Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Shane hates the rain more than anything.

He hates being wet and having to walk home from work in the rain. He hates that Jas gets sad because she can’t jump rope next to her favorite tree, he hates it because it makes him think.

Thunder rolls through the sky off in the distance, and Shane’s twelve-pack of beer clinks in his hand as he walks toward his special drinking spot. The mud squishes beneath his shoes as he walks south on autopilot, stuck in his own head.

Close to the abandoned shack, Shane plops down. He hooks a finger under the handle of the packaging, tearing the cardboard box’s top off and pulling out a can, cracking it open, and taking a swig. He looks out beyond the cliffs to the sea, watching the lightning dance along the horizon. His mind wanders, exhausted and pulled taut with stress. He curls his knees up to his chest, drinking the rest of the can and tossing it aside.

The rain is already soaked through his jacket by his third can, his fourth can goes by quick, and his fifth drink makes him nauseous.

Yet he persists, drinking past half-a-dozen. He can’t move. His face is pressed into the earth, and he feels the grass and wildflowers brush against his face. The rain batters his body, and Shane feels like he could roll off the edge and feel absolutely nothing.

Lightning streaks across the sky, and thunder shakes the ground. Shane is terrified in his half-dead stupor, he tosses the half-empty can he was nursing into the grass next to the others. If he decides not to kill himself tonight he’ll clean them up before he leaves.

He’s always hated the rain. Always. He hates feeling like this, hates feeling horrible, hates feeling pathetic and completely helpless in his life. He used to hide under his blankets and weep when he was a kid, covering his ears when the thunder rocked the walls of his family’s dingy apartment. He’s still like that, in a way, still meek and small and so very frightened.

He doesn’t even register the footsteps approaching him from behind, nor the rattling of a bucket.

✷𓆟✷

The farmer was… weird. Ever since they moved in that fresh spring morning almost a year ago, they’ve bothered Shane every time they’ve seen him. He hated it, he always hated when people tried to talk to him.

They started giving him little gifts, they’d buy him dinner at the saloon, and show him the eggs their chickens they bought from his aunt laid, but he tried not to care.

They found him at one of his drinking spots and, as someone after his own heart, shotgunned a beer he offered them. They started growing on him after that, like a cyst.

They were fine, he didn’t really mind them showing up whenever they do.

They worried about him, but it didn't feel like the pity everyone else gave him. They didn’t try to change him or fix him, they let him figure out his shit on his own.

But now that he’s sitting here covered in mud and beer, he wishes they did.

They’re looming over him with a bucket now, lightning streaks across the sky, illuminating their face in a stark, white flash. They always seem to know where to find him, it’s weird.

The wind is harsh, the rain is beating against the metallic shell of the bucket. The farmer just stands and stares, and Shane feels like an insect being examined and pinned by the farmer’s gaze.

They hardly say much, they’re someone who lets the silence speak for them most of the time. But sometimes they say things that shake Shane to his very core, things that make him sit with his discomfort and fear for longer than he can normally stand. They always seem to know exactly what to say to him.

They set the bucket down at their side and sit next to Shane, folding their legs beneath them and running their fingers through the tall grass.

“It’s midnight,” They say looking out at the sea, listening to thunder roll across the sky, ”What are you doing out here?”

Shane cranes his neck, pressing his ear into the ground trying to get a good look at the farmer. He can hardly hear them. He mumbles something in response, letting his head fall limply against the earth. The farmer looks down at him, humming softly to themselves.

The wind howls above Shane and he feels like he’s dying, he wants to puke. He doesn't notice that he’s shaking and teary-eyed.

The farmer sits in silence as they usually do, idly petting the grass. Shane watches their fingers flit about, he notices their palms and knuckles are calloused from their labor. Their movements are relaxed and delightfully mundane, and for a moment Shane forgets about the storm, focused on their hand.

Lightning crackles somewhere close by and Shane feels a heavy weight against his ribs and he can’t breathe. The farmer places a warm palm against his arm and brushes their thumb against his soggy jacket. They don’t say a word, simply allowing Shane to drink in his terror with a warm hand to ground him.

✷𓆟✷

…The rain feels kind of nice, actually.

