Work Text:
Some Nights
John has never been good with people. When he was a child, sure, yet now it's a monumental task just to get up in the mornings to talk to someone.
His car takes up to around five minutes to start up, yet it's all a blur when you're upset.
Shoving the lever forward, away from the 'P' button, the clutch presses down to the floor of the car. It's a pattern, it's an instinct- something that has been ingrained into John by years and years of monotonous driving.
It's late at night, and he needs to get away.
The place he's currently at doesn't feel like his own. It's bare, the floorboards don't have the sound of a siren's cry, and the dust that coated most of his belongings is now gone.
What belongings he did have are also gone.
All in a night, ruined.
Stupidly enough, it weighs down on him. Holds him down like a vice, grounds him to the Earth; grounds him to somewhere where he sincerely doesn't want to go.
The man couldn't help it, it seemed like he was just getting served a pity party, one after the other.
If he were strong enough, if he were anyone else, he would have- he could have-
John starts driving. He's not sure where he's going.
It's just himself.
Alone.
(How it should be. He's not a good person, after all.)
The cigarette perched on his lips doesn't taste like anything anymore, each puff of incense is akin to therapy. Each inhale is another step towards a faux better.
Everything around him looks dim, bleak, boring, and grey- there's nothing for him here, and he knows that.
Alienated by his peers, and pushed out by his friends.
(Perhaps it's him that's doing all of that, after all, no one can hate him as much as he hates himself.)
His surroundings soften, the only thing he sees is the faint dotted line of past roads.
It's routine, it's a pattern, it's instinct.
(It's all he has.)
(He has utterly nothing.)
In his peripheral vision, the number ticks up from forty to fifty. Distantly, he's aware that he's not going fast enough, not feeling exhilarated enough from the rush of danger. From the rush of risks. From the rush of feeling alive.
Approaching the nearest highway, increments boosting higher and higher- faster and faster-
He has nothing left for him, and maybe it's all his fault.
Aimless, John is a steady seventh miles-per-hour on the highway. The road is boundless, it expands beyond the lands of his thoughts. Somehow, it's a calming lull, gives him something to focus on, and gives him something to do.
Yet, as always, his thoughts trail back to his work.
Dexter Erotroph, missing.
Bob Velseb, gone.
The eight bodies that Patty was examining, were all marked as nobodies in history. No one in the entire town recognizes them, not a single name is uttered, no families crying, and no reports of any other missing persons.
Everyone is stuck in a dead-end, and for someone like a demon- then literally.
What little work he's done is ruined, and what work he has finished is a burden; something turned sour on his tongue. It's a shame that all he's worked up to has left him as a depressed shell of a man, because when he was a child he had such big dreams.
When he was a child he was so... Lively. Yet now, with each passing look in the mirror, his reflection becomes darker and darker. Dark enough to the point where he isn't able to recognize himself anymore.
Last John checked, his eyes were sunken in with each restless night, hair brittle and buttery from the lack of shower, teeth yellow-stained from the lack of hygiene and ash tainting him.
All in all, he's not a happy camper.
John snaps out of his thoughts when he realizes he's tailgating a person in front of him, a stark white car that contrasts easily with the dark atmosphere. He hastily switches lanes, turning signal offering a polite warning.
If he let himself sink deeper into his brain, then he might have-
Maybe he would deserve it.
Maybe he should have done it.
Sucking in a deep breath, the sheriff tries to limit his focus to something less draining, something less comforting.
It was too easy, falling into the rhythm of bad thought to even worse thought.
John considered relenting to life and pressing his forehead against the rubberized grip of the wheel, allowing himself to succumb to the dark pavement.
He just... He couldn't shake the feeling, knowing that he didn't do enough.
That he could have done more.
He sighs; Jack always took initiative.
Admittedly, the only time John truly did something was in states of panic; and what he has done contributed to nothing.
-
For some reason, he stops at the Candy Club.
He doesn't know why, but he finds himself coming back here at times. Often he'd drop off his daughter when he was gone for a while, in fear of her staying home alone for too long.
The Candy Boy always accepted it, mentioned how it doesn't bother him- if a little bashful.
