“But...why?” Fiddleford asked helplessly. “Why would Ivan want to go behind my back?”

“For the obvious reason,” Helen said. “Because he’s doing something he didn’t want you to know about. He knew you’d never approve of whatever it is he’s doing, and he was right. So he wiped your memories.”

“And that’s how the Pines brothers found you,” Ed added. “You must have wandered out of the sanctum again.”

Helen quirked up her eyebrow, confused. Sanctums? If this cult of Fiddleford’s wasn’t actually pretty frightening, she’d laugh at how pretentious they were.

Her confusion must have been pretty clear, because Fiddleford said, “Sometimes, after using the gun, I’d be a bit, well, mixed up. I’d wander outside and sit in the alley, though not always intentionally. It helped me think, get my thoughts in order. And that’s where I must have gone after Ivan wiped my mind.”

Fiddleford plopped heavily into his seat, obviously overwhelmed by all that he’d just discovered. Helen didn’t blame him. She felt a bit like doing that herself. But she needed more answers. Turning back to Ed, she said, “But how did they get into my house? You were the only person who saw us today, who knew we were with Fiddleford. And I got some pretty good cuts in on whoever it was. Since you don’t have any cuts on your face, it couldn’t have been you.”

Ed sighed again, and reached into his robe sleeve. Helen, Stan, and Fiddleford all tensed immediately, ready to jump at whatever Ed had hidden inside.

But all he pulled out was a shiny, silver house key. An exact copy of the one Helen had used to unlock her front door, and then slash at an intruder less than ten minutes later.

Helen felt like she was going to be sick. She cast her glance back up at Ed, searching for answers. He wouldn’t meet her gaze. Yes, she was definitely going to be sick.

“You…” was all she managed to mumble before she had to stop. If she kept talking, she wouldn’t be able to hold down whatever was threatening to come up.

“I don’t know who attacked you, Helen, but this is how they got in,” Ed said. “I made a copy back around Christmas, when you and the kids went to Salem to visit your parents. You asked me to house sit for you.”

The world tilted around her. She shakily stood from her chair, her legs wobbling dangerously. Stan and Fiddleford both looked ready to jump from their chairs at the next move she made.

She was going to be sick or she was going to faint. She couldn’t tell which anymore.  

Ed was still talking. “I had been meaning to make one for a while before then. Ever since what happened with the baby-”

Something snapped inside her.

She couldn’t hear Ed anymore. Her heart had launched itself directly into her ears, and all she could hear was it hammering away, feeling like it was ready to burst. Somewhere far away, a tinny noise that she vaguely registered as Stan’s voice asked, “What baby?”

That was it.

Lurching like she was possessed, Helen flung herself at the sink, and with a painful spasm, vomited. There wasn’t much to bring up. The only thing she’d had in her stomach for the last few hours was a can of beer. Stomach acid followed shortly after, leaving a burning trail up her esophagus.

She felt a touch ghost across her back, and heard the distant voices of Stan and Fiddleford, talking to her, trying to get her to say something, anything, to indicate what was wrong. She couldn’t answer them. She had no air to answer them with. Their voices became even more muffled as she concentrated on her heavy breathing.

She tried to force down the pain that blossoms in his abdomen and lower back. She knew there was nothing there that could be causing it. She knew that the warm sensation of blood trickling down her leg wasn’t really there. And she knew Daisy’s panicked voice, stammering into the phone that her mother needed help, was just a phantom in her mind, played on a loop by her sadistic, traitorous brain.

She knew all this, and it didn’t help a damn bit.

Suddenly, she felt two calloused hand prying her grip from the sink, and gently guiding her away. They didn’t let go until she was sitting again, probably back at the kitchen table, and even then, the presence behind her didn’t fade. It stayed at her back like a supportive column. Another set of hands, these softer, gentler, grabbed up hers and held them. She heard a kind voice, with a soft hint of an accent speaking to her, piercing through the memories and the droning. It took her a moment to realize it was Fiddleford, and that the sturdy presence behind her was Stan.

Fiddleford was saying something, and slowly, the cacophony in her brain faded, abd she could make out words. “...just gonna slow your breathing down a bit, that’s right. In and out. In and out. Come on, Helen, you can do it. In...”

Slowly, laboriously, she followed his instruction. She took a shaky breath in.

“And out.”

She obeyed.

“Atta girl,” he said encouragingly, giving her hands a tight squeeze.

Helen’s cheeks burned with shame. Daisy had been right. She was a mess.

She cast a sidelong glance over at Ed, who looked positively mortified, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open, looking like he desperately wanted to say something. Helen wished he wouldn’t. He’d already said quite enough.

But he finally spoke anyway. “Helen, I’m so sorry,” he said. “I...I didn’t mean to, it just slipped out. I had no idea...I didn’t know that this was still so…”

“Doc, cool it for a minute,” Stan said sternly. “Let her breathe.”

“How’re you feeling?” Fiddleford asked her, his grip still tight and reassuring.

Like shit. Like I want to crawl into a hole and never come out. Like a hysterical, useless load. Like you guys are never going to look at me the same way ever again, her thoughts screamed.

“I’m fine,” she said instead, disgusted by how small her voice was. “I...I guess I’m not as okay with this as I thought.”

“Do you need anything?” Fiddleford asked. “Some water?”

“No, really, I’m okay,” she said. To prove it, she pulled her hands free of Fiddleford’s, even though the loss of the comforting warmth made her ache inside. She ignored it.

