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The radio had been dead silent for two and a half days, and he could only spend so much time trying to clean his gun with those stupid little bristle things Casey had lent him before he was about ready to stick the business end of it in his mouth and pull that trigger just to calm the frantic static in his head.
“Sharky, you’re shaking the table,” said Mary May from the bar, mouth a thin line of irritation, scrubbing a rut in the gleaming counter. “Give it a rest.”
“S’not my fault you got crappy furniture,” he snapped back, making a conscious effort to still his jittering leg. She looked up with a deadly glare and he waved a hand in apology. “Good bar. Great bar. You got the best bar, ma’am, it’s just… you got shit furniture. This table’s got four whole-ass fuckin’ legs and I swear to god, you don’t got two the same length.”
“Don’t like it, you can leave,” she said, turning with a fist on her hip. “You know—”
His radio screeched to life, and he knocked it off the table in his haste to grab it. It cracked against the hardwood floor, plastic clip snapping off and spinning out of sight beneath the jukebox. “Fuck!”
“Did you hear that?” asked Mary May, coming out from behind the bar, rag a forgotten beige lump on the bartop. “What was that? Was it them?”
“It-it—I dunno, it was just fuckin’ static.” He knelt on the floor, holding the radio up to his ear with one hand and searching the dusty, sticky, secret space beneath the hulking juke with the other. The buzz and warmth of neon against his cheek was doing nothing for his nerves. “They’re the only one who uses this frequency. Uh, we—we are, I guess. I mean, sometimes fuckin’ John hops on to say some—some stupid shit, but…usually just us.”
“Call them, then, right?” She shooed him away from the front of the machine and braced herself against its side, carefully tipping it up so the light could reach the space beneath. He spotted the clip among the grimy bottlecaps and winking stars of broken glass, and snatched it out.
“Thanks,” he said, fitting it to the broken setting and squinting at it while Mary May lowered the juke back down, scowling at it and making invisible adjustments. Shit—looked like there was a smaller chip missing too. Oh well, he could jerry-rig something later. Duct-tape was the stuff of miracles. “Uh, I don’t think I should. Sometimes they strike out on their own for a while—do some clandestine fuckin’ Splinter Cell shit. If they’re in the middle of somethin’ I wouldn’t wanna break their cover, y’know?”
He brought it back to his table, set it down and checked that the volume was still up at its highest setting. Should be good for a couple more hours on its current charge.
“Fuck, I guess,” she said, going back to the bar and rummaging under the counter. She came back with two beers, popping the tops off against the table edge with casual flicks of her wrist. “They ever been gone this long, though? Without getting in touch?”
He grimaced, nodding his thanks as she handed him a beer. “Not since I started runnin’ with them, at least.”
She hummed unhappily, taking a swig and pressing the back of her wrist to her lips. “Not good.”
“You’d, you’d think if…you know. If somethin’—if somethin’ really bad had happened?” he hesitated, taking a drink, mind slipping uneasily away from the unthinkable. “We’d have heard it, right? It’d be all over the Peggie channels—hell, I bet John himself’d get on the fuckin’ radio to make sure we all knew.”
“Maybe not.” She hooked a chair with her foot, dragged it closer and sat heavily, mouth twisted sourly. “Joseph wants them, right? Bet he’d be pretty goddamn ticked if John or his crew got carried away with his all-important Lamb. Bliss bullets aren’t supposed to be deadly, but up close? Or through an eye? Doesn’t even have to be the cult—lots of bears around this time of year. They’ve killed more than—”
He shook his head, humming to clear the words from his ears. “Mary May, don’t—please? C’mon. Don’t. They’re fine, they’re out there, they just—they need a little time. Okay?”
“Sure. Sorry, Sharky.” She sighed, kneading the pits of her eyes with the heel of her palm. “I’m sorry. I’m just…so tired of clawing back the tiniest fucking scraps of hope only for these assholes to steal it all back and more to boot.”
“I get what you mean.” He eyed her hand on the table, trailed listlessly away from her beer, pale and limp. Nails chewed down to the quicks.
The thought struck him then that she’d lost her entire family in the span of about three years. And sure she was a heck of a lot older than he’d been when his parents had bought the proverbial farm, but in all honesty, they hadn’t been much of a family at all. Had treated him like shit, to tell it true, the kindest thing they ever done short of ignoring him had been driving themselves off the bridge that night.
The Fairgraves, on the other hand, had been tight-knit, had been perfect—picture perfect. The kind of family you’d see in a Home Depot ad, hair shining, bright smiles, laughing around an overpriced barbecue grill that you knew you couldn’t afford, but a small part of you thought that if you only had that stupid grill you could maybe get that kind of experience, could feel happy, worthy of admiration, loved. And everybody in town had loved the Fairgraves. But now you couldn’t even say ‘Fairgraves’ since there was just Mary May left, and it had been a long time since he’d seen her really smile.
