Chapter Text
The jingling of your keys echoed through the street, bouncing off of the walls of the nearby apartments. Lit windows led the way like lanterns through the night, though only a handful were perceptible through the dense fog. The street lights on Grove street were dodgy at best - most, like the one you were under now, had blinked out years ago, never to regain power. Others, like the one far off in the distance you were slowly approaching, flickered and fought to stay on. You half-heartedly wished that it would pick a lane, even if it meant shrouding the street in darkness. Because the closer you approached the thing, the more your stomach dropped. It was stupid, being scared of the flickering light like a child. But a part of you believed that somehow, someone would appear in the brief limbo between on and off; like as soon as you walked up to it, the man would appear.
You had started seeing him the night after meeting Toby for his consultation, but suspected that you had been feeling him for much, much longer. Every flicker of anxiety, every paranoid thought, you knew now that it had to be him. You had never taken yourself as paranoid. Why would you? For as long as you could remember, Ortho had protected you from that sort of thing. Police, internet detectives, stalkers…what were they to an omniscient being? But Ortho had never been more silent than she had been now, a weight that had been pressing on you for the past week and a half. You don’t know why Ortho wasn’t able to - or perhaps refused to - acknowledge the man that had been tailing you for the past five days. You just knew that never once had she acknowledged him, even when she spoke to you.
…Something that was becoming increasingly less common. More often than not, she spoke to you in one word commands, never responding when you goaded her. It made you sick to your stomach - more nauseating than the stalker that was most definitely following you.
You hadn’t seen much of him. He was good - too good - at what he did; melting into the shadows, silent, and quicker than was human. But even then, the glances you got of him did nothing to settle your mind. You had seen him only twice. Once, on the edge of the forest. You had walked over to the edge of town to scope out the mechanic, and when you turned to leave, he was there. He had lingered just at the edge of your vision walking in step with you for god knows how long before you noticed, swallowed up almost entirely by fog. He was too obscured to make anything out besides the thick fur hood that he pulled over his head and a dark brown jacket. As you turned to confront him, he stepped back into the treeline, dissipating into the fog.
You tried desperately to rationalize it. That perhaps it was just a resident wandering too far from home. But you knew that was far from the truth - for the past two weeks, the town had been issuing notices to stay indoors. With that school kid that had been found dismembered in the woods three days ago, no one dared step a foot outside their daily routines. Which, unsurprisingly for you, meant very little foot traffic into Widow’s nest. It was odd, how life seemed to kick you down at every opportunity. You needed money now more than you had ever needed it before, and now it was nothing but a pitiful trickle.
The second time you saw him was yesterday near the skatepark. He was standing by one of the flickering lamposts beyond the fenceline, his form warped and nothing but a silhouette. You saw him almost immediately through the corroded chainlink, but chose to say nothing. Nico could tell that you were on edge - the kid was almost annoyingly perceptive - and when prompted, you told him that the murder had made you uneasy. He replied:
“I know,” Nico looked forward, his eyes glazed over in thought. “I didn’t know her. Not well, I mean. I had known of her since elementary school though. How can anyone just do that? Take a life?”
The words caught in your throat. You knew how - with a hunting knife and a deep-set anger. You were unable to even stomach looking at him, guilt tearing your eyes away from the man in the distance. “I dunno, Nico.”
When you looked up, the man was closer - his hand twisted around the links of the fence, close enough to tear them apart and rip straight through you and Nico. Bright orange goggles flashed off the dim light of a nearby lamppost, a thick grey mouthguard obscuring the rest of his face. He made no effort to move, head cocked as if in silent challenge: Say something, I dare you.
“That person has to be sick. When the cops catch them, god, I hope they lock them up for life. I’m so sick of being scared all of the time!” The words tore out of his throat in frustration, knuckles draining of color as he gripped the edge of the bowl hard enough to crack the concrete. He seemed to realize the severity of his actions, clapping a hand over his mouth a moment later with wide eyes. You watched through slitted eyes how the man’s shoulders shook by just a fraction, head tilted back. As he shifted, so did his belt - a thin flash of light emanated from it, and as your eyes followed it down, you could just barely make out the handle of a hatchet.
Your heart leapt up to your throat. “....Me too. Look, Nico, it’s not safe out here right now. We need to go. Now.”
The boy looked up, hands fiddling with a stray thread on his jacket. “Okay. I’m sorry, Y/N. I don’t think we should hang out for a while. Not until they catch the guy who killed her.”
You grunted in acceptance, hauling yourself up from the concrete. When you looked again, the man behind him was gone.
“It’s just… I’ve had the heebie jeebies ever since she went missing. Like I’m being watched, or something. I know it’s stupid.”