“Do you maybe wanna...I dunno, talk?” she heard Stan ask from behind her. She could almost picture his face, drawn tight with worry and care. He’d been shooting Ford that look all day, just waiting for the minute when his brother fell apart. And the fact that he might be looking at her that way made her almost feel sick enough to vomit again.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said sharply. “It was just a miscarriage. They happen to millions of women every single day.”

“Oh, Helen…” FIddleford put a hand to his heart, looking ready to cry. The shame that had pooled in her cheeks spread, prickling along her skin like poisoned barbs. She ducked her head down, hiding her face behind a curtain of hair.

“It was two years ago, Fiddleford,” she muttered. “Don’t go all weepy on me. I’ve had time to come to grips with it. Obviously not as good a grip as I thought, but it hasn’t bothered me for a long time.”

“But what about…” Fiddleford began.

She cut him off, standing so abruptly that her chair nearly slammed right into Stan’s gut. “That was just a freak thing. I’m stressed and I’m tired and all I want to do is go bash this Ivan bastard’s face in and get Ford home.” She pushed past Fiddleford, still looking dewy-eyed, and headed out of the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “I also need some air. Come get me when you guys have a plan put together.”

She could feel their eyes on her back, even as she left their line of sight and headed towards the front door. She had to get out, and practically sprinted to close the distance between herself and the door. She flung it open and, as soon as she was out in the cold, wet night, she inhaled as deeply as she could, then shut the door behind her.

She stood there for a few minutes, just inhaling and exhaling, trying to force her mind to calm. It wasn’t working. She needed something to take the edge off.

Her gaze drifted, and in the dim porch light, she saw a pack of cigarettes and a lighter on the railing.

They were probably Stan’s. She’d thought the smell of smoke on his jacket was stronger than usual.

Helen hadn’t smoked in almost twenty years, not since before she’d gotten married, and with all the new literature constantly coming out about the hazards of cigarettes, she’d felt it hypocritical to ever start up again. But now, she didn’t care. She needed one like she needed oxygen.

She snatched up the pack and pulled one out. The lighter was flimsy and cheap, and took a few clicked to finally hold a flame, but eventually she got it. As she took a few puffs, she heard the door open behind her. She hadn’t smoked enough of the cigarette to turn around and face whoever it was.

“I told you I don’t wanna talk about it,” she said. She didn’t care which one of them it was, or what they had to say. She was not going to just sit there and listen to them talk about how sorry they were and ask why she’d never told them and all that other shit she’d been hearing from anyone who ever found out.

All except Richard. After he found out and dealt with it for a few months, all he said was goodbye.

“I didn’t say anything,” Stan said behind her. “I mostly came out here to try and save my cigarettes. I already smoked a couple after my little spat with McGucket, and I figured if you found them, that’d be the end of them.”

Helen didn’t reply. She just exhaled and let her muscles relax.

They stood for a moment in silence. Stan didn’t make a move toward her or speak. Helen barely even heard him breathe. Then finally, he said, “I wish you could have told me when you were ready.”

That was one she’d never heard before. She glanced at him over her shoulder. He was looking out into the woods, his face somber.

“Even if you’d never told me,” Stan continued, “at least then it would have been on your terms. It might have been an accident, but Doc Matthews had no right to bring it up like that. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

Helen turned around the rest of the way to face him. “If I had my way, no one would ever know,” she said. “It’s not exactly something I like to advertise.”

“That’s understandable,” Stan said. “It obviously still really bothers you.”

“There’s more to it than that,” Helen said, leaning back against the wall, tapping the ash from the tip of the cigarette. “People look at me differently when they know. Suddenly, I’m not a doctor or a woman who’s raising three kids by herself because her husband is a jack-off. I’m the woman who had a miscarriage, and I’m someone to be pitied. And being pitied is a fucking nightmare.”

“I get that,” Stan said. “But I’m not gonna stand here and pretend like what just happened didn’t scare the shit out of me. It’s not that I think you’re someone to be pitied. It’s that I’m worried about you, and wish you trusted me to support you in this. People like me and Fidds and Ford? We get what it’s like to live through something no one else can understand.”

Helen sighed, and said, “Stan, there are thousands of people who understand what I went through. Last time I checked the statistics, 10-20% of all pregnancies end in miscarriage. What happened to me was practically commonplace. It’s nothing compared to what you and your brother and Fiddleford have been through.” She felt a lump rising in her throat. “So...why does it still bother me?”

She saw Stan inch closer to her. Her voice was getting tighter, tears burning at the back of her throat. She didn’t want to cry. She was too exhausted to cry. She was too exhausted not to cry. “I’ve gone to the support groups,” she muttered thickly. “I’ve read the books. I’ve even done a little of the therapy. But every morning I wake up and it’s still there. It’s not always like this, but it’s there. And if I can let something like this rattle me so much, for so long? Then when good am I to you? What good am I to anyone?”

Stan was flush against her side right now. Without even thinking about it, she let her head fall, until it landed on his broad shoulder. His jacket was damp and soaked her hair a bit. She didn’t care. The tears that trailed down her nose were going to make it even wetter anyway.

“Helen,” Stan said softly, “it doesn’t matter what happened to make you feel like this. It might not be a homelessness or cults or weird demons, but that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that it was horrible, and it happened to you. That’s all the reason you need to still be affected by it. There aren’t any rules that tell you when you’re supposed to be okay with something.”

She didn’t answer him, she just took another drag of the cigarette, her hand trembling as she brought it to her lips.

After another beat of silence, Stan said, “That bastard walked out right after it happened, huh?”