He reached over, put his hand on hers and gave it a friendly squeeze. She looked at it and snorted, but didn’t move away.
“You hittin’ on me, Boshaw?” she asked lightly, and he flushed, giving her hand a quick, respectful pat and withdrawing.
“No ma’am,” he said, starting to take another drink before a thought struck him and he winced. “Not—not that you’re not hot or nothin’, and like, for real, I think you’re super badass and really pretty and I got a lotta respect for you, but—I wasn’t making a pass. Uh. Do you want me to?”
She laughed, the blond hanks of hair she kept tucking behind her ears falling forward. “Not really. It was—it was a joke. A bad joke. Sorry.”
He nodded. “Okay, cool. That’s fine. That’s good, actually, uh, because I’m kind of spoken for. In-in an unofficial sense, I guess. I don’t—we haven’t talked about it, in so many words, but uh, but I’m pretty sure…fuck, nevermind.”
He blew out his cheeks and rubbed behind his neck, staring at the radio. His leg was jigging again, shaking the table and making the radio wobble, and he ground a palm into his thigh to stop it. He could feel Mary May looking, but she didn’t push the issue. He was about equal parts relieved and disappointed, and chewed on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from blurting stupid shit that nobody cared about, feeling like that one inevitably embarrassing kid at a sleepover. Not the time for petty stuff.
She cleared her throat and gestured vaguely around the bar. “Sorry about all the posters, by the way. I’ll take them down later.”
He scoffed. “And ruin my reputation? Nah, it’s fine.”
“Your call.” She tipped her head back, emptying her bottle in a few easy gulps. Sharky followed suit, scarcely tasting it but giving his a few shakes to get those last stubborn drops out of habit.
“I can’t clean this fuckin’ gun anymore, man, I’m feelin’ like the sweaty bald dude from Full Metal Jacket,” he declared when it was well and truly empty, glaring hatefully at the soft shine of his trusty shotty’s spotless stock.
“I got a broom in the back if you need somethin’ to do.” Mary May rolled her eyes. “Or if you’re willing to venture out while you wait, Casey’s got a few things need doin’ that he doesn’t seem to want to get off his ass and take care of himself.”
“I’d rather stay here ’til I hear back,” he said, pushing the little brushes from the cleaning kit into a rough pile in the center of the table. “They said we’d meet back—”
Another bleat from the radio, this time sustained static. He tried to hear a voice under the white noise. No words, but something—harsh, uneven breathing. A soft scrape recognizable as wood over wood, and a loud clatter as the walkie was knocked against something. Then it cut out.
He waited for a minute, heart hammering, then decided fuck stealth—something definitely wasn’t right.
“Dep?” he called, fingers wrapped so tight around the receiver he could feel the plastic creak. He forced himself to let up a little. “Dep, that you?”
He released the button, waiting, waiting.
“—arky, I need…” The static was still pretty bad, but it was definitely their voice, and he slumped back in his chair, letting out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.
“Can’t hear ya too good, dude,” he replied when their transmission cut out again without any other discernible speech. “Where you at? Need me to come getcha?”
“…verspike something I think…on the mailbox.” They sounded exhausted. “I got—ot of Bliss…really fucked up. Think—lowed half the Henbane. God, everything—ing. Clothes. Please—eed new clothes.”
He looked helplessly to Mary May. “You know a ‘Spike’ place?”
She frowned, nodding slightly. “I think they mean the Doverspike’s house. That’s pretty close to the Peggie’s bunker site—roads are gonna be tricky.”
“I’ll manage,” he shrugged, digging around in his pockets for the county map Dep had insisted he carry everywhere. “Can you mark it on here? Any idea where I can get some fresh clothes for ‘em?”
“Yeah, sure.” She went to the bar and came back with a pen, drawing a neat blue x much further from Fall’s End than he would have liked. “What sizes they wear?”
“I don’t fuckin’ know, one of everything—we’re comin’ right back here anyways, so it doesn’t matter,” he said, voice rising, and he could hear the panic in it but couldn’t bring it back down—this was taking too long. They needed him, they needed him now, and he was too slow, too slow and too stupid to do anything right.
Mary May was already back behind the bar, digging through cubbies for the remainder of the Spread Eagle’s short-lived merch line. “Check the laundry for pants. Got enough shirts out here, but maybe find something warmer in there, too. If they’re in shock, you’re gonna need them bundled up.”
“Yeah.” He was up and headed for the back rooms, but stopped himself short and went back for the radio, pressing the button hastily. “Hey Dep, it’s gonna be okay. I’m comin’. You just sit tight, alright? Be there in a tick.”
The clip wouldn’t work anymore, so he stuffed the radio into the pocket of his hoodie, felt its weight drag the fabric down tight across the back of his neck and bounce against his upper thighs as he ran to the laundry units. He started picking through a basket of clean clothes, pulling out any pants or sweaters he could find before realizing it’d be easier to just dump everything and load the basket with things to take. His heart pounded while he worked, and his ears stayed pricked for any sounds from his pocket, but he’d gone through the mound without hearing a peep. Found a nice range of jeans and sweatpants, a couple thick pullovers, and a few pairs of fuzzy socks with electric blue and silver hearts that Rook’d probably think were pretty lame, but felt soft and warm as hell so they’d have to deal.