It rattles the empty beer cans and the bucket, which reminds him of the way it always pitter-pattered on his air conditioner when he was little. The grass is dewy and drips with rainwater, and the farmer’s hand is heavy and warm against his arm. He breathes in that smell of petrichor and he feels a little more okay than before.

They say something about walking him home. He hardly hears it, but he ends up hobbling with one arm around the farmer’s shoulder northward. The farmer packs up the beer cans strewn about on the ground and carries them in the soggy cardboard packaging they came in.

He mumbles a thank you when they open the door and guide him to his room. They set him down on the bed gently and they peel off his wet shoes and put them by the front door. They leave shortly after, taking the trash with them to throw them away elsewhere.

Shane hobbles over to his dresser and pulls out some dry clothes, his mind feels heavy because of his soggy attire. He drapes them over a chair so they don’t mold and he slips into his pajamas, eager to just go to bed.

He lies there like a dead insect, limbs curled inward against his torso. He doesn’t think about much at the moment, sitting with himself in the silence of his dark bedroom.

Another crackle of thunder, which sounds like the farmer’s humming from inside the house. He’s content, in a way, breaths even and deep as he slowly drifts off.

…He’s gotta talk to Harvey about counseling or something.

Chapter Text

Shane wakes up the next morning, surprisingly.

His hair is still a little damp from last night’s storm, and his clothes sticking to his sweaty skin as he takes in the mugginess of his room, the air stuffy and uncomfortable because they couldn’t put air conditioners in the windows. Shane always helped Jas put the box fan into her window when she was too short to open the window herself.

Shane rolls out of bed, pressing the balls of his hands into his eyes in an attempt to soothe the aching behind his eyes. Everything is too warm and too bright, and his eyes won't stop throbbing with each thought that enters his brain.

…Painkillers, Shane adds to his mental list, and a shower.

He grabs a towel and trudges towards the house’s tiny bathroom, walls lined with small hand-cut blue tiles and familiar wood floors. He turns on the water and shrugs off his t-shirt and briefs he wore to bed. He pops two ibuprofen pills, brushes his teeth, and shaves his stubble while the water heats up.

He feels the water running across his hand when he sticks it under, like a muted pins-and-needles sensation over his calloused palms.

Stepping under the warm flow of water, Shane takes in the sensation, feeling the discomfort wash off of his skin from top to bottom. He runs his hands across his hair, tilting his face upward to feel the water against his face. He goes through the usual motions, lathering up some cheap Joja shampoo and scratching his nails against his scalp until his hair doesn’t feel greasy, then his conditioner first and his body wash, which he rinses out at the same time.

He stands under the water until it runs an uncomfortable lukewarm, just enjoying the sensations and the sandalwood-scented steam.

He finally turns off the water, which drip, drip, drips into the ceramic tub.

Shane rubs his towel against his face, then ruffles his hair with it and dries the excess water from his skin. He wraps the towel around his waist and walks back towards his room with a trail of wet footprints trailing behind him.

✷𓆟✷

Stocking shelves has to be some form of horrible torture from the olden days, like treadmills being used by prisoners to mill grain

The monotony, the same two pop songs blaring on the overhead speakers every fifteen minutes.

Grab one can, place it on the shelf, grab another, and place that one on the shelf too.

Shane’s uniform doesn’t feel right against his skin, it’s a polyester collared shirt and the too-bright blue stained some of his clothes when he threw it in the wash the first time. His pants are also uncomfortable, stretching at his skin as he walks around the store.

He tries to zone out, he wishes he had headphones like Sam. He picks up a can and slides it in amongst the others.

The logos and brands of each thing sometimes make being here a little less awful, sometimes stocking “Taco Sauce for Babies” has Shane holding back a chuckle while he snaps a picture on his flip phone to show Jas when he gets home.

He grabs a few cans all at once, pushing them towards the back of the shelf. Shane splits his checks in a very particular way. Most of it goes to Jas: clothes, shoes, toys, bedding, school supplies, and money for her later in life. He wants Jas to have a better life than he did, and he wants her to grow up and then get the hell out of this town.

He puts most of his money in a savings account for Jas when she’s older and ready for college because she’s already so brilliant. She’ll go to some fancy university in the city or some college really far away and Shane will be content knowing she won’t ever get trapped in Stardew Valley like everyone else here.

He’s trying to think ahead, for once.