She nodded as blew out the smoke. “A couple of months, give or take. He said he couldn’t deal with it. Couldn’t deal with me. Later, I realized he’d probably been looking for an out, and the baby was his excuse.”

“Piece of shit,” Stan muttered.

“I was gonna have a girl,” she muttered. “I wanted to name her Christina.”

She felt Stan move his arm down, and cup her hand in his. It was warm. She tossed the half-finished cigarette over the railing and into the bushes.

“You could have at least had the decency to finish it,” Stan grumbled, but she could hear the smile in his voice.

“Don’t you know those things give you cancer?” she replied. “You should be thanking me.”

“You wanna head back in, maybe lay down?” Stan offered. “We’re trying to put together a bit of strategy. Ed’s offering to take us to bust out Ford, and we need to hurry.” She heard the worry creeping into his voice, despite his efforts to keep things casually for her sake. “Apparently, he’s not in great shape.”

“I’m coming with you,” Helen said firmly. There was no two ways about it.

“You sure?” Stan asked. She could see the doubt in his eyes, and she wanted to smack it out of him.

“Never been more sure,” she replied. “I feel like a pretty good catharsis for me right now would be to beat in the face of the fuckwad who caused me all this misery. And since Richard moved to California, that only leaves this Ivan bastard.”

Stan smirked a little, and said, “Alright then. I’m not gonna stop you. You can even take my bat. It’ll give me an excuse to brush off my knuckle dusters. And give your house keys a rest.” He punctuated that last comment with a playful check of her shoulder. She couldn’t suppress the smile.

She couldn’t help it. She leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek. “You’re a good person, Stanley Pines.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” he said. He began leading her back into the house. He didn’t let go of her hand. “Now let’s go knock around some cultists.”

Helen pushed down the gnawing in the pit of her stomach, nodded, and followed him in.

-----

Rfc fmsp md rpsrf hq ajmqc yr filb

Ufcpe msp jcpmcq ugjj kyic rfcgp dglyj qrykb

Zsr umkcmlc ‘q rpsqr fyq zccl kgqjygb

Ugjj rfcw dglb msr gl rgkc ufm fyq zccl njywcb?

[welcometocoldwater]

Part Two: The Top Floor

Spencer Flores’ new apartment was on the third floor of the lodge - which was not a lodge anymore but an apartment building, with only the ground-floor rooms available for night-to-night rentals - but old names die hard. 