He pulled the radio out and dropped it on top of the pile, speaker up, and went back to the bar. Mary May picked the walkie up by its antennae and added an armload of shirts onto the pile, replacing his radio with care.
“Anything I can have waiting for them when you get back?”
“Uh, food. They’re always fuckin’ hungry. Whatever medical shit you can spare, I guess?” He fished at his key ring, verifying it hadn’t walked off without him, and nodded at her, hoping his eyes weren’t as wide as they felt. “Thanks for the beer.”
He rushed out onto the porch, hopped into the street and opened the passenger’s side door of his old green Jeep, setting the basket down in the footwell and wedging the radio into the cupholder tray. Door. Slam. Driver’s side. Keys—ignition. He pulled out the map and scanned it, laying it on the dash when he was fairly confident which route he’d be taking. Seatbelt.
“Sharky!” Mary May ran over, knocking on the passenger’s side window.
He rolled it down and she passed his shotgun through, brows raised pointedly.
“You sure you’re good to go alone?”
He scowled, taking his gun and laying it over the seat next to him. “Sure. Less attention. We’ll be back before you know it.”
“Fine. Be careful.” She glanced up the street and backed off towards the bar again. “I’ll see if I can’t get some folks to get a distraction going down that ways, just in case.”
“Alright, whatever. Sorry. Thanks.” He waved as he rolled the window back up and started the engine, sparing a cursory glance at the fuel gauge before backing out onto the road and setting off.
The drive itself wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. Once he got out of town, he was able to really floor it, and there hadn’t been a lot of traffic since Rook had taken out the Peggie convoys. He passed a pickup with a bed full of Bliss flowers, but the driver didn’t seem to want to engage. Midday, so the deer weren’t annoying as hell, and the two-man patrols that usually walked along the shoulder were few and far between—none of the ones he encountered able to land more than a couple harmless shots to the truck’s body before he was out of range again.
The needle was up higher than he usually pushed it, the bottom of his gut dropping out on bumps when it felt like he was actually catching some air. In a different time he’d be whoopin’ and laughin’, music blasting out his speakers, fierce joy in his heart and earnestly hoping he’d hit a speed trap just so’s he could lead the fuzz on a tear. But he didn’t even have the radio on, and his tongue felt cleaved to the roof of his mouth, dry and starchy with worry.
Nothing from the walkie.
He only slowed down when he started to get fuzzy on the route, and after a couple quick checks, he was pulling into a gravel drive with a mailbox that had “Doverspike” painted on the side. Lucky, lucky, lucky. It occurred to him that they could probably hear a vehicle approaching.
He picked up the radio. “Dep? It’s me. Uh, I think I’m near you—just pulled up to the house. Um. Please don’t shoot me. Or, you know, be dead.”
He didn’t wait for a response, shutting it down and hauling the basket out with him. The door had been busted open already, and swung wide when he toed it with his sneaker. Blood, broken glass, papers and framed photos strewn around what had once been the living room. Furniture overturned, television busted in, fruit rotting on the kitchen counter. Nightmarish, but normal for a place that had already been ransacked by Peggie patrols.
“Dep?” he called, shifting uncertainly on the stained carpet. “Brought you some clothes. I don’t—I don’t know what, uh, sizes you usually wear, but I brought a lot, so hopefully…hopefully somethin’ fits.”
It was quiet, and something cold and hard seized his heart, a certainty that he was too late, that he was talking to a person that no longer existed, that he’d find their corpse, still and alone in one of these rooms. Then there was a scraping sound from the kitchen, and he lurched over, almost bursting into grateful tears when he saw them sitting against the cupboards below the sink, drained and dirty and soaked to the bone, but alive.
“Fuck, Dep, don’t scare me like that,” he said, putting the laundry basket down and falling to his knees next to them, wrapping them up in a tight hug. Their cheek and neck were shockingly cold against his. They grunted, pushing him off gently and putting a hand to their chest.
“Sorry,” they rasped through a split lip, shaking their head and patting clumsily at his shoulder with their other hand. “Just—hurts.”
Their shirt was torn. A cut below their throat, where an eager knife had sliced through the thicker collar, but the rest had been torn, and he could see—a lot more than they usually wanted him to see. Along with some nasty bruising and what looked like another cut beneath their fingers.
“What the fuck, Dep,” he said, averting his eyes, face burning. “What the fuck happened?”
“Bliss bullet. Bunker. Confession. Escape—well, sort of,” they coughed and grimaced, pointing at the clothes basket. “Could you…?”
“Yeah—of course.” He pulled it over to their side so they could pick through it. “You came here from the bunker?”