“Really?” The thought hit you like a sledgehammer. You were in danger - something you had been coming to terms with recently. For years you had thought of yourself as something of a higher life form - separated from the general population because of your strength, intelligence, and most of all, Ortho. Coming to terms with the fact that there were bigger, more blood-thirsty fish in the water with you was a tough pill to swallow. Whoever was tailing you had been keeping tabs on Nico, too, or at least would be now that they saw you together. Was this the “other one” that Ortho had mentioned? Driven mad over you killing their partner? The thought made you nauseous.
You gripped his wrist and tugged him out of the park and onto the damp sidewalk. He stiffened in your grip. “Y/N?”
“Huh?” You questioned, thoughts far off.
“I don’t think you should walk me home.” Nico wouldn’t meet your gaze as your head snapped up, his sneakers dragging on the concrete.
“What? Nico, it’s not safe out here alone.”
“It’ll be faster for you to walk straight home…” He murmured, swallowing hard.
“I can handle myself.” You argued.
He finally met your gaze, guilt and embarrassment swimming in his eyes. “It’s not just that…my dad thinks you’re a bad influence.”
Your heart damn near stopped. “A bad influence?”
“Yeah…Says I can’t trust you, with everything that happened.”
“....Are you implying I killed her?”
His eyes widened, back peddling quickly: “No! At least, I don’t think so. I know you; you wouldn’t do that. Dad’s just… You know how he is.”
“....Huh. Okay. I’ll …. I’ll see you later.” The words felt foreign, like you were lying through your teeth.
“...See you later.” Nico murmured, scuffing his shoes on the sidewalk. He turned halfway, turning back to look at you. He opened his mouth for a moment and closed it a second later, as if not being able to find the words. He shook his head and speed walked into the other direction, the soft clicking of his footsteps echoing off the surrounding buildings until he was far out of sight.
You stood there for a moment, alone in the fog, your thoughts spinning. Was his dad investigating you? God, you hoped not. He’d notice something was wrong the second he looked into it at all. No school information, doctors notes, or legal documentation under your name - no wonder. Your name was fake. Foolishly, you had kept the same first name, changing only your last. Though, you were sure that he’d get a lead off of your first name and your face alone with some digging. You had to get out of here, fast. You gave yourself two weeks, maybe three tops, before the cops came knocking with handcuffs.
Despite it happening yesterday, you could vividly remember the feeling of your heart stopping in your chest. Every single day he had appeared without fail, getting closer and closer. You kept your eyes pinned on the darkness next to the streetlamp, praying to god that Ortho would bless you with the spidey-senses she used to give out like candy. Now, it felt like shes was rationing every extraterrestrial perk she could provide; though you appreciated everything she gave you, a little help would be more than appreciated right now. Every time it flickered you flinched instinctively, body tensing as if running would do anything against this freak of nature. By the time you reached the streetlight just before it, the muted whirring of the electrical current buzzing through the metal crowded your thoughts. The sound felt like it was invading every crevice in your brain, muddling with your fears of the man appearing. You wanted to scream. You wanted to turn, to run until your legs gave out and pray to Ortho that the next town wasn’t far off. But you didn’t - knew it was completely, utterly stupid. Run out into the middle of nowhere with a serial killer at your heels?
Maybe at some point you would have. Maybe you would have ran up to them with your misplaced bravado and give them a piece of your mind - or gun - and all would have been well. Because you had Ortho - you knew she’d get you out of any situation, foretell any trouble, hurt or maim or kill whoever she needed to to keep you safe. But not now - she was weaker now, and you couldn’t fathom why. And it stung worse than any pain you have, or would have, ever felt.
The whirring had dragged you into your own head, worries consuming you. Just as you stumbled your way beneath the streetlight, the whirring stopped. Silence hung heavy as, just a moment later, the light flicked off for its final time.
Your breath caught in your throat as you stood under what was one of the last lit lamps; ahead of you was a stretch of dark sidewalk, lit only faintly by the moon and the rare dim light of a house. At this hour, Vincennes would still be awake. Even so, stragglers and night owls kept their lights on until ungodly hours. Not today - something you knew would be true for a very, very long time. The longer the murder was left unsolved, the more the town seemed to curl in on itself. People stopped chatting, stopped going outside, stopped breathing in their own homes. These people caught a whiff of danger and stopped existing. You hated that more than anything, but hated more that a deeper part of you wanted to be like them. To follow their example and become a shut in until your superiors handle it for you.
