Chapter Text
Barclay has many ways of calming down after an abomination comes to town. Helping Dani in the garden, locking himself in the kitchen to bake sixty batches of cinnamon rolls, things like that.
Right now, he’s combining two of his favorites. The first is foraging. He’s in one of his secret spots deep in the forest. It’s far, far from the lodge. In fact, he probably isn’t even supposed to be here, but he’s never seen another human out here. Rangers included. It’s still early enough in the spring that isn’t a ton to harvest, but he likes it anyway.
Just like he enjoys his other method of calming down: fantasizing about a certain FBI agent.
The first month of Stern’s residence at the lodge, Barclay did his best to avoid the other man. No point in putting himself right in the sightline of the person who could shrink his whole world down to a tiny cell. This was complicated by the fact Stern was under the impression this was a normal lodge, meaning it would strike him as odd if someone didn’t change out the linens or pick up the laundry (Stern actually offered to do that one himself if the Lodge had a machine on site; but no way was Barclay risking him finding the safe house on accident). Not to mention Stern spent half is time in the restaurant, sitting at the bar with a cup of coffee and going over his notes.
And because it was slow, sometimes Stern would talk to him.
“Could I trouble you for more cream?”
“How long have you lived in Kepler?”
“Do you have a spare pen on you?”
“Do you like working here?”
It was that last question that got more than a one sentence response, because it was neither mundane nor an obvious attempt to gather information for his investigation.
“Yeah” he’d set down the mug he was cleaning, “I do. I know it’s weird to talk about your work like your family, but a lot of the guests have lived here a long time. Y’know, how some people in cities have to live in hotels. And I feel kinda like their older brother sometimes. Plus, I like cooking.”
“I could never do that professionally. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I can hold my own in a kitchen, but I could never handle it as a job. One dinner rush and I’d crack.”
“Really, Mister Special Agent? Scared of my kitchen but you’ll chase down cryptids” He’d chuckled, and it had come out more flirtatious than intended.
But the instant he’d said it, the tone felt right. And Stern laughed, sipped his coffee with a smile.
“Bigfoot wouldn’t yell at me if I got an order wrong.”
“No, he would not.” Barclay mutters. He’d never yell at his staff
“I’ve watched from back here, some nights while you were working. That, ah, that came out more menacing than I meant ot to be.”
“I gotcha, easy to see me form where you usually sit” He nods towards Sterns preferred chair at the counter, the last one, one that lets him keep his back to a wall and his eyes on the whole room.
“Well, anyway, I saw you making those omelettes, one perfect one after another like it was no big deal.”
“You never made an omelette?”
“I’ve made plenty, just none that are as fluffy and...delicious.” He meets Barclays eyes.
Barclay tosses his towel over his shoulder, “C’mon, lemme show you the trick to it.”
And so he’d found himself teaching the FBI agent how to make the perfect omelette. Then, gradually Stern was in his kitchen a few times a week, often late in the evening or early in the morning. He’ll admit he daydreamed about flirting and cooking at the same time. But he never thought it would happen. But then his fingers started lingering on Sterns, the other man leaning close to watch what Barclay was doing. Stern would says something teasing, blue eyes shining, and Barclay would lose his words and sometimes his entire train of thought.
As he wanders, basket in hand and gloves on, he thinks about what else he and Stern could do. He’s even gotten into the springs with him once or twice, but damn if he wouldn’t like to see him shirtless in his bed too. Or maybe in a suit, but out with Barclay somewhere nice, somewhere far away and safe where Stern doesn’t look out of place and Barclay isn’t looking over his shoulder every two seconds.
He rubs his forehead, headache forming behind his eyes. If only there was a way for him to know half the truth. If only Barclay could be sure that honesty wouldn’t land him, Mama, and who knows how many others in jail and/or some shadowing government holding facility.
(Is there any other kind government facility? Huh, maybe the ranger station. Does that count?)
On the next pang, he drops the basket.
What the hell?
His thoughts bleed together, and all he knows is that he needs to take off his bracelet, he needs to be free he needs to be hidden and oh, oh no he knows what this is-
And then it all goes a bit blurry.
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This is not how Duck pictured his day going.
The abomination was destroyed, the day was saved, now he could fuck off back to his place and rest, maybe play with cat and watch some b-grade thing he grabbed from Redbox. He’d even asked Indrid to join him when the Sylph expressed interest in watching things made after 1995
Instead he’s holding a furious, thrashing Mothman down in the springs.
“Are you sure this is gonna work?”
“It fuckin better! It’s the only think I got to fix someone who’s goin feral on me.” Mama yells.
“But why isn’t his crystal working?” Aubrey tries not to break her focus, using a spell to help pin Indrid in the water.
“Hell if I know! Ned, we still all clear?”
“Indeed we are, Mama!” He continues scanning the doors to the changing rooms and the main lodge for any unwanted onlookers.
Or, rather, one unwanted onlooker.
“I’m pretty sure I saw Stern leave this morning.” Aubrey adds.
“At least we got one thing on our si-OW!” Duck pulls back his now-bruised hand glares at Indrid, who hisses and bares his mandibles.
“You got that outta your system?”