They grinned. “Cliff’s Notes version. Uh—John chased me out …with a bunch of fucking Angels. Blissed out. Fell down, uh, a hill. Fell down another hill. Landed in a lake, floated with the… river for a while. Cold helped bring me out… of it. Got to shore, saw the house through the trees. Been trying to—to catch my breath for a while. Pretty sure my… rib is broken.”
“Well, that’s ain’t good,” he said, and they laughed, then winced again. His gut seized in guilt. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s so …fucking good to see you, Shark.” They sighed and leaned back against the cupboards. “Missed your face.”
He flushed, wiping his hands over his jeans. “I missed you too, Dep. Can you move? Just on account of we’re like, balls-deep in Peggie territory here, and we should get you to whatever they got closest to a doctor over at Fall’s End if you really do got a busted rib.”
They tried to shrug off their jacket and hissed, shaking their head. “Walk, maybe…but I don’t think I can, um… get up on my own. Maybe in a few minutes. I’m so—so goddamn cold, Shark. Everything is just…full of the fucking river and I just—I hate having wet socks, you know?”
“Hey, that’s why I brought you this shit,” he soothed, jerking his thumb at the laundry basket.
They looked at him expectantly.
“Oh!” he shuffled to face the wall. “Here. No peekin’, I promise.”
“Shark. I’m gonna need your help.” They were smiling wryly when he turned around. “If that’s… okay with you.”
He snorted, ears burning. “Why wouldn’t it be? You need help, I’m here—it’s totally fine. It’s fine.”
“Cool.” They hesitated, looking past him, feeling at their side with their right arm. “Could you just…prop me up? Let’s do the jacket first. I think that’ll be …hardest, so we might as well get it out of the way.”
“Yup, okay.” He scooted closer, considering. Probably shouldn’t just try to move them by the shoulders if ribs were a problem. “Can you, uh, lift your knees a little? I’ll try to scooch you out away from the cupboards so we have more room, and I don’t want to put too much weight around your ribs.”
“Mhm.”
They did, and he slid an arm beneath them, bracing their lower back with the other. He tucked his knee against the cabinets for leverage and pushed as steadily as he could, inching them out from the corner. Their jeans were sodden and he could feel a chill radiating from them even through the comfortable warmth of his hoodie.
“Can you keep yourself sitting up?” he asked when he’d gotten enough space to move behind them.
“Yeah, I got it.” There was trepidation in their voice, the anticipation of pain, and he felt guilty that he couldn’t just fix them, or come up with a better solution for the changing.
“Uh. Arms one at a time, I guess,” he said, tapping their right shoulder. They seemed to be moving that arm with more comfort than their left, so it’d probably be the best place to start.
They lifted it slowly, unsteadily, ending at about ten degrees from level. “Okay.”
He grabbed their sleeve, pulling gently outwards and upwards while they brought their arm in at their own pace, which was slow. “You’re doin’ great, Dep.”
They snorted, extricating their hand and letting their arm fall back down to the linoleum. “Thanks, buddy.”
He brought the jacket around their back, working the left sleeve off their shoulder and down their arm more easily. Tugging when the fabric stuck made them hiss with alarm, so he focused on keeping every motion as smooth as possible. Their fingers touched his bare forearm when he worked the cuff down over their hand, and he jumped at how icy they felt. That couldn’t be fuckin’ healthy.
Their head hung forward and he was surprised at how small their neck looked, straggles of hair plastered over still-wet skin. The fractured shine of flecks of quartz from the river silt stuck to them, glinting gently in time with their pulse. The sight made them seem more human—not that he’d thought they were something else, that would be stupid, but it was just…different in a weird way that made his throat ache. Protectiveness, concern, that familiar cocktail of nervous affection, but also something sad. Like pity or grief or something, but it didn’t make sense because they were there—they were right fucking there, and he didn’t know why this stupid little detail should make his throat hurt.
“Um. Shirt too?” he croaked, and they nodded.
“Could you, uh, help me get them both over my head?” they asked, voice bitter and self-conscious. “I—well, I’ve tried, but it really hurts on that side, and—like, motions putting pressure or using force with it just…isn’t happening right now.”
“I got you, man, it’s fine. Got in a bar fight once, ‘bout ten, fifteen years ago?” They relaxed as he talked, nodding and raising their arms up as far as they could on their own. He held below their elbows, easing them up steadily, face scrunched up in a preemptive sympathetic wince, but kept talking so they’d have something to focus on besides the impending pain. “Uh. Not the fun kind. I mean, I was nice and buzzed, but the other guy was pretty fucked up and bein’ real rude to my cousin, Crystal? She was just waitin’ tables and like, bussin’ glasses and shit, but he started followin’ her around the bar.”
They tensed, breathing harder, but didn’t tell him to stop so he kept going.
“Yeah—and she can usually take care of herself, but like, her manager there was just a genuine a-hole, an’ I guess she didn’t want to get crap from him about it, so she shoots me a look so I go over, and I’m like—”
They whimpered, hands clenching into fists and jostling instinctively against his guidance.