But you refused. If not for the simple fact that a part of you (foolishly) still felt like fear was beneath you. You swallowed down the lump forming in your throat and pushed forward into the darkness, walking leisurely down the pavement. Anyone watching would say that you were completely unbothered - however, you knew deep down that the man wasn’t just anybody. You could feel his stare on your back, watching the way you fliddled with your waistband anxiously, fingers ghosting over the cold steel of your gun. You prayed he wouldn’t notice how your jaw stayed ticked, or how your breath hitched every time the wind rustled the leaves of a nearby tree. You prayed he wasn’t there at all, but knew it was wishful thinking.
It took you three minutes and 36 seconds for the outline of the store to come into view, cold blue letters bleeding Save A Lot! into the dense mist. You had counted the seconds with each of your footsteps, willing time to go by faster. It didn’t; every step you took away from the light was dizzying, goosebumps prickling the skin on your arms until it was painful. You could have sworn that you weren’t breathing through the entire encounter, and your chest sure a hell hurt like you hadn’t. Despite it, you smoothed over your expression and approached the store.
The store was a breath of fresh air, with its bright overhead lights and visibility further than your hand. You were greeted by an uncomfortable looking middle aged woman at the till, who muttered hello after a long moment of staring you down. Trust was something that people gave out liberally in Vincennes, and now… now, the cashier flinched when the bell chimed. You struggled to find the empathy you knew you should feel for her; this little game of hide-away was becoming more annoying than was warranted. Maybe it was because it threw off your routine - or maybe, just maybe, the stares were drawing out an old paranoia. That these people knew who you were, and what you did, and were waiting to spring the trap that would lock you away forever. That, mixed with the same fear she was feeling, sent you reeling.
You nodded absently to her and picked up a basket on your way to the aisles. You needed to get out. Badly. Not the store, but Vincennes. Maybe the U.S. as a whole. Away from this place not just for your mental health (which, at this point, was next to non-existent) but because you could feel the walls closing in much, much faster than they were before. You felt like a rat trapped in a cage - endlessly turning in circles hoping an exit would suddenly appear every time you looked over your shoulder. You dug your nails into your palm in an attempt to sooth the jitters that were quickly overcoming your hands, trailing up your arms until you felt your entire body quaking subtly. All you needed was an out - someone stupid enough to lend you keys, or let you hitchhike, or --
You walked headfirst into a firm object, the shock of the impact tearing you away from your anxious spiralling. You stumbled backwards, basket knocking into the isle beside you. Loose cans of vegetables tipped over and clattered to the floor, loud enough to wake the devil. You flinched at the sound, eyes darting up to what you hit - or more accurately, who.
Tim stood awkwardly with a can of green beans in his hand, staring down at you with wide, startled eyes. He wore the same old flannel as he did when you first met, a dark brown jacket overlaid on top of it. Dirt stained the cuffs of his jacket and sullied the knees of his jeans. The man smelled vaguely of iron and pine, a scent that hit you immediately as you ran into him. That wasn’t what caught your attention, though - it was the large, dirty bandage that covered the majority of his face. The thing looked like it should have been changed about a week ago, spotted with dark brown and frayed at the edges. His hair stood out in tufts around where the bandage didn’t cover, dark and wirey like you remembered it.
“Oh, Tim. Sorry. What’s up with the, uh…” You grimaced, motioning vaguely to the trainwreck that was his face. He paused for a moment, scanning your expression before his face smoothed over.
“Accident at the mill.” The words came out tight and robotic, like he had been telling this same story over and over. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, I was just finishin’ up.”
He gingerly set the can of green beans down on the shelf, crouching low to gather the scattered cans you dropped. You crouched beside him and followed suit, the silence heavy and awkward. It ate at your conscious, and you gritted something out to break it:
“Is that why I haven’t seen you or Toby?”
“... Somethin’ like that. Just been a real pain healing. Kid’s been helping me.”
“That’s nice of him…” You murmured, standing up as you placed the last can down. Tim followed, brushing dust off of his worn jeans. Even the act of standing seemed painful, as the man winced, swallowing hard.
“He hasn’t been givin’ you trouble, has he?”
“Oh, no. We had a good time, actually, but that was last week. Does he have plans to come in for the next session?”
Tim’s brows furrowed for a moment before he shook his head, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a phone that was probably more ancient than yours - something you didn’t think was possible - and started trying to turn it on. It flickered to life, then went white, and then turned off again.
“Don’t think he’ll respond this late….” He murmured, smacking the thing against his palm. “I can give you my cellular, though, ‘n text you tomorrow mornin’ if he’s comin’ in?”
“Totally,” You accepted, biting back the urge to send a teasing comment on his accent. “Now that you mention it, why’re you up? Town’s kind of in lockdown because of that girl that died.”
His eyes snapped up to meet yours for a moment before he sighed heavily. “Real shame. Young girl, I heard. Hope they catch the guys who did it.”
“Guys? You think there’s multiple?”