It had all been arranged for him, according to the department that arranged these sort of things back at the church. Room 303 came complete with a bedroom, kitchen, and porch that looked out over the lake. “Hi,” he said to the half-asleep receptionist at the front counter. She jolted awake with a snort, slapping the keyboard of her ancient computer with both hands. Zero’s ears perked up at the sound. She rubbed her eyes, narrowing them at him, shaking her head like she disapproved of whatever he just did. Honestly, she probably did. “Christ,” she grumbled, looking over her shoulder and out the window. It was now pitch black outside, the only illumination coming from the blinking traffic light at the intersection. Lucy Mendel was long gone, now, vanishing up into the mountains, where her house sat a few hundred feet back from the county route that led through the valley and towards the college. “Where the hell did you come from?” “Outside,” he said slowly. “Got lost on the interstate, did ya? ‘Ang on, I’ll get you set up in an overnight room. If we have any left. There’s a storm blowin’ in from Canada, and it forced a bunch of drivers off the road. If we don’t have any openin’s, you can head on a few miles down the road and set yourself up by Ellison College.” She began typing away on the dinosaur of the computer. Thunder rumbled overhead. The keys on the wall behind her shuddered in unison. “I actually live here, now, I think,” he said. She snapped her gum and arched an eyebrow. “My name is Spencer Flores. I think someone called and arranged an apartment for me.” She turned back to her computer, then nodded and reached behind herself for one of the keys. “Yep, all set up. D’ya’ know the rules?” He shrugged, partially because he didn’t know the rules and partially because he wasn’t sure if that was the question she’d actually asked him. Oh, excuse him, the question she’d axed him. He hadn’t been aware that there were rules. “That key’ll getcha into the lodge after we lock up. Usually, it’s nine, but we stayed open later tonight on account’a the storm. An’ between October an’ March, most people get inside by ten-thirry. You would, too, if you’re smart.” She slid the key across the counter towards him, a smile quirking up the corner of her mouth. “Rent’s three hundred a month, but it looks like someone’s takin’ care of it for ya’.” He smiled a little back and wondered where the hell she had picked up that accent. Certainly not Vermont. “Thank you,” he said, quickly, and gathered up the keys. Now he was aware of the accent he carried around, too - faint, but still there. He focused on his next words, the way the r’s flipped on themselves. “You don’t have any bags?” “They’re being sent to me tomorrow,” he assured, tugging on Zero’s leash and leading him towards the staircase. “What room?” “Three-oh-three.” “Thank you.” There were only three rooms on the top floor, but he hoped that meant they would be the largest. When he opened the door, his hands trembling slightly with exhaustion, he stepped into the completely darkened room and debated dropping onto the floor and sleeping wherever he fell. He decided against this and instead dragged his hand along the wall until it found a switch, and he flipped it with no ceremony. A bulb overhead flickered lamely for a moment before powering on. It illuminated a dismal scene: an empty living room, a kitchen with cheap plastic “tiling” and an undoubtedly empty fridge, and a hallway with two more doors: the bathroom and the bedroom, presumably. There was not much to show for three hundred a month. No couch or television, so it was safe to assume he would be sleeping on the floor until he could get some furniture. He had traveled light, the only belongings he’d hauled along being the ones he’d fit into the backpack on his shoulder. He let this drop to the floor, knelt, and unzipped it. Inside held two folding dog bowls (one with a silicone lid), a phone charger, a reusable water bottle, and several bright orange prescription bottles. He filled one of the bowls with water from the sink and removed Zero’s leash. Then he sat down with his back against one of the counters and pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. Finn answered on the first ring. “Heya, Spencer. You made it alright?” “I’m in my new apartment now.” “How is it?” “Good. A little empty. But better than my parents’ house.” “Alright. Good. I’m glad.” She paused. “You don’t need me there? I can get there -“ “I’m fine, Finn.” An edge crept into his voice. “I’ve only been here thirty seconds and you panic.” “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” “Besides, you’ll see me tomorrow when you drop off my boxes.” “This is true.” “I talked to Lucy Mendel earlier.” “Lucy!” Finn’s voice brightened, and Spencer winced, pulling the tinny speaker away from his ear. “I haven’t seen her in so long. How is she? Any news on Isaac?” “No. He’s still in college. She doesn’t want to upset him with anything unexpected.” “So he really knows nothing,” she murmured. He could picture her now, slumped over in her own apartment inside the renovated church a few miles outside Salem, Massachusetts, where she’d lived since she graduated high school. There was a muffed thumping sound, the groan of springs, and he knew she’d just dove onto her bed. “That sucks.” “I’m not going to worry about it. It’s nothing that concerns me, anyway.” He crossed one leg over the other and watched as Zero walked away from the water bowl and dropped heavily onto the shag carpet of the living room. Wonder if it violates my lease to rip all that up, he thought absently. “I was just calling to tell you I’m okay,” he continued. “I’m exhausted. I think I’m going to go to sleep if I can find a comfortable spot.” “Do you not have a bed?” “I don’t think so. I can sleep on the floor for one night, though. The bus passed a department store a few miles back. You and I can head back that way later. I’ve still got some cash left over from my medical payout. That’ll get me a bed and a couch.” And a grocery run, I hope. “No bed and no couch? Jee-zus, Ira sent you up to a prison.” “I’ll see you tomorrow, Finn,” he said. “Try to not lose too much sleep without me.” “I don’t know how I’ll handle it.” She snorted. “G’night, Spencer.” “Good night.” The line disconnected, and he stood back up, bracing himself against the counter like his leg might buckle - which it very well might have, six months ago. But he’d had to go through recertification at the Institute before he’d been sent out on assignment, which meant passing a physical exam, and he had - barely. He was on “limited duty”, which meant he’d been sent off to Coldwater because they considered it safe enough that he wouldn’t have to, say, go hiking through the woods alone. Like the name of the lodge, though, old habits died hard, and he stayed braced against the counter until he was convinced it wouldn’t give out under his weight. Zero found his feet and walked over, stretching one shoulder towards him like an invitation, but he stepped away from the countertop, a little heavily, like his foot was asleep, but stayed upright. “See?” he said to Zero, who twitched an ear. “I’ve got this.” He walked into the bathroom, which was cramped and dated, but blessedly clean. He tried the mirror, and it pulled away from the wall, revealing empty rows to store medications on. He popped the top off of the orange bottle in his hand, dry-swallowed one of the pills inside, and lined the bottles up on the center shelf. He clicked the mirror back into place and paused, brushing his hair back off of his face, fingers tracing the darkened patch of skin that marked where he’d scraped his forehead when he’d fallen. It had been a year and a half ago, and it had faded almost entirely, but that hadn’t stopped him from growing out his hair to hide it. Outside, thunder rumbled, and he quickly covered the scar up again as Zero whined. He shut off the bathroom lights and turned into the bedroom. It was smaller than the living room, with the same shag carpeting, but he could fit a bed in there with no problem, one for Zero, maybe a few bookshelves. He had packed up half his family’s library when he decided to take the assignment they’d offered, and his family didn’t protest as he slid book after book into cardboard boxes. He missed them now, wished he’d remembered to pack one or two into that backpack he’d brought on the bus, but all of them had been tucked away into his packing boxes, as well as his laptop. He’d thought that he could go one night without them, but he’d underestimated his ability to entertain himself for the night. It was too early to go to sleep - he’d ruined his sleep schedule during his time off - and he had no television, no books, no computer to waste time on. So he rummaged through the closet until he found a blanket and a pillow, kicked off his shoes, and sprawled out on the living room floor, gazing out the glass door that led to the porch overlooking Coldwater Lake. He gazed out across the glassy water until, finally, sleep overtook him. He drifted off.