“Uh, you want me to keep—?”
“Mhm,” they nodded rapidly, breath shallow. “Yeah, I just—it’ll be easier when I can like, lock my hands and you can just, uh, get my shirt up over my wrists, you know?”
“Got it, Chief. Sorry.” He started pushing again. “Um, anyway, it wasn’t my best work. Insults-wise. I was young and drunk and not that great with improv, so it wasn’t exactly fuckin’ poetry, but it got the guy’s attention. Dirty motherfucker grabbed the uh—the thirteen ball? Orange stripe? Looks like a fuckin’ creamsicle pool ball? And just starts whalin’ on me. Yup. Cracked one, broke two. Ribs, I mean. Crystal ended up breaking a bottle over his head. Mhm. She got fired like the next day.”
They hummed, core trembling a little, but their straining fingers finally interlocked, and they gasped out: “Nngh—do it! Go!”
He did, trying to bunch and roll the wet fabric as he went so it wouldn’t just invert and trap them in an awkward position. When he got the mess up over their elbows, they unlaced their fingers and dropped their hands down, leaning over on their right side and holding their left arm in over their chest as their breath steadied.
“You gotta get something dry on,” he said, gaze fixed on the dark purple streaks spanning their ribcage on that left side. Not fuckin’ good. “Um, I don’t know much medical stuff, but like there’s a reason people who’ve been through serious shit get those big old blankets and-and like tea and shit.”
“I know—I know, Sharky,” they sighed, leaning back cautiously against him, wet head lolling at his shoulder. “I’m just…tired. I need a—let’s take a break.”
He froze, not wanting to jostle them and risk aggravating the broken rib. Or ribs, maybe—that bruising looked nasty. They seemed comfortable, though, and he couldn’t deny the weight of them felt good. He took a deep breath and fished around the laundry basket, pulling out the biggest, softest thing he could reach, some kind of amorphous Cougar-blue hoodie, and drawing it over their front.
“Okay, Dep,” he said, closing his arms over theirs and tucking their head under his chin. “Take a quick break. I got you. I got you.”
They sighed, sagging against him, icy fingers questing, threading through his almost shyly. “God, you’re …warm. You’re like a furnace, Shark. Fuck, you’re incredible.”
“You’re just sayin’ that ‘cause you’re half froze to death,” he snorted, nuzzling against the side of their head, the breathtakingly cold ridges of their ear against his cheek. It was an automatic gesture, easy and natural beyond words to turn his head slightly so that his lips pressed against the whorls in a kiss that was more comforting pressure than passion. Then he realized what he’d just done and tensed, pulling away as respectfully as he could while sharing his warmth. “Shit. Sorry. I should’ve—sorry.”
They shook their head slightly, leaning into him more deliberately, fingers curling inward and slipping their paired hands beneath the draped hoodie, touching his knuckles to their stomach. “No, man. You’re good. Thanks …for coming to get me. I really—I really appreciate you. Hope you know that.”
He knew they couldn’t see, but ducked his head in embarrassment, feeling a blush crawl over his cheeks. “Yeah—I mean, I…I’ve been, uh, trying to wrap my head around that. You’re like, the most amazing person I’ve ever met. And holy shit are you cold.”
They wheezed out a laugh and flinched, and he wiggled his fingers until they let his hands slip away. He scrunched fistfuls of the hoodie and started chafing against their upper arms and good side, drying and warming at once.
“Mm. Okay,” they turned, smiling, cheek bunched up in an echo of their usual grin, and his heart thumped painfully. “That’s good.”
“Dude, if you coulda made it all the way back to my place, this’d be a whole ‘nother level of good, y’know,” he teased, leaning closer to their face, heart beating faster. “I, uh, don’t like to brag or nothin’, but I am the proud owner of a big-ass electric blanket.”
They groaned softly. “You gotta show me sometime. I love…being warm. I fucking love being warm. It’s… amazing. You gotta show me that blanket.”
“I’ll show you, promise,” he said, leaning away so he could rub their back. “Next time we’re out east—swing by Boshaw Manor and just relax for a bit.”
“Oh, oh!” He straightened, swatting their shoulder excitedly. “We’re gonna watch Fast and Furious. You’re way overdue, Dep—you’re gonna love it. I got the whole series, but we can just start with the first couple, if you’re down?”
“I’m so down.” They let out a heavy breath, slumping forward a little. “Let’s…let’s—we should do that. But nap first.”
He frowned. “Don’t think you should sleep, ‘miga. As a general rule, cold and head trauma don’t exactly jive with naps.”
They groaned, and he realized they still had those wet jeans on, and the muddy, stained sneakers splayed on the linoleum at the end of them were sitting in brackish circles. His gut lurched with guilt, and he put a hand to their lower back to steady them as he scooted away. Stupid. Selfish, wasting their time with dumb stories and bad flirting when they were in pain and probably freezing to death.