Tim didn’t respond for a long while, watching you put his number into your phone more intently than he should’ve. “...Maybe. Brutal work for just one person, dont’ya think?”
You hummed in agreement, heart sinking at the idea that the man really could be out for blood after you killed his partner. “Impressive they’ve gone this long without getting caught. I’m almost worried the cops’ll start interrogating innocents…” You murmured quietly, anxious thoughts seeping into your words.
“Shouldn’t be an issue,” Tim said cooly. “ ‘M sure they’ve got enough on their plates.”
You nodded. “Yeah. Well, it was… it was nice talking to you. Get better soon.”
Tim grunted and half turned, glancing back as if waiting for you to speak again. You blinked at him, shuffling awkwardly, unsure if you should turn away yet. He did the same before slowly turning, both of you leaving without whatever canned goods you wanted.
The rest of the store was dead empty. It wasn’t even that late - maybe ten - making the entire thing feel eerier. You shuffled absentmindedly through the isles, grabbing items in a daze. You were alone with your thoughts with nothing to break them up other than the liminal buzzing of the clinically cold overhead lights. Thin wisps of fog sat high on the ceiling, remnants from whatever you had let in by opening the door initially, turning the lights bleary. By the time you looked down at your basket for the first time, you realized that you weren’t really putting anything of substance in the basket - red food dye, off-brand face wash, and child-sized bandaids with little dinosaurs printed on them.
You almost laughed at the absurdity of the list, but then remembered that you had to put all of this shit back. A groan tumbled out of your throat, bouncing off the metal of the isles that surrounded you. Your heart stopped for just a moment, glancing over your shoulder to see if anyone heard, before smacking yourself inwardly; you were in a store. Sure, it was creepy as hell right now, but murderers don’t just come traipsing into the grocery store looking for their next victim.
…Actually, now that you were saying it outloud, that sounded like exactly what a murderer would do. You shuddered and fluffed the hoodie of your jacket up to make yourself look bigger.
It took you fifteen minutes to track down the isles that everything came in and put the items back, but you made the most of it by nabbing what you wanted on the way. Which, admittedly, wasn’t much. As much as you hated to admit it, you were flat broke. At a time in your life where you desperately needed money. Life was funny like that, wasn’t it? You weren’t laughing, but were sure someone else was. Widow’s Nest was basically a ghost town with everything that had been happening, so money was slow. Cortez paid you under minimum wage to keep the lights on, but without clients, you were basically shit out of luck. Fun, huh?
You ambled over to the till, ringing up a pitiful collection of canned veggies and ramen. The lady didn’t say anything as she rung up your goods, avoiding eye contact like her life depended on it. And honestly, it might have - if you had a say in it, you’d put working a grocery store alone at night during a murder case at the bottom of the safety list. Just slightly above working gas station nightshifts, of course. You shivered at the thought; never again. You still had nightmares about Crawford, Nebraska and the horrors you saw working at 7/11.
She was an older woman, maybe mid fifties, with shoulder length brown hair that was wiry enough to make a fine broom. You had seen this woman hundreds of times before; Save A Lot was horribly understaffed most of the time, and she was usually holding down the fort at night. Though, you had never seen her with such deep eye bags, nasty purple blotches that hung from her eyes like curtains. You could see why - she was the mother of one of Nico’s classmates, young kids on the cusp of graduating. Maybe just two weeks ago, she’d smile and talk about her kid. About how bright she was, and how many friends she had. But she couldn’t - not now - not for the fear of putting a big fat target on her kid’s back.
The thought of it was horrifying. Not about a child dying (you felt strangely apathetic to that, actually.) but because of what the child represented. Having to protect not just yourself, but someone smaller, more defenseless than you - having to worry every single second of every single day for their safety, whether or not they’ll make it home…It made you nauseous with a sick kind of rage. It reminded you of those cliche movies where the heroine couldn’t save the thing they loved the most. It reminded you of heartbreak, and guilt, and desolation;
It reminded you of Nico.
And you wanted desperately to be angry at that, to channel your rage into cutting ties with the pathetic bastard, because deep down you knew he did nothing good for you. Knew he couldn’t give you what you wanted because he was stupid, and naive, and human. So sickeningly human that sometimes, sometimes you felt yourself give into your humanity, too.
You wanted to be mad, but couldn’t. Because more than it reminded you of Nico, it reminded you of yourself.
I love you, Ortho. I’m sorry.
The thought tumbled through your head aimlessly, vacant with the acknowledgment that she wouldn’t respond. You didn’t know what you were apologizing for, but knew whatever you said in retribution for it wouldn’t be enough. Because Ortho had taken you in since you could totter - no words could make up for the sacrifices she made for you, the care she put into keeping your head on straight… As straight as a coldblooded murderer could be.