Unless Jack wanted something sweet, he didn't exactly have a valid reason as to why he was coming here.
But he parks the car anyway, since he's this far in already.
Committed, set it in stone.
Nobody should be open this far early in the morning. Kevin doesn't even look half-awake; his hat is abandoned, showing the huge cowlick that he's never been able to stave off.
When John clears his throat, the man shoots up fingers tapping against the counter and eyes wide as if he's never been sleeping while standing up at all. It takes a couple of seconds to recalibrate, but the hat is adorned in an instant and he's sweating bullets.
Typical Kevin.
"What's up with you, son?" The sheriff grumbled, picking out a red and blue lollipop from a clear container beside the register.
"Uh, uh," Kevin stammered, looking at everything besides the officer. "Nothing, nothing... Good morning sir, what would you like?" He smiled as if he was being held at gunpoint, counting each panel on the ceiling.
"Just these." The man set the lollipops onto the counter, before reconsidering. "And, ah, one of 'em doohickeys hangin' on the wall."
Kevin turned around, eyes surveying the array of candy with a finger to his chin. "A... A Doohickey? Oh, you mean the licorice...?"
"Yeah."
"...Okay."
John shuffled, one weight of his foot onto the other. He could make a joke right now, yet he doubts that Kevin would appreciate it. He could say something conversational, yet he also doubts that Kevin would like the extra talk; considering how he's a cop, even off duty.
Kevin sets down a long string of licorice on the white counter, reaching down and wiping his clammy hands on his pant legs. "Do you want your receipt?"
"Yeah, thanks."
Scanning the items, Kevin's hands move at a quick pace in contrast to the slow morning. John ignores how the boy's finger kept on twitching and fiddling. Bagging the candy, Kevin gives the officer a weak smile as he passes the plastic bag. "Uh, here you go, sir."
With a curt nod, John paid what was needed with a small tip. "Good day, son."
The bells hung upon the door clank and cry on his walk out.
-
"I shouldn't be hanging out with you anymore," John muttered, snuffing the bud of a cigarette against the brick wall that he and his... Buddy leaned against.
The buddy in question adorned a light blue Hawaiian shirt with black tights, an interesting combo considering the chilly climate that has taken over the town as of late.
"You said that last time, Johnathon. It ain't like you talk to anyone else 'sides yer boss and little miss." The gruff voice beside the sheriff said, a large man that was almost two heads taller than John. He held a fat cigarette in his hand along with a sack of... Something in the other. Every so often, the sack would twitch- it wasn't John's business to find out, and it wasn't his job to ask questions; unless it warranted clear suspicions.
John shook his head, if a little hurt at the assumption. "I talk to Jack."
"Just Jack?"
"...Come on, Frank." They're both adults now, there was no reason for the other man to be such a tease.
Frank let out a bark of laughter, eyes scrunching up with each huff. "You talk to- count 'em- three people, Johnny."
John arched an eyebrow, avoiding eye contact. "Four, if you want to count yerself." He reaches down and pops open a pack of Marlboro Reds, flicking his lighter a couple of times. Once lit, he stuffed the box into the safety of his back pocket and dropped the lighter into the safety of his khakis.
"Aw, you think I'm your friend?" Frank wrapped an arm around John's shoulders- ignoring how the man froze- and pulled him close to his side. "That's so sweet, I never thought you considered us friends."
Brows furrowing in, John looked up at the sky in silent prayer, as if someone or something in the sky would reach down and carry him away. He was practically a dwarf against Frank's mass, emphasized by how Frank had to lean over just to give him a bearhug."I never said friend, we're talkin' about people I talk to. Honestly, who do you even talk to?"
With the spotlight on him, Frank let John out of the firm grasp. "Ah, well, I do have friends- plenty, but if I tell you, they might just..."
"Let me guess, they're all criminals?" John deadpanned, blowing a puff of smoke into Frank's face. He knows he shouldn't be talking to him, knows that he shouldn't even be associating with him at all- but John has never been perfect, and the person who has stuck around him for most of his life has always been Frank.