“We gotta get your pants off,” he said, then winced, ears burning. “Uh, shoes—socks, the whole goddamn enchilada, Dep. We gotta get everything—everything cold, everything wet, it’s gotta come off.”
They snickered as he slid the laundry basket behind them—just tall enough to give a little extra support since they were basically down an arm. “My pants—”
“Yeah, yeah—hilarious, dude,” he rolled his eyes, crouching at their feet and struggling with the sodden laces. “Man, you must’ve killed back in high school with that, uh, funky fresh material.”
They snorted, hiking the hoodie up to cover their neck. “Fuck, no. I—I was nobody in high school. Less than nobody. Didn’t go out, didn’t—didn’t party or have friends or-or really say… anything. Unless I absolutely had to.”
He cocked an eyebrow, shucking a shoe with an unpleasant squelch. “No way. I mean, I did kinda figure you for a nerd, but like…sort of a cool nerd. Pot and geek shit on top of straight A’s kind of nerd.”
They made a face. “No, uh—no devil’s lettuce for me until college. I…I even waited um, until I was twenty-…fucking-one to drink, can you believe that?”
He was surprised, but didn’t like the bitterness that was edging into their voice. “Hey, listen—I know, uh, bein’ around party gods like Hurk and myself must seem like, uh…I just—you know there’s no pressure—ever, right? Like, no shame if you’re not into it.”
“No, no—it’s…” they shook their head, licking their lips, breathing hard. “That’s not what—God, Shark. I have wasted…so much time. Trying to pretend to be someone, someone my folks would be proud of, you know? And none…none of it was ever enough—I was, I was spending the years that should have been…you know, that every fucking movie and-and show tells you will be the fiercest, most …passionate and adventurous time of your goddamn life, and I spent half of it trying to convince myself I wasn’t…me.”
He nodded readily, trying to parse the gulf in their respective experiences, peeling a sock off and tossing it over his shoulder. It landed with a wet slap. “Uh. I’m sorry, man. Y’know, my folks…they weren’t great. I don’t think there was, uh, ever much chance of not being like, the most disappointing, unwanted screwup imaginable for them, so y’know. Not a lot of pressure there. And then—um. They died a few months after I turned sixteen, so…then it was just me. And Hurk. When he wasn’t traveling, of course.”
“Fuck, Shark,” they sighed, blinking at him sadly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know—I mean, you’ve said some stuff before…I’m sorry.”
He shook his head, getting the other shoe off and making quick work of the stained sock. “Listen, dude—that’s just fuckin’ life, right? Everybody’s gotta eat a shit sandwich at some point. Just…sucks when you don’t have people. Can you get something from the basket? Your feet are straight up blue.”
They fished around behind them with their right arm, wincing as they twisted, and came back with a fuzzy shirt that was a particularly nauseating shade of electric green. They held it out, and he took it with a distasteful expression, doubling it up and starting to chafe.
“Don’t want to lose these. End up lookin’ like a Powerpuff Girl,” he cracked, rubbing over their toes and trying not to worry too much about the chill he could feel through the fabric.
“Dude, Buttercup was the coolest,” they said wiggling their foot weakly in his hands. “Loved her growing up. I don’t… know how it took—how it took me so long to realize I wasn’t straight. Or cis.”
“So, when did you know?” he asked, a little hesitantly. Their color was starting to get better, but he kept going, clearing his throat and gesturing towards the basket. “Uh, can you find some socks in there? You can wear mine if…if it comes to that, I guess.”
“Know? I don’t know,” They reached behind them, sifting through the piles of clothing and pulling socks and underwear out, holding them safe and dry on the hoodie. “Had a lot of stuff to work through. On both …the sexuality and gender fronts—it was…a long process. Never felt comfortable with the gender…thing. But didn’t know I had, y’know, another option until I… left home. I started, uh, having thoughts about girls in middle school, but I’d always dismiss it—chalked it up to…fuckin’ jealousy. Because that was easier. More…palatable. I remember—I remember crying in the shower during high school… because I’d been hanging out with my best friend and had imagined kissing her? Just, crying and assuring myself that, you know. It was normal …to have those random thoughts. Normal to be curious. Didn’t mean I was wrong, didn’t mean I had anything to be ashamed of.”
They grimaced, rolling their eyes at him. “Again…college. Met some people who weren’t terminally closeted who-who helped me be okay with myself. What about you?”
He shrugged, motioning towards their zipper. “Around, uh, sixth grade, I guess? Seventh? Maybe the summer between? Hurk an’ me used to go down to the park—the nice one. Used to watch the rec teams play. Off-season we’d buy cigs from the high schoolers behind the concessions stand, but uh…summers we’d sit in the stands, pretend we had friends on the team, and some of the parents would like, give us snacks and stuff. Talk to us a bit. And, uh. I mean, I’d start to…notice some of the guys playing. Way they moved, laughed, everything. For a bit, I thought I just wanted to be them, y’know? Have what they had. And I mean, I did, a little—but that wasn’t it.”