L ov ve
The word was broken, an echoey warble compared to her usual rhythmic cadence. She sounded smaller, weaker - she sounded hurt. Fear gripped your heart, blood turning to ice in a second. You searched desperately for words that would console her, ask for forgiveness, and ask what happened all at the same time, but the thing that came up first was:
I’ll do it - god, anything - tell me what I have to do to fix you, Ortho.
She was silent for a long moment, as if mustering up the strength to make out words.
Ki l l.
Okay. Okay, it’s okay. I’ll get a car, I’ll do it, Ortho. Just give me time. They’ll die, I promise. Both of them -- anyone. Anyone for you. You’ll be okay, I’ll make sure of it. I love you.
Are you alright?
No -- yes. God, I don’t know. As long as you are - I’m okay if you are.
“Hello?”
I’m here, Ortho. Are you okay? I’ll make you better. I’ll do better, promise.
“Hello? Ma’am?” The woman at the till was looking at you as if you had just pulled a knife on her, eyes startled and voice tentative. You watched as she swallowed hard, hand glancing over something under the conveyor that you couldn’t see.
You looked up, just as startled - you had been staring at the far wall, eyes glazed over for much longer than you intended to. You muttered an apology and took your groceries from the woman, walking off in a daze. You were lost in your thoughts, waiting for Ortho to respond back, as you exited the front of the store.
You took a sharp left, following the same path that you had earlier; dread and guilt tangled themselves together in your stomach, scratching at your flesh until you wanted to hurl up whatever lunch you ate earlier. Did you not do enough? Had you been so preoccupied with the strange new men that you gave up your loyalty to Ortho? You stumbled down the street, mind turning to mush as you mulled over your options; despite the bags digging heavily into your palms, you felt numb all over - cold with a slick sweat that chilled your already freezing skin.
“Need some help with those?”
Your head snapped up to meet the man’s gaze. Tim was leaning against the side of the store, half shrouded by the kudzu that engulfed the wall, the cherry of his cigarette flaring against the darkness. Thin trails of smoke wound around each other, mixing with the stale fog that surrounded you two. It felt like you were in your own little world - just you two and a sinking despair that nothing would ever be right ever again. And for some reason, you felt as though he felt it, too.
“No, I’m fine. Really,” You murmured. You wanted to continue past him, brushing him off as politely as you could while you spiraled. But his feet cut across the pavement in a way that blocked your path perfectly, forcing you to stop and talk.
“It’s no issue for me,” He insisted cooly, taking another puff of his smoke. “I’m on my way home, anyway. My truck’s across the street.”
You stared at him for a moment. Wrong, god, this was so wrong. Who offers a car ride to a lone woman at night? Let alone one he hardly knew during an active murder investigation? Like, what if you stabbed him and took his truck? Holy shit, what if I stabbed him and took his truck? It would solve every single one of your issues. You’d feed ortho good and get a sick new ride out of it. You almost accepted on the spot, but paused. You stopped for a moment to consider if he could be the murderer, but shook it off after one glance at his awkward demeanor. Besides, even if he was, you severely doubted he was in any shape to fight. If Tim of all people was going to kill you, perhaps you’d accept it. (If it was possible in the state he was in, then fair play, you supposed).
You relented. “Okay. As long as you don’t like, chop me up and throw me…in the……woods,” You laughed lightheartedly, quickly losing steam as you realized mid sentence how weird that was. You could see the cogs turning in Tim’s head as he looked at you, spooked, most definitely thinking you were some kind of axe murderer. And you were. But he didn’t need to know that. Especially not when you were about to board his car and axe murder him.
He swallowed hard, nodding slowly. “...Got it.”
He got up wearily from his spot against the wall, brushing against the kudzu, sending hundreds of tiny gnats scattering, catching on the dim light like fireflies. They dispersed as soon as they emerged, evaporating into the night. Tim started across the street, figure quickly disappearing from view - you had to speed walk to catch up with his long strides. The man wasn’t tall in any regard, maybe just slightly taller than you, but walked with a sense of urgency everywhere he went. His steel toed boots clicked across the asphalt, stopping as he pulled up to a vintage looking truck. It was a stark contrast from the surrounding atmosphere, a darker teal that was riddled with thin spots of rust that bloomed from the ridges on the side or the edges of the door. Down the sides ran a fine trellis of scratches, revealing the silver of the metal. It wasn’t the rust bucket that Ruby was, but wasn’t made in this decade.
Tim tapped the driver side door briefly, almost affectionately, before he pushed past it to the passenger side. He reached into his pocket, swinging out a set of keys that hung loosely on his finger by a short flannel lanyard. The noise of him unlocking it was deafening in the near silence, bouncing off nearby houses that you couldn’t quite make out from where you were standing. You watched Tim’s face turn into a grimace momentarily at the intrusion, but he shook it off.