He has some to pay the rent, it’s not much. Thank Marnie for her loving soul.

Whatever’s left is for him, it’s not much, and he’s learned to manage. Using some of it to buy clothes occasionally, and wearing the ones he buys until they’re completely worn out. He buys good shoes because shoes are more expensive when you buy cheap ones.

He doesn’t care that his jacket has been mended on the left sleeve at least seven times, or that some of his shirts have small holes in them from being worn so many times.

He does care that Jas has her nice dresses, and her nice shoes, and her nice toys. He cares about those things, his own wellbeing taking a backseat.

Shane reaches into the crate and his hand hits the bottom. He picks up the empty crate and grabs a new one that’s full of cereal, ready to start the cycle.

✷𓆟✷

The Stardrop Inn is always warm and welcoming after a long shift, Emily’s always eager to hear any stories Shane has from the ranch.

He sits at the stool tucked next to the fireplace and has a few beers while Emily tending to the bar, any time not spent serving drinks and taking orders is spent gossiping and listening to chicken stories.

She’s radiant, always bounding across the saloon in her bright red dresses with her contagious energy, Emily is the last person anyone would expect Shane to enjoy being around.

Shane takes his usual seat, watching Emily dry some wine glasses. She loves across the bar and leaned over the counter, a smile across her painted red lips.

Shane hesitates, not following the usual song-and-dance of ordering his cheap beer.

The red of Emily’s dress is stark against the muted tones of everything else in the bar. It makes him think of a Shirley Temple he’s always had when he was young.

He orders a Shirley Temple. Just a mix of lemon-lime soda and grenadine on the rocks, with a cherry of course.

He takes a drink, it’s sweet (as to be expected) and Emily also put an extra cherry in it because she knows he likes them.

He drinks a Shirley Temple as he shares some stories about Jas’ most recent art project with Emily, who listens on excitedly. She tells Shane about Hailey, who’s been acting a lot nicer lately, something about the farmer.

✷𓆟✷

Shane leaves the bar sober, which feels kind of strange.

The sky is clear with a vast expanse of stars above him, billions and billions of silver-y freckles dotted across the dark navy sky. The air is cool as Shane takes a deep breath in.

…He feels fine, which is something he hasn’t been able to say with such certainty for a long time. Everything is quiet and clear and calm and Shane just wants to take it all in.

He makes it back to the ranch in fifteen minutes. Jas is outside catching fireflies with her hands, jumping to try and catch the ones just out of reach. Shane scoops her up, lifting her high enough so she can catch one, quickly cupping it between her palms.

She shows it to Shane, it crawls around along her tiny palms, elytra suddenly snapping open as the lightning bug takes off once again, glowing a bright yellow.

He laughs, kissing her temple and walking her back inside.

Chapter Text

Shane became godfather months prior, but it didn’t set in until he saw who he was being “godfather” for.

Back then, a little after her birth when he finally got to visit his friends in the hospital was when he held her for the first time.

She was a heavy and tiny and kind of bald baby. Shane thought it was really funny, and so did his friends.

She was swaddled in this little orange blanket, and her little mop of hair atop her head made nicknaming his friends’ baby the easiest job in the world.

Shane was sitting in a chair across from the bed when they reminded him that they wanted him to be her godfather (if he accepted the offer). He did, and he looked down at this tiny little baby and didn’t really think much of that responsibility at the time.

It was just an interesting thing to brag about to his friends. “I’m a godfather, now”, and “I’ve got a goddaughter now.”

He called Marnie to tell her the news, she was always more involved with Shane’s life than either of his parents since he moved to the city.

He’d visit a lot, come in and check on little Jas, he’d ask her if she's got any baby teeth coming in (she’d only babble and he’d assume it was a no.)

Shane would pick her up and help out with managing the little rascal while his friends rested. Jas was practically attached to Shane, and he sometimes thought about buying a carrier so he could use two hands while he worked.

✷𓆟✷

Eventually he became Uncle Shane, which is a higher rank than godfather in his eyes.

Jas was two-and-a-half years old when she would run up to Shane when he came over, barrelling into him so he could pick her up and carry her back inside slung over his shoulder like a sack of chicken feed, she’d squeal and kick.