They were nodding solemnly, and this time he didn’t look away from those dark eyes.
“Didn’t act on it then—too scared, too…I dunno. It’s easier with the ladies, you know? I’m supposed to like them.” He laughed because he didn’t know how else to get that wobbly uncertainty out of his chest. “I don’t—you know what I mean, right? Hope County’s big enough to be my whole world, but like…it’s still a small fucking world.”
They let out a shuddering breath, nodding as they unfastened the button of their jeans and pulled the zipper down. “I get you. Burned through a few shitty relationships that I knew wouldn’t ….ever work, just trying to fit into a—a future that was expected of me. But it takes so much out of you, man. Exhausting. Self-destructive.”
He crabwalked over to their side, a little leery of the next step. “Uh-huh. You ready? Think I’m gonna have to lift you a little.”
They nodded, gripping his nearest shoulder with their right arm, face drained.
“Three, two—” he hefted them up a few inches with one arm, other hand briskly tugging around their waistband until the stiff, damp denim scrunched down over their thighs. By the grace of whatever god was watching, their boxers didn’t come with it. He let them back down and stood over their legs, jerking at the uncooperative fabric until it released their calves. Pretty easy from there—lucky they didn’t wear the kind that was meant to be super tight. The jeans left behind more silt, some scraps of river weeds glistening over slicked down leg hair. He grabbed a shirt from the basket and dried them off, scrubbing hard enough to get most of the crap off and bring a warm flush to their skin.
“Hey,” they said, grinning. “Hey, Shark.”
“What’s up, Dep?” He found some frankly ginormous sweatpants in the bin and fed their feet through the legholes.
“Good job getting my pants off,” they laughed, tilting their head up to look at the ceiling while he lifted them again.
“Man, fuck you,” he said without heat, getting his legs under him and hauling them up into a standing position, earning a surprised but thankfully not pained yelp. He didn’t need to say more, but he found himself still talking, a growing edge in his voice. “Absolutely no art—no subtlety, no real wordplay, no, uh, fresh perspective. It pains me to say, it really does, ‘cause I love you so much, but dude…you are where bad jokes go to die.”
They leaned against the counter, adjusting the hoodie and picking off the socks that had survived the transition from horizontal to vertical, and passing them to him. “How was that …not wordplay? Why are you mad?”
“Uh,” he frowned, trying to suss out the sudden irritation that was sour and sharp in his chest. “Let’s see. My best friend disappears for three days shortly after the local horny sadist expresses an interest in mounting their hide on his wall. Uh, during their absence I hear nothing to indicate that they’re even still on this earthly fucking plane, and when they do call, it sounds like they’re seconds from bleeding out. And I just about break the goddamn sound barrier gettin’ here, ass-deep in Peggie Central, find you half-dead an’ probably in some kind of shock, and you’re makin’ bad jokes to gloss over how the fuck you got in such a sorry-ass state. You see where I’m comin’ from here?”
Dep looked fixedly down at the counter, a thick, resentful silence between them as he clumsily tugged socks on over their blue-tinged feet.
“Sorry,” he said after he’d finished, the quiet crawling uncomfortably between his shoulderblades. “It’s fine. You don’t gotta talk about it if you don’t want to, I—I just was real worried about you, you know?”
They nodded—a heavy, grudging motion, but it was a sign that they were listening—actually listening and considering his point despite how stupid and needy it must sound. Some of that claustrophobic anxiety eased off, and he cleared his throat, touching their elbow to prompt them to turn around.
“When you, uh, when you go off alone like that…I mean, first off I know you’re practically a one-man army and you are crazy sneaky and everything, but,” he swallowed as they shuffled awkwardly to face him, the dark bags under their eyes, the bruises dappling their cheek, jaw, and collar, and premature lines of pain and exhaustion springing into sharp relief in the light that streamed in from the kitchen’s broken windows. “Jesus, Dep. You’re not invincible. You can’t do it alone, y’know? And like, even if you could, you shouldn’t have to. You don’t have to.”
They smiled unhappily, pointing at the cut on their neck. “See this? John himself. Foreplay for, uh…his little Confession fantasy. Straddled me, ripped my-my fucking shirt open and then looked at me like…fuck, I don’t even know. Like he loved me? Like I’d just told him I could give him everything he’d ever wanted, and… he was grateful. And when I got out—he’s toying with me. Do you get it?”
He shrugged, discomfort itching at the nape of his neck. “He’s fucked up, dude. Got more than a couple wires crossed with the whole punishment schtick. I get it—all the more reason to have some buds watchin’ your—”
“That’s—that’s not what I mean,” they interrupted, shaking their head, bracing themselves against the counter with their right arm. “He’s not trying to kill me. I told you about the river before, right? Joseph stepping in? This sounds…it sounds fucking crazy, but I’m…special. Or something. To them. They want me for something big.”