You rounded the front of the truck and he opened the door gingerly, looking at you almost bashfully. You smiled half-heartedly and thanked him, sliding into the passenger seat. He sat down beside you after a moment, sighing like an old man as he did. He slid the key into the ignition and the engine sputtered for just a moment too long, your heart lurching as you remembered the noise Ruby made before she kicked it. But unlike Ruby, the noise eventually evened out into a low rumble that vibrated the entire truck. Tim started down the street, his dim headlights doing nothing to cut through the dense fog; driving in conditions like these couldn’t be legal, not when you couldn’t see another car even if it was ten feet away, but Tim didn’t seem to notice. He rolled down the street at an agonizing pace, a heavy silence settling over the cabin.
Silence hadn’t been sitting well with you, not after the past couple of weeks. You spoke first to fill it:
“Thanks.”
Tim stared straight ahead, one hand on the wheel while the other drummed off-beat to a song you couldn’t hear on the windowsill. He took a slow right down the street, heading straight for your apartments. “No problem. Where’dya live?”
“Just straight ahead, actually.”
He hummed quietly. “Really? So do we. Real shit-hole of a place.”
You laughed, quiet and low, but real this time. “Right. Don’t think the owner’s touched the property since it was built.”
“You couldn’t get him to fix a leaky sink with a gun to his head,” He agreed, a soft smile playing on his lips. Stubble ran down his chin, leading up to thick sideburns that made him oddly recognizable, and as much as you hated to admit it, oddly attractive.
Damnit. You didn’t think it’d be easy, but the bastard actually had you feeling bad for him. You needed this truck - you needed to kill him - but couldn’t bring yourself to do anything but ghost over the metal of your gun. It’d be so easy to put a bullet in his skull right now. He was looking away, oblivious. You remembered Ortho, and how broken she sounded, and your resolve hardened - this was for her. You swallowed hard, running your nails through the thin ridges in the metal. Just as you went to slide it out of its holster, he glanced your way quizzically. Your hand fell flat against your jeans, painfully suspicious.
You glanced towards the floor, heart stopping for just a moment - what if he saw? Pulled a gun on you in kind? Just as you began to spiral, your eyes flickered to something on the floor. A pair of what looked like round goggles, almost entirely obscured. The lenses looked colored - maybe red - but you couldn’t make it out in the darkness. You were sure you had seen something similar down at the mill, though you never imagined Tim would be bold enough to wear colored lenses. Your breath caught as you imagined just how capable this man was, the strength needed to work such a demanding job; you weren’t sure if you would be able to take him, not without Ortho with you.
“... If you don’t mind me askin’, what apartment are you in?”
You swallowed the thick lump that sat center in your throat, your words coming out hoarse. “Near the front office,”
He turned back, gaze lingering on you for just a moment before humming quietly as if he didn’t see anything. “Got it. We’re on the east side, nearer to the woods,”
You nodded nervously. “Hate those units. Always thought that if you looked out the windows, you’d see something in the treeline.”
You noticed how paranoid that sounded as soon as it left your mouth, cringing subtly. You turned to look out of the window to cover it up the heat creeping up your cheeks.
“Yeah,” He murmured. “Been livin’ near the woods my whole life. Nasty shit out there.”
Your stomach dropped, though you couldn’t exactly place why. “Yeah…Hey, tim, what’s up with the scratches on the truck?”
He seemed surprised at the sudden question, glancing sideward at you. “Oh, I… We take the truck though the woods, sometimes. Off-roading for hunting, and such.”
“You take this thing off roading?” The excuse would have been laughably bad, if you hadn’t seen the scratches yourself. His truck sat lower to the ground and sure as hell wasn’t a four wheel drive; you couldn’t imagine it making it ten feet into the forest before it got stuck on a rock.
“Yeah.” His voice was strained, with Tim lifting his arm off the window sill to grip the wheel with both hands. “Not pretty, but she gets the job done, y’know?”
“...Yeah. Had a car like that, too.” You murmured.
He grunted, voice a low crackle in the stale air. “ ‘S a shame when they break down. This one’s tried to kick it a few times, but I can usually get her runnin’ again.”
“Huh,” You turned to look at him for the first time, the knot in your stomach loosening just a bit. “Are you good with cars like that?”
“Good’s a strong word. I meddle with ‘em sometimes.”
You fiddled with a stray thread on your shirt, picking at the fray until the seam split. He pulled silently into a parking spot beside the front office, just a few paces from your apartment. You could just make out the bleary warm light filtering through the windows into the fog, diffusing until it reached the car and turned the surrounding atmosphere a pale yellow.