Finn McKay was in the hallway the next morning, bright and early, better than any alarm clock as she beat her fist against the door. He groaned and shuffled towards the sound, blanket trailing across the ground. The moment the door opened, she thrust a box towards him with a broad grin. “Brought you your books,” she said, bouncing up and down on her toes. He narrowed his eyes against the sunlight in the hallway. “There’s some more stuff down in the lobby. But we’re going on a shopping trip, right?” He shrugged as she pushed her way inside. Finn was short, but made up for it with what must have been six inches of hair, gelled up into spikes that probably could have taken his eyes out. She spun around in a circle to take in the appearance of the apartment, then set the book down in the middle of the bare living room. “Right?“ she prompted, tapping her toes. “Once we get everything up here, then yes. Just give me a chance to change -“ “All of your clothes are downstairs,” she reminded. He groaned. It only took a few trips to haul all of his belongings up into the apartment, scattering the cardboard boxes through the rooms, hanging up shirts sealed up with trash bags in the closet (there were only a few that he kept in rotation, but now that the laundromat was down the street, he was considering buying more). He jotted down a list of things he needed to buy to make the apartment livable, at least - bed, mattress, kitchen table and chairs, a bookshelf to get rid of all the damn boxes. A couch and television could come later, after the first paycheck from his assignment rolled in. He didn’t want to blow all his money at once, and anyway, he was nearly certain he’d be spending most of his time at Lucy Mendel’s cafe. He looked about, puffing out his chest a little. There was still unpacking to be done, but hey, it was another step towards making the space a little more his. “That’s everything, isn’t it?” Finn asked, unceremoniously dropping a box onto the ground. Dust flew up from the ground. He added vacuum to his list. “We can go shopping now?” “We can go shopping now,” he agreed. She broke into a broad grin. “Great! There’s an Ikea just a few miles down the highway, and I bet you could find a lot of cheap furniture there - come on, let’s go -“ “Finn,” he insisted as she grabbed his arm, “this isn’t the smartest idea - someone could see you -“ She shrugged and closed her eyes, and the apartment vanished. Spencer staggered away, his stomach swimming, and braced himself against the door of the car now directly to his right. The sunlight was dazzling, and the faint hum of highway traffic was now just a few feet behind him. The massive gray building loomed down in front of them, the blue-and-gold logo looking big enough to crush them. “Hell, Finn,” he hissed through gritted teeth, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “a little warning would be appreciated next time.” “You’re fine,” she scoffed. She unwedged herself from the position in which she’d appeared, pinned between a car and the rear-view mirror of its neighbor. “Hurry up.” “What’s your rush?” “I love Ikea. There’s gotta be something I didn’t realize I need in there.” She stuck out her tongue at him, popped out into the street, and set off towards the entrance at a jog. He let out another groan, trying to assure himself that he wasn’t going to throw up the moment he walked away from the car. Then, he balanced on his toes, craning his neck to see if anybody had noticed the two twenty-something-year-olds emerging from the space between two cars. Finn liked to play fast and loose with the secrecy that had been so ingrained in them since day one, and he was certain that someday, she’d miss the mark and appear in the middle of a crowded shopping mall, or onstage at a concert she was trying to sneak into, and she’d blow the cover for the entire Institute. But for today, she would make it a hell of a lot easier to get this furniture up three flights of stairs. Satisfied that nobody had seen them, he stepped out into the street behind her.

previous  next

[rosietales-blog1]

Textures

I apologize for this one. It’s almost excessively long, and a lot of build up for not too much payoff. Prompt words were “girl” and “kiss” for pairing Merle x Anyone. I kept the female character deliberately vague, so picture her however you’d like.

It’s not good... but it’s done. <3

Tap. Tap. Tap. The incessant sound of her pen bouncing off the edge of her notebook echoed off the cement walls of the prison, and it grated on his last nerve. Bad enough that the rain was drumming away overhead, he didn't need her rattling off a counterpoint in here with them. He never hesitated to cause a scene when things weren't turning up Merle Dixon, but he didn't want to scare the wee rabbit away, just wanted the damnable tip-tapping to halt. Enough was enough, and a man could only put up with so much when quarters were this close. He crossed the space between them, large, calloused hand coming down on top of her dainty fingers, quieting all but the sound of the storm outside. "Listen girl, it's bad enough the whole damned world's gone nutso, how's about you don't drive me plum crazy in here to boot?"

Red raced attractively across her face, heating her cheeks and disappearing beneath her collar. Merle's eyes followed the spread of colour with interest, his expression stating oh-so-eloquently that he wouldn't mind finding out how far that blush spread. She braced herself for the expected lecherous comment, and it was almost worth it just for the shock on her face when none was forthcoming. Catching her eye, Merle gave her a wink and a throaty chuckle as he finally pulled his hand away, her pen caught in his thick fingers. "I'll just hold on to this for a mite, girl. You want it back, you come find me and maybe let me see them pages you're a.ways scribbling away at."

She watched him go, nose scrunched up in confusion. He'd never been that nice to anyone, as far as she could tell, not even his own brother. Did he really want to read her writing? She bit her lip, watching him saunter off to the corner to harass T-Dog. Would she really consider letting him look at her silly scribblings? Still, she couldn't exactly run out to the store and get more pens, and that one was erasable! Not like those crummy blue pens from junior high either, it erased clean. Like magically so, though she was sure there was actually some scientific explanation for it.

Two nights later, she was in the kitchen-type area, heating the contents of a rusted can of Spaghettios. The interior of the can had been blissfully rust-free, but as she stirred the reddish gloop she couldn't help but miss real spaghetti. With meatballs, meat that wasn't squirrel. She was so damn sick of squirrel. He came up behind her on surprisingly silent feet, startling her as he leaned over her shoulder. How did he manage to sneak about in those big old work boots, on these cement floors? The man was a bloody ghost when he wanted to be. Not touching her in any way, he reached out and dipped a finger in her pot, swirling it around before withdrawing it and licking the tomato sauce off the digit. She didn't know why, but she couldn't look away, and a familiar heat was creeping up her neck and spreading towards her ears. "Could be hotter, girl."

He chuckled again at the flustered noise she made, adding to her agitation. There was just something animalistic in that laugh, it thrilled her way down deep inside in a way that was both exciting and confusing. He winked at her and withdrew himself from her personal space, clearly noting her blush before he left the kitchen. She spent way too much time watching that firm backside walk away from her, it was starting to become a problem. Why did she keep staring? What was wrong with her head? Biting her lip, she pulled the food off the stove and poured it into a chipped coffee cup, stirring it as she contemplated the situation. Curiousity demanded she find out what was happening, common sense told her that man was Trouble and she should just let it be.