Another hiss, followed by a growl, Indrid poofing up slightly before sinking further into the water, leaving only his mouth and up visible.
“It’s not affecting anyone else?” Duck loosens his hold slightly, and Indrid stops growling.
“Nope, none of the other Sylphs are having this problem.”
“Bite.” Indrid hisses.
“Don’t you fuckin dare, that last one hurt.”
Indrid rises up slightly, but stays close to Ducks legs, “No. Bite. I got bitten.”
“Oh shit, that’s right. I had to heal your arm where the bom-bom got you.”
Indrid nods vigorously, flicking water from his antenna onto Duck, who splutters.
“Did anyone else get bitten?” Ned looks worried.
“Barclay did. OH shit”
Duck winces at the damp as Indrid hugs his legs, chirring, “Right.”
“Oh my god, that means he’s-”
“-gone feral.” Indrid says.
“He’s interruptin us again that’s a good sign. Bad news is, I know Barclay went off by himself this mornin, way the hell out there. So we better start figurin out how to track him down. And thank our fuckin stars Stern ain’t anywhere near him.”
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Well, this could have gone better.
Stern is flat on his back at the bottom of an incredibly steep hill. The same steep hill that he spent what seemed to be an eternity falling down, his pack catching on a scrubby tree as he did, causing his supplies to spill out in his wake.
He’s torn between needing to scream in frustration at his own error, at the fact he is a highly trained operative who lost a battle with some loose dirt and gravity, with the desire to wallow in self-pity.
Then he opts, as he soft often does, for the third option: gritting his teeth and getting himself in order.
Focusing on the grey sky, he wiggles his toes, then flexes his feet.
“Shit.” He hisses, pain starting in his ankle and sparking up his right leg. Adds one injury to his mental checklist. His legs, like his torso, are bruised and scratched but otherwise intact. His fingers curl and point, his wrists move how they need to.
Gradually, cautiously, he sits up. Finds a tear in his left pant leg with bleeding skin peeking through, touches his cheek and comes away with blood. It’s not pretty, but it’s not nearly as bad as it could be.
He eases his crumpled pack off his shoulders to being an inventory. Finds his remaining supplies include: two granola bars, his rain slicker, a flashlight, a half full canteen, and some water purifiers. Gone are: his med kit, all his other food, his firearm, thermal blanket, map, compass, and firestarter.
Not a heartening tally. And it gets worse when he pats his jacket and finds that while his identification, tucked safely in an inside pocket, stayed on him, his emergency phone did not. The same phone that would allow him to tap into the frequencies used by emergency services in Kepler.
Peering at the crumbly hillside, he spies the small, black rectangle of his salvation...at almost the very top.
Very well, now that he knows his assets, he can devise possible courses of action.
Option one: Attempt to climb back up the steep, extremely unstable cliff and retrieve his phone. Pros: could result in him reaching help. Cons: Odds are far higher that he will simply slip and fall, further injuring himself.
Option two: Fashion a makeshift bandage for his ankle and attempt to navigate to the nearest frontage road, or back towards his car. Pros: Could result in contact with help, would make him feel like he was actually getting somewhere. Cons: Runs counter to known survival advice, and also he’s in some sort of ravine, meaning he would have to find some way back in order to backtrack his steps. And no such way seems available, the steep hill stretching out in either direction.
Option three: Stay put, set out signals that other travelers might see, make a shelter, and wait for help. Pros: Fits within standard survival advice. Requires less overall energy. Cons: This is a barely charted part of the forest, which he is only allowed into because of his FBI status. And his next report to Hayes is not due for another five days. Which means no one will notice he’s gone until then, at the soonest. And even if someone notices sooner, they won’t come looking for him.
No one at the lodge will even miss him. In that way, it’s just like being back in the city.
Option four: Curl into a ball while feeling sorry for self. Wait for the sweet release of death, ideally via exposure rather than Black Bear. Pros: Requires very little energy, as he’s about two seconds away from doing it anyway. Cons: Will not get the chance to ask Barclay to dinner. Also, death.
He pulls his legs up to his chest for comfort, rests his chin on his knees as the gears in his head spin like they haven’t been greased in decades, leaving him with no further ideas.
A water drop hits his nose. He slowly glares up, several more pattering on his forehead.
“Really?” He yells.
The sky rumbles in response.
“Fine. Fine.” He scans the nearby trees for an easy shelter. There must be a small one that can act as an umbrella of sorts. He spots a fallen log with some broken branches laying near by. Perhaps he can make something of that.
He stands, tests his weight on his bad foot once for due diligence, curses said due diligence when pain once again flares through his body. Very well, he will hobble.
Soon he’s kneeling in dirt that is rapidly turning to mud, trying to make the plant life conform to something, anything resembling a shelter.
Branches snap behind him, and he turns.
There’s nothing there. Or, if there is, he can’t see it. And if he can’t see it he really hopes it’s a deer and not something higher on the food chain.
Another snap, and this time he sees a shape. A big one. One that is now growling and coming closer. When it finally steps out of the underbrush, he’s confronted with a bipedal entity, covered in coppery fur, with a rather human face. And very, very big feet.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”