“Tim, I’ve, uh…I’ve got a favor to ask.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve got a car that’s…rough. Really rough. You think you could take a look at it?”
He seemed to mull it over for a moment, nodding slowly after a few heartbeats. “I could take a look. Tomorrow evenin’ sound good? I’ve got some work that needs finishin’.”
“Absolutely,” You tried to keep your enthusiasm down, voice smooth, but you caught the way his eyes flicked down to your jittering hands. Tim gave you a warm smile, one you genuinely returned. “Bring Toby in tomorrow to see me, if you can.”
He rolled his eyes, shaking his head lightly. “I’ll try. Kid’s stubborn; he’s on no one else’s but his own time.”
You smiled, gingerly opening the door and hopping out. “He is.”
Just before you closed the door, Tim nodded in goodbye. “Holler at me if you need somethin’. You’ve got my cellular; I’m a stone’s throw away.”
“Got it. Thanks, Tim.” You shut the door lightly and scuttled into the fog, lead to your apartment by the weak light alone. You reached your porch, safely tucked under the awning of the second floor’s walkway as his truck sputtered and hummed away in the distance, down the thin road that lead to the backside of the units.
You beelined for your room as soon as you entered the apartment, offloading your bags under your bed. The cans clattered to the floor, knocking against the other random shit you kept under there. You hated this - stowing away food like you were preparing for the apocalypse - but it had to be done. Ever since Monica had broken your door down, privacy was at an all time low; no matter what you put up to cover the hole, you’d always find it crooked or out of place the next day. You had found food missing several times. With each offence, the anger that sat in your stomach grew until it was unbearable; you could hardly stomach staying in the apartment any longer. You prayed to Ortho that Tim would be able to fix Ruby quickly.
You sighed and reached for a change of clothes, a ratty old t-shirt and a pair of shorts that were definitely a good few inches short of modest. You kept these kinds of clothes confined to the days your roommates were out - the thought of Ryan ogling you made you want to rip his eyes out - and couldn’t be happier to walk around the house freely.
You wandered into the bathroom, pausing for a moment in weak shock. Has it always been this disgusting? You swore that Monica was trying her hardest to get you to break the lease, forcing herself to live in a pig sty (her natural habitat, you guessed) to drive you out. Thick black hair coated the counter and sink, dried toothpaste (that you bought) smeared in the grout lines. Mold bloomed up the sides of the shower, crawling up the walls until it coated the ceiling in uneven polka dots. Dirty clothes dotted the floor like landmines. To top it off, when you flicked on the light, you realized that four out of the five lightbulbs were missing. Not out - unscrewed and missing. God knows where she took them.
You caught the scream that clawed through your throat, filing it away in the depths of your mind. One day, you’d chop off the hands she used to steal, and cheat, and defile. One day, you’d rip out the tongue that she used to insult you with. One day - one day soon - but not today. Screaming wouldn’t get Ortho what she needed, nor would it replace the bulbs, or the food, or your sanity. So you grinned and beared the brunt of her torment because one day, she’d live - and die - to regret it.
The pipes groaned and shuddered, shaking the entire bathroom as you flipped on the water. The showerhead sputtered out a weak stream of lukewarm water, the hottest it would ever get, and you stepped carefully onto the tile.
You could physically feel the day wash off of you, and you couldn’t help the small sigh that passed through your lips. Today had dragged; not particularly demanding physically, but mentally …you had spent hours sitting in the parlor, alone and bored out of your mind. And after, thirty minutes of looking over your shoulder on your way to the store. Tim had actually been a highlight, despite however awkward it might have been; you hated to admit it, but you craved human interaction. It was the furthest thing from rational - not when you were planning a double homicide and to flee the state in a few days - but you couldn’t help enjoy talking to people. Actually, no - talking to them.
You missed the irritating banter you shared with Toby or the quiet rumble of Tim’s voice.
Much more than you missed Nico’s incessant complaining, or any other dull conversation you could hold in this soulless town. It was bizarre, the way they shoved themselves into your life and became the only thing you could focus on. Supernatural, you’d guess, if you could put your tinfoil hat on. But despite living with a god-like voice in your head, you weren’t all too sure that monsters like those existed; if they did, perhaps the brothers would be sirens. The thought brought a smile to your face.
Tap tap!
The sound was nearly imperceptible under the white noise of the shower, hampered by the thin walls of your apartment. Something was tapping on your bedroom window, small and steady. Your entire body froze up, hand stopping halfway through your hair as you strained your ears to listen.