A few more days passed, and she was itching to get her hands on her pen again. She was almost ready to risk exposing herself (emotionally speaking) to Merle just to get it back. She hadn't shown anyone her writing since well before the world went to shite. Some days she woke up before the dawn shifts to walk the walls by herself, listening to the horror of the undead kept at bay. It was one thing to work your shifts, but if you didn't go out there and remind yourself exactly what was out there, life inside the prison ran the risk of becoming ... well, "normal" didn't quite cover it, but maybe routine? Still, she didn't want to accept that this was all there was to life now, so out she went, checking for weak spots, staring through the gaps, swinging her fire axe over the fence to fend off the occasional walker. She wanted to keep it visceral. To remember why they were stuck there. To remember how many didn't make it. You'd think the end of the world would be hard to forget, but it was bloody amazing what a human could adapt to.

Turning around the corner of the main building on her way back for breakfast, there he was. Merle was leaning against the frame of the door, eyes barely open in the early morning light. "All clear out there, girl?" His voice was still husky, that thin film of sleep clinging to every syllable in a way that made her flush red again. What was he doing to her? More importantly, why was she so powerless to resist? Gulping she nodded her head, eyes fixed to a spot on the ground near those damnable boots. She'd stared at them so much she could almost tell where he'd been by the dirt on the toes. "All clear. Yeah." She skirted around him to get through the door, skittish as chipmunk on a railway track, before practically running away once she made it past him. His laughter followed her down the hall, deep and dark and full of promise, the kind of laugh that almost made her change her mind and go back. She still needed her pen.

It had been over a week now, and to pass the hours she usually spent writing she'd started helping out in the garden. It was hot, dirty work, but it took her mind off certain things, and certain people. She had mixed feelings about the garden. On one hand it was a symbol of hope. They could grow food. They could sustain themselves. On the other hand, how long did they expect to be here? Was this it, was she going to live out the rest of her life keeping zombies off the lawn of a correctional facility? She sat back on her haunches, wiping the sweat from her brow. What she needed was a hat, that sun was coming down something fierce today.

The world went dark for a second just as the thought threaded through her brain, and she pushed the brim of the magically appearing cowboy hat up out of her vision to see a familiar pair of boots just off to her right. "Sun's fierce out here," he shrugged when she actually managed to drag her eyes up to examine his face, not even staying to enjoy the flustered blushing that overtook her at his statement.  She petered off as he moved farther away, accepting the fact that she was just going to have to enjoy the view and move on with her life. Sometimes being socially awkward was hell, the limited company offered by the prison just compounded the issue.

A few nights later she sat up on the roof of the garden shed, listening to the sounds of the prison residents settling in for the night, muted by the heavy heat and darkness. She didn't want to go in right yet, sleeping in the cells was so unsettling, even after all this time. Quiet as an alley cat he pulled himself up on the roof beside her, a restrained chuckle escaping him as she shot up, startled. Settling in, he reached across her lap and dropped her pen in her hand. "It's been two weeks, so I figure them scribblings must be awful private if you haven't come for this yet. We ain't got much of our own left in this world, it ain't fair for me to take what ya did manage to squirrel away."

She didn't know what to say. His voice was soft, almost like... was he apologizing? To her? It certainly sounded like he was. A minute ticked by in silence as she tried to process what had just happened. He seemed to be waiting for something, but when she still hadn't said anything, he shrugged and moved to get up. She stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm, realizing in that moment that this was the first time she'd reached out to touch anyone since the plague came. Was it the same for Merle when he'd taken her pen? No. Of course not. He had his brother, after all.  She was letting her mind wander, though, and he was looking at her with confusion. "Merle..." she struggled to find the words to express everything that was roiling within her, but all her skills of a writer fled in the face of this rugged conundrum. Exasperated with herself, she offered up a weak "Thank you."

Chuckling, he settled back in, leaning on his elbows, looking both pleased and comfortable. "Will ya at least tell me what it is you keep scribbling?"

She was grateful for the forgiving light of the moon, because it hid how brightly her cheeks burned as she watched him out of the corner of her eye. "Stories." She whispered, fighting to put some strength in her voice as she continued. "Reactions to things that happen. Stories about the people we meet, about us too. What we were before, what we might be in the future..." It was no use, and her voice trailed off, how could this be anything but boring to a man like Merle Dixon? Honestly, it was embarrassing enough without the silence stretching between them. She had to learn to keep her mouth shut.

It felt like forever had passed before he finally spoke up, his voice gruffer than normal. "Folks like Rick in your stories?"

Biting her lip she looked away, burning with the awkwardness of this whole exchange. "Sometimes." She admitted.

It seemed like he chewed on that answer for a moment. "My brother?" he asked again, quieter.

"Once," she confessed, staring at her hands, afraid of what he was going to ask next.

"An' me? Am I in any of them scribblings?"

He wasn't looking at her anymore, and she couldn't judge if this was a good or bad thing at all. She wished the roof would collapse and swallow her up. Shifting uncomfortably, she put some distance between them, between herself and the question. She was pretty darn sure her face was going to burst into flame it was so hot. "Yes," she whispered, looking anywhere but at Merle.