He snorted, grinning and trying to get them to smile back. “Fuckin’ narcissistic today, Dep. You sayin’ I’m not special?”
“Of course you’re special,” they said softly but with intent, dark eyes snapping to his. “Of course you are.”
He blushed, looking down to his sneakers, the mudstained toes inches from their mismatched socks. His heart felt huge and wobbly, like a giant jello thing at a summer potluck, soft but shining and starting to melt under the sun. “Not fair, po-po.”
They shifted, a cold hand coming up to cup the side of his face, imploring him to look up. He leaned into the touch, and they didn’t seem to mind, giving his flushed cheek an affectionate stroke with their thumb.
“I’m trying to say that it—it seems like the rules are different. For me. And I don’t… want to drag you or anyone else into a bloodbath after me if I’m… protected in whatever twisted way and you aren’t.”
He rolled his eyes, pulling them into a careful hug, holding them close and still so they could feel his warmth and heartbeat. “All due respect, but that isn’t your call. Folks all around the county are fighting in one way or another, right? Peggies’ll be comin’ for us whether or not you’re around. I’d rather be with you, taking shit back and helping you out than waitin’ for them to bring the fight to me. ‘Sides. Saving the world’s gotta be a lot more fun if you’re hangin’ out with a buddy. Uh, ‘specially one who’s as handsome and charming as me.”
They shuddered, sagging against him and then crying in wheezing, empty sobs that made his throat swell up. He wanted to squeeze them so tightly that all the grief and fear and pain were wrung out in a puddle on the floor and they could just breathe, insulated by the strength of his love. But bear hugs with broken ribs was a no-no, so he just patted their back gently, murmuring useless shit like ‘I know’ and ‘it’s okay’ when he didn’t really, and it wasn’t, it definitely wasn’t okay that his hometown was infested with Jonestown rejects that were killing folks he’d known since he was in diapers, or turnin’ them into rage zombies. It wasn’t okay that they were on their own out here, outnumbered and outgunned against a threat that the FBI should’ve recognized would take more than a warrant, a single cocksure agent, and a handful of local cops to deal with. It sure as shit wasn’t okay that everyone kept pinnin’ their hopes on Rook, asking them time and time again to go out and risk their neck for petty shit when they were runnin’ themselves into the ground trying to take back the county.
None of it was okay, but he couldn’t change that. What he could do, however, was help get them healed up, and do his best to make them smile.
“C’mon, partner,” he said when their shudders had subsided. “Mary May’s prob’ly gettin’ worried. Let’s get you back home.”
They sniffed and sighed against his shoulder. “Yeah, okay.”
He picked the clothes basket off the floor and held it against his hip with one arm, offering support to his friend with the other. They waved him off and headed for the door, taking small steps. They swayed disconcertingly and took brief pauses every few yards, sometimes letting out a soft hiss of pained irritation, and he tried to follow close enough behind to catch them if they fell without making them think he expected them to fail. But they made it out of the house and across the dirt drive without collapsing, so he threw the laundry in the back seat and wasted no time getting back out on the road.
“Thanks,” they said quietly, and when he glanced over, they’d wedged themselves against the side of their seat and the door, hood pulled low over their eyes. “For coming to get me. I knew—I knew you would.”
“O’ course, dude,” he snorted, fiddling with the radio until he found a channel that wasn’t cult shit. “I say ‘ride or die’ that’s not just super badass words, okay? It’s a super badass promise.”
They made a soft huffing sound that he hoped was a laugh, and mumbled something he couldn’t quite catch. A Peggie truck pulled over to the shoulder flashed by, and he craned his neck for signs of pursuit, heart hammering in his throat. Fuck, he’d moved his shotty to the backseat. He’d have to pull over to reach it if the bullets started flying.
“What’dja say, Dep?” he said, when nobody started shooting and the truck was a fugly off-white speck in his rearview mirror. They crested a hill and he could see Fall’s End far ahead, miles of golden fields separating them. He considered taking them off-road for a more direct route, but it’d probably be too bumpy for Dep’s comfort.
“Said ‘ride or die’ back—that’s…that’s what I’m s’posed to do, right? When you say that?” They cleared their throat, nuzzling against the doorframe and gingerly folding their arms. “I super badass promise you too.”
He grinned, leaning over and reaching to grab them in a hasty one-armed hug before it occurred to him that it would put too much pressure on their ribs, and settled for slapping their closest thigh excitedly. “Fuckin’ A, dude! That’s what I’m talkin’ about! You an’ me? We’re gonna save Hope County. And people are gonna love us forever and probably like, write songs about us and shit and give us dope presents and invite us to orgies and stuff. And we’ll be like, ‘you’re fuckin’ welcome’ and walk off into the sunset, and just keep having amazing adventures.”
They grinned, good hand dropping to their lap, their fingers threading comfortably with his. “Hell yes. That is exactly how this is going to go.”