Nothing. You swallowed hard and continued your shower slowly, unease filling your mind like static as you brushed it off as nothing; a kicked up rock, maybe, or perhaps the nearby vines being blown into your window. You knew deep down that was irrational, but, god, you could not handle another inconvenience today. Monica already had you heated - if someone decided to add another thing to worry about in your own home, you think you’d go crazy.
You wanted to enjoy your shower, but the tapping consumed every thought you tried to distract yourself with. The water turned cold quickly, and you couldn’t tell if it was because of your fried nerves or the hot water running out. You fled, throwing on your pajamas and brushing your teeth in record time (dentists be damned). You tip-toed into the hallway, heart palpitating all the way.
You peaked your head into your room, half expecting to see a figure crawling through the window. Your room sat identical to how it had been ten minutes ago, the window shut and locked firmly with the curtains drawn. You stalked in, locking the door behind you on instinct despite it being useless now, and approached the window slowly. Your fingers found the cold metal of your gun in the pile of clothes you held, gripping it securely and letting the rest fall away to the floor. You aimed shakily to the window, taking a shuddering breath.
You ripped the curtains open before you could even process the fear that gripped your heart, finger twitching over the trigger. Outside was quiet, and grey, and normal; no one stood at the sill, no orange goggles glinting off of the dim lamplight at your bedside. You exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, drawing the curtains once more and slipping the handgun under your pillow.
It had been some time since you felt safe enough to sleep with it out of arms reach; you weren’t sure if it was the strange man or the murder, but you didn’t really feel like pinpointing it right now. You slipped under the covers and felt around for the lamp’s chain, missing more times than you should have, before your fingers found the small line. You tugged it off, and with it, darkness swallowed your room.
Tap Tap!
Huh? You stirred, half awake, brain still catching up with your body. You squinted through bleary eyes at the old alarm clock on your bedside table, a messy jumble of numbers that eventually evened out into a bright red 1:47 AM after a few blinks. The red of the clock casted a thin glow on the wall, deepening the long shadows of the curtains.
TAP TAP!
The sound was sharper, harder against the glass. Your hand shot to the gun under the pillow instantly, the metal a stinging cold that made you cringe. You thought about turning the lamp on for just a moment before discarding the comfort it would have brought; the last thing you wanted was to let him know you were awake. Fear crept into your peripheral vision, heartbeat picking up in an instant. Were you really going to do this? Face the man that had been terrorizing you for days? You stared for a long moment at the curtains, frozen in fear.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The sound rattled the windowframe, threatening to shatter. A small surge of energy ran through your finger tips, gaze hardening. Really? Now? Didn’t he know you had work in the morning? Didn’t he know you were above mortal things like fear? It didn’t matter if Ortho was talking to you often or not - she had chosen you for a reason, and you would be damned if you didn’t fulfill it. You didn’t exactly know why you were chosen, but facing danger sure as hell sounded like it was in the job description. You were going to make her proud. You steeled yourself and ripped the curtain open.
He was there, arm primed to bang on the window again. He seemed startled that you opened it when you did, hand pausing mid knock. He was no less intimidating up close - a muzzle-esk mask covered the lower portion of his face, thin metal bars resting over where his mouth would be. His hood was up all the way, a tanish fur that was matted and crusty with dark stains. Staring straight at you were those same orange goggles, thin flecks of red covering the right lens.
Terror seized you but you stopped the trembling in your hand, forcing your heart to slow. The anger that had been simmering in your stomach bubbled over instantly, and you snarled, arm flying up.
BANG! BANG! BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG!
You slammed your fist down against the glass over and over, palms stinging with each impact. The noise echoed off of the walls of your apartment, ringing across the open courtyard and into your neighbors houses; you couldn’t seem to care in the moment. You half hoped that it would scare him off, a small piece of you hoping he’d see how annoying it was. The man froze, and then straightened, his head cocking to the side slowly.
“Fuck this….” You growled under your breath, reaching up to unlatch the window lock. It slid open with a piercing hum that cut through the dead silence. The man stepped back just an inch, body tensing. The only thing that separated you was the flimsy mesh screen, a useless piece of armor that was already torn at the edges.
“Can you not?” Annoyance hardened your voice; you felt more like you were chiding a bothersome child than a cold-blooded killer, but you were too delirious from sleep to care. You felt the fear drain from your body as the man slackened, taking another step away. He didn’t respond, staring at you intensely; his shoulder shook just slightly with laughter. The bastard was enjoying this.
“I’ll call the cops or whatever. I’m trying to sleep.”
The man backed up another pace, the atmosphere licking at his coat and threatening to swallow him whole. Just before he disappeared, he seemed to mutter something to himself:
“....You people and the cops.”
He was gone, leaving you with an open window and racing heart. You shut it wearily and slipped back into your sheets, wondering where you heard that before.