He let out a short bark of a laugh, reaching out to gently cup her cheek, turning her face until she looked him in the eye. From the smile he wore, he must not have hated her answer. "I might just have to insist on seeing some of them scribblings if they're about me, girl." Panic filled her eyes, but as soon as she tried to look away he released her, settling back into his harmless, relaxed position while she gathered her wits from their scattered corners. She couldn't see the crinkles at the corner of his eyes as he grinned at her hand-wringing. "Naughty stories, ain't they?"

"Y-yes, NO! ... Maybe..." she spluttered, clasping her hands together awkwardly to avoid wringing them any more.

Laughing he pushed himself back up, hopping off the roof of the shed in a graceful motion she could never mimic. From the ground he turned back to wave at her, almost imperceptible in the darkness. "Y'all come find me if ya ever want to make any of them stories come true, girl."

She watched him leave, until the black of night grew too thick to make out his figure against the prison building walls. Satisfied that he was gone, she fell back, sighing in relief. It was nice to be able to breathe again. She grasped her pen tight, pondering the few stars visible in the sky. Would she ever understand what was going on here? Rick walked by on patrol, poking his head over the edge of the shed roof to check on her. "You should get back to the building, it's late. Want me to walk you?"

With a wimpy little laugh she slid off the roof, almost landing on her face as she lost her footing. Ever the gentleman, Rick caught her, holding her as she steadied herself. "I think I can manage, Sheriff. It's not like anyone's going to rob me of my one piece of gum and a ratty notebook. Not here, anyway." Tipping his hat to her he went off to continue his rounds, and she scampered back off to the building. She had a few more ideas to scribble about.

In her cell, she fished out the stub of a candle and handful of matches she had claimed for herself, sighing in contentment as the blank page fell open in front of her. Finally she could work through some of these muddled feelings and thoughts trapped in her head.

He spoke to me again, today. His presence is even more intimidating in the darkness. There's an element of threat to it, but also a sense of safety. He's like some kind of wild animal that's decided it might trust you, but it's still poised to tear out your throat if you prove unworthy of that trust. I thought for a moment when he reached for me face-  

She tapped her pen against the notebook, trying to gather her thoughts. She wanted this to come out right.

He was so careful with me, almost a gentleman in his own, rough way. His hands. The callouses were rough as sandpaper against my skin, but they cradled my face as if it was something fragile, something he might accidentally shatter. I'd never seen him so cautious, it made my heart pound like a jackhammer. The air between us was so thick I imagined I could taste him on my tongue. I wonder what he tastes like? Cigarettes and whiskey? I don't know, but I can't imagine he doesn't know how his touch affects me by now. It's electric. It's embarrassing. What am I going to do? If he knew how many times I've imagined kissing him, would he find me pathetic?

She sighed, leaning back against the cool wall of the cell and blowing out her candle stub. There wasn't much of it left, and it was going to be a hard negotiation to get another. The Sheriff was on another of his 'We can't waste resources for selfish reasons' kicks. She let her mind drift from him to images of the coarse redneck with the surprising gentlemanly streak. She had so many half-formed thoughts about him, but she didn't know how to capture them quite right, it wouldn't do to get it all down and not do the complex man justice. There was a rawness to him, but also that thread of hidden tenderness she sometimes saw hinted at in his eyes. He certainly was a puzzle, maybe even the most interesting one of the group.

The days kept plodding by, and whenever she could she found herself taking up tasks near Merle Dixon. Whenever he'd catch sight of her diligently working within line of sight, he'd crinkle the corner of his eyes at her and whistle a pleasant little tune. She could tell he was amused by her obvious fascination, but was it possible that it pleased him as well? Wherever she went she wore the dirty beige cowboy hat he'd dropped so unceremoniously on her head, and when he saw it coming, he'd get a twinkle in his eye. She was certain of it.

Another week passed, and most of the residents of the prison were working outside somewhere, enjoying the milder weather that had hit them. Merle strode up to Rick with purpose. "We're runnin' low on supplies, Daryl and I'll go on a run to get more." His short, aggressive statement immediately caused Rick to bristle, and from her vantage point barely a stone's throw away she held her breath. Rick and Merle just did not like each other, and sometimes, like now, she was sure Merle antagonized the Sheriff on purpose. She couldn't for the life of her figure out why, maybe because his brother kept drifting towards the other man?

The Sheriff shook his head, his distaste for the man clear on his face, but his voice carefully reasonable. "Daryl and that crossbow of his are needed here. Take Glenn, or T-Dog even."

Merle snorted, and she braced for some kind of racist retaliation. She knew he had it in him, he'd said some pretty horrible things before, but he scanned the area, seeing her sitting there, watching him. "Don't you dictate to me, boy. I pick my own damn team." He gestured in her direction. "I'll take the girl. She's fast, good with that fire axe she's been carrying around, and more likely to listen to the fucking redneck then your bunch o' liberals."

She was stunned, not just by his picking her, but by the fact that Merle managed to talk about other people and the most unreasonable word he used was liberal? Maybe he was mellowing. She realized both Rick and Merle were still looking at her, and blushing she scrambled to her feet and rushed to stand beside the antagonistic man who kept invading her dreams, waking or sleeping. Rick's gaze pinned her, the weight of his assessment making her feel like some kind of criminal. He definitely had cop eyes. "You don't have to go with him if you don't want to, we don't do things that way around here."

"NO!" she interjected, a little too loud, a little too quick. "I'd like to go with him! On the run I mean..." Her face flamed red in an instant, and she could hear that low chuckle escaping from Merle at her side. Rick shot him a dirty look.