Together, through thick and thin. Even if Frank's choices as an adult weren't... At all good.
"Perhaps." Frank cheekily grinned with all teeth, a Cheshire cat toying with him. "You may never know. Actually, I can tell you one of 'em. You wanna hear?"
"Is it Candy Dealer?"
"It's Candy Dealer." The man slumped in like rotting wood, defeated. "How'd you know?"
John rolled his eyes, tapping the side of his cigarette to rid of the hanging ash. "Your guys' line of work is similar. I know you, Frank, those popsicles you sell ain't all just sugar."
Relenting, Frank purses his lips, letting John go out of the hug. "Can't get anythin' past you, huh? Enough about me, how're you holdin' up with Jack?"
"Christ," John turned, feeling a headache coming on. "Even you're askin' me about him? Just the other day Shitmore was on my case. Why does everyone want to know about him so badly? Can't you ask him yerself?"
"Eh, not really, he's in blue. If he so much as catches a glance of lil ol' me, then I'd be taken to the slammer in less than a second." Frank nonchalantly shrugged with a bark of a laugh, before dropping his smoke onto the ground and stomping it out with the sole of his shoe.
The sheriff tsk-ed, giving Frank a soft wack in the bicep. "Ay, pick that shit up. You don't want to pay a fine for that, don't ya?"
"It's just a cigarette! Everyone does it, man."
"Say that to my badge, Frank."
With a sigh, Frank shook his head in defeat, bending down to pick up the crushed remnants of his cigarette and opening it in his sack to toss it in. Hopefully, in the future, he would properly dispose of the trash instead of littering. "Sorry officer, I promise I won't do it again, officer."
John gave the man a curt nod in satisfaction, "Thank you."
Frank smiled, "Yeah, be thankful." The sack in his off-hand gave a sharp jerk. "Eh, I've gotta head out now, man. It's feedin' time, so you know what that means."
John does not know what that means.
Frank sends him a thumbs up before walking off on quick legs.
-
Ignoring the general disarray of the house (even with the boarded-up window, it looks much better than the mess of John's office.) John walks up the steps and knocks.
Jack is sick, it's just him today. For some reason, his absence only highlights just how alone he is.
After two minutes, John knocks again. This time, the reaction is immediate- there's a click of five different locks, along with the chattering of what sounds similar to teeth; or maybe a chamber of a gun.
The door inches open... Slowly. Wide enough for John to only see half of the person behind the door.
"If this has to do with the tea party, I don't want anything to do with that gnat-looking, blue-eyed, son of a-"
Clearing his throat, John held his cigarette between his index and middle finger to talk without a barrier. "Sir, Evermore doesn't host parties."
Ignacio blinks once, twice for good measure. From what the officer can see, the man has one hand on his hip and the other hidden behind the door. Looking over his shoulder- Ignacio is somehow taller than him, the entirety of his house is cloaked in darkness other than a yellowish-white glow that's hidden behind a hallway.
"Yes, he does," Ignacio says, adamant, "And I don't want in." With a condescending look, he frowns, one side of his mouth tipping down more than the other.
John let out a sigh, because Ignacio is always a hassle to deal with.
Inhaling in, he smelled like-
Cologne and... Ash?
Never-mind that.
Reaching into his pocket, John's brow twitched as he grabbed a letter. On it held Mayor Evermore and Ignacio's names in a scraggly scrawl. "I was ordered personally to deliver this."
"What is it?" The man snatched it with more boney than skin hands, eyes darting side to side. "Eugh, it's warm."
"Well, it was just in my pocket," John's eyes narrowed, "As you can see, it's a letter from Evermore."
The man hummed, observing yet not making another move. In the fit of his silence, John looks down at the letter, and then at Ignacio's hands. They were bandaged, greyed, and almost yellowing from the lack of change. It wasn't any of the sheriff's business, yet seeing the bandages and that wafting scent-
Maybe he just needs some rest. If Ignacio doesn't notice the smell, then it must be fine.
John stuck his cigarette upon the hilt of his mouth, taking in a much-needed gulp of incense. "Alright, I'll be headin' out now. Have a good-"
"Wait," Ignacio halted, and the door opens just a little wider; impetuous. John turned back, brow arching.
This exchange was way over, there wasn't anything that neither man needed.
Ignacio seemed to falter, mouth opening and closing like a pufferfish, or a kid that has stage fright. "Gah, never-mind." He settled on, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.
John leaves without a word.
Everyone in this town was strange, it's better to not question things than to be in the know.
-
"How is he holdin' up?" John set down a warm mug of coffee on the sleek, metal table- in the realm of Patty's workspace, where she spent the majority of her time.
"Stubborn, just like you," Patty said, flipping through dandelion-coloured folders and sorting through the mini stacks of papers stored in them. There's a soft repetition to it, with the sheriff watching as the pathologist gets her paperwork done upon her standup desk.
Rolling his eyes with a twitch of his brow, John took a sip from his beverage. Trying to reason with Patty, his fingers tapped against the table, "They ain't that stubborn, you've just got to coax him a little. The last time he was sick, he wasn't much of a problem at all."
"That's because he cuddled you for the better half of his recovery. I, personally, don't cuddle when I am on duty." The woman playfully retorted, setting down a hefty folder that had sticky notes sticking out of it. "And are you really sure you want to be sitting at that table? A couple of bodies had laid on it before."
"Ain't the worst thing I've sat at. His temperature ain't too high, right? It ain't as high as-"
Patty turns, and it freezes John from continuing. She has an... Almost conflicted look on her face, softened and worn down- half-lidded eyes with furrowed brows. A gaze that matches that of an old car finally breaking down after decades of use.
Yet, she reigns herself in with a deep breath. "I am a forensic pathologist John, not your typical doctor that treats fevers or flu. I understand that you're concerned, but you're always free to ask Jack themself how he's feeling."
The sheriff closed his eyes for a moment, head tilting up to the ceiling in exasperation. "I know Patty, I just..."
"You have trouble telling him that you care about him. Maybe, this can be a stepping stone for you. How does that sound?"
"I'm trying." John settles with.
"I know, and I'm proud of you for that." His friend- his favourite co-worker, the only person that knows John more than John knows himself; says. The words slip out so easily, like casual conversation, and John isn't able to shake the feeling of disbelief.
At the man's silence, Patty takes initiative. "You can visit his house tonight, can't you? I'm sure they're holding up just fine, and that his health hasn't totally gone to shit. Jack's resilient, he won't get any more worse than he is now."
"How reassuring," John starkly muttered into his cup, "But, thanks."
"My door is always open to you, John."
He didn't want to think about why she was so kind to him; everyone was too good for him.
-
Driving back home, John hasn't felt any more alone than he is now. In a public display of defeat, on a whim, he makes a (perhaps illegal) u-turn, straight toward Jack's house.
He wanted to calm his thoughts, wanted to end the silence, wanted to-
It was all 'wants' in the end, never 'needs', and maybe all he needs is Jack.
Pulling into the driveway, the car barks out before the engine dies for the rest of the night. John ignores the pitiful cry of it begging him to go back before his keys are shoved into the too-tight hole of a lock.
"Just in case you needed someone," Jack said, holding a perfect replica of metal that slots into the one barrier that John were allowed access to. "Just in case of an emergency."
But this wasn't an emergency, nor was it because he needed someone- no, of course not.
This was just him being desperate, sickness could take hold of anyone and change them for eternity.
"John?" A man's head pokes up from behind the couch, black, messy curls that miss gallons of gel and sleepy half-lidded eyes- now wide from surprise. It was an unexpected visit, after all. "What're you doing here?"
The sheriff takes a moment to allow himself a deep breath, snuffing out the almost forgotten cigarette that was once blessed by his lips by the ashtray next to the door.
"I just... Wanted to see you." He settles on.
And that's enough for Jack.
It's enough for both of them.
Continuing, John said, "I got us some candy. Lollipops and licorice."
With a soft smile, Jack scoots on the couch- all bundled up in blankets, yet he opens up for John. "Sweet! Hop in."
And who is John to deny his partner?