"Fine, but Merle? You step out of line and you're out. No three strikes, I cut you a lot of slack for the sake of your brother, but you make sure she gets back here in one piece." He ignored the dismissive snort Merle let out, stepping closer to her. Fishing his pistol out of it's holster, he handed it to her butt first. "Just in case."

She noticed the way his eyes slid to Merle when he said it, but she was just chuffed to get a firearm for once. First checking that the safety was on, she dropped the magazine to see how many shots she had, even popping the chamber to make sure there was none there. The approval practically radiated from both men, and she allowed herself the smallest smile as they nodded in unison. Even two such dichotomous creatures as these had common ground.

Climbing into the pickup truck beside Merle felt like a thousand high school first dates all rolled into one. She was a bundle of excitement and nervous anticipation. What did going on a run with Merle entail? What would happen? Would they see many Walkers? Would they find everything on the list Maggie entrusted to her? Would Merle regret his decision to bring her along? She could barely contain herself. "You keep bouncing like that, you're gonna distract the driver."

She jerked her head up, stilling her nervous shifting as she examined the side of Merle's grinning face. At least he was smiling, maybe he wouldn't toss her out and make her walk back to the correctional facility. "I... well... I just..." she stammered, blushing hotly.

"I swear girl, there's fire engines jealous of them colours you always turn." That was it. She was dead. D. E. A. D. That teasing grin, the way her stomach fluttered every time he called her girl, it was all too embarrassing. How was she supposed to think about shambling corpses and amoxicillin under these conditions? Settling back into her seat, unable to respond to him in anything that resembled words, she did her best not to bounce anymore. The world was ending, she didn't really want to die in a car crash with the object of her unrequited affection. Thankfully, he broke the silence. "When we're out here, I'm the boss. Do what I say, no questions. I give that uppity Sheriff a hard time, but I ain't looking to get you killed. Place wouldn't look so pleasant without you."

A compliment. She'd received a compliment, and not a lewd one either, from Merle Dixon. And an apology... sort of. The world was going all cock-eyed, and she couldn't resist it anymore. She just had to ask. "Merle?" She waited until he grunted an acknowledgement, she wanted to be sure he was listening. "Why didn't you kiss me the other night? When we were up on the shed roof?"

Silence fell between the two of them, and she worried that somehow she'd actually managed to offend him. A clear spot of road, with good all round visuals appeared up ahead, and Merle pulled over to the side of the road, doing a quick scan for walkers before killing the engine. She trembled a bit, anxious suddenly in the quiet, breath coming faster than she'd prefer. An actor, she was not. He looked at her for a good long while, and finally she gave in, turning to meet his unflinching gaze. "Maybe I don't talk nice like some of them fellas around here, but Merle Dixon doesn't go where he hasn't been invited real clear-like."

The air felt thick with potential between them, and she swallowed, uncertainty in her eyes as her cheeks caught fire once more. Looking down at her fidgeting hands she tried to say something, anything, but it got caught on the lump in her throat. Still he waiting, and the impact his gaze had on her was palpable. Her nerves were going to get the best of her if she didn't say something. Finally she looked up, meeting his gaze with a pleading expression in her eyes. "That's right pretty, girl, but ya need to be real clear what you're askin' for. I don't want to go where I ain't wanted and then have a big ol' ruckus raised about it."

There was vulnerability there, unexpected in the gruff man. She sensed a story, an old hurt, one that he wouldn't appreciate being pried into. This was on her, she had to take the initiative here if she wanted something more from him. "Merle..." her voice shook, but she dug into that iron will she saw in him, used it to strengthen her resolve. "Would you kiss me? Like, really kiss me?" She raised her eyes to his, caught the flash of lust in his gaze and felt that thrill run up her spine again.

"It'd be my pleasure, girl. C'mere." Half lifting her, he helped her cross the centre console to straddle his lap, rough fingers brushing across her forehead, before settling a calloused hand on the back of her neck, drawing her towards his face. She melted into his touch, letting him be the leader here, after all, she had agreed that he was the boss outside the walls of the prison.

The kiss started tentatively, a gentle brush of his chapped lips across her own. His stubble scraped across her chin, then her upper lip, making her gasp a little. He angled his head to the side a bit, kneading the muscles at the base of her neck as his tongue demanded entrance to her mouth, hot and wet and a little strange. Her breath warmed the air between them as she sighed her capitulation, drowning in the kiss he offered, pressing her chest against his own as he supped at her mouth. He tasted like old cigarettes and cheap bourbon, but to her it was like ambrosia. It was so intrinsically male, so potent, that her head spun.

Perched on his lap she could feel exactly how much he was enjoying the kiss. In what seemed like too short a time, he pulled away, his teeth tugging sharply at her bottom lip for a moment before release. She sighed, eyes closed and let the momentum of that tug draw her face to his chest, where she rested her cheek, listening to the beat of his heart, almost as fast as her own.

Merle exhaled loudly, grinning down at her and mussing her hair affectionately. "Woooeee, girl. If that's how you kiss I really hope ya ain't done with ol' Merle." He placed another kiss, this one innocently on her forehead, helping her climb back off his lap and into her own seat. "Careful of the goods there, girl." He teased as she slipped a bit. Once she was settled he blatantly adjusted himself, no hint of shame. "We ain't safe out here, so we two are gonna get the work done and head back. Once we're there girl," he caught her gaze with his own, pleased by the dreamy look she was trying to shake out of her eyes, "When we're done with this business out here, old Merle is gonna ask to continue whatever this is between us. Try to keep them brains unscrambled enough to say yes or no."