He missed living outside the city, where the loudest thing at night were the cicadas. He was definitely going to take Jas on a little trip to Pelican Town to visit Marnie when she grew a little bit older.

She’d ask, put me down, Uncle Shane! He would, and then wave to her parents while he slid off his ratty running shoes.

He’s been around more than her actual uncle, which felt like something to brag about.

✷𓆟✷

Then he was a babysitter, he was babysitter a lot, but also still uncle.

His friends, her parents, wanted to see a show. Some band he never heard of that was playing an hour away. They left Shane and Jas together, she was six-and-a-quarter, and he was thirty-five.

They were supposed to be gone for a few hours, just have a little dinner, go to the concert, then come back. Shane could never agree with them about what “a few” meant, sometimes three or four, maybe five if you’re being very loose with definitions.

But six was too much, they all agreed about that. Especially for a concert for some band Shane didn’t know the name of. Where were they going, anyway? Why didn’t he ask where they were going?

Shane called them on their landline phone, it went to voicemail after a little while.

Jas was getting worried, Shane put on a little movie for them to watch together, then he tucked her into bed and promised to wait for them to come home before he left.

Six became seven, then seven-and-a-half.

Shane didn’t stop calling intermittently for another hour-and-a-half, stopping after he decided that he was being paranoid.

Eight, Eight-and-a-half, finally, the call connects and Shane can hear someone on the other line.

“God, finally. Where are you guys? I put Jas to bed like four hours ago. Why didn’t you guys--”

“Sir?”

They asked if he knew them, he gave first and last names. He doesn’t really remember a lot of the call, mostly that he was sitting in the dark and quiet living room when the paramedic he was on the phone with told him there was an accident.

He remembers looking over at Jas’ door, seeing the corner of her bed illuminated by her night-light.

“What?” He whispered in a hushed tone, thinking that this is some kind of sick joke. Some sick fucking joke.

They apologized again, Shane slid his hand across his eyes and squeezed, hearing the wailing of an ambulance in the background.

Shane didn’t hear the rest of what they said, or he doesn’t remember anymore.

He walked in and sat on the edge of Jas’ bed, the phone forgotten on the table. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

“Oh, pumpkin,” Shane whispered, brushing a few hairs from Jas’ face. “We’re really in it now.”

She didn’t stir, just softly snoring with her stuffed animal tucked under her chin.

He sat beside her for an hour, silently weeping at her side.

She was six-and-a-quarter, and he was thirty-five when he truly became godfather.

He wasn’t ready to actually be godfather, he liked being uncle and babysitter and friend. Godfather carried weight now, a burdensome title like a crown of thorns.

Chapter Text

Shane’s flip-phone rings in his pocket, which is something he’s still getting used to.

He hardly ever uses it, no friends outside Pelican Town and everyone he actually cares about is right here. He pulls it from his shorts pocket, tucking it between his ear and shoulder as he picks up Charlie.

(Little rascal.)

“Hello?” Shane says, petting Charlie underneath her beak.

His therapist greets him, asks him how his day’s going.

“It’s usual, just working with the ladies.” He replies, checking each nest for any fresh eggs.

It’s been better, he’s doing a lot better, he’s feeling a lot better, he hasn’t been to the cliffs in almost two weeks. Emily’s been nice. Jas is good, Marnie’s good. It’s all just good.

His therapist hums, “That’s good.” they say.

He sets down Charlie, who shakes off a little bit, he wonders if his therapist can hear the chickens.

“Did you talk to the farmer? Like we planned out last session?”

“Uhh, no. No, not yet.” Shane scratches at his stubble, stepping outside into the warm air. “Haven’t, uh… Haven’t had the time to.”

He’s scared, actually.

The farmer, whatever their name is, saw him at his absolute lowest. What is he supposed to do, just waltz up to them, “Hey, so sorry you had to stop me from killing myself, I’m so embarrassed that I let it get that bad! I promise I’m not usually like that, talking to you makes me so nervous.”

He sighs, makes his thoughts known to the other end of the line.

“It’s dumb.” He says, “They were just being nice, they’re nice to everyone, I’m not special.”

His therapist, who he sometimes wants to strangle for being so right about a lot of things all the time, reminds him that the farmer has gone out of their way to spend lots of time with him, they’ve tried to seek him out since the incident. They don’t seem the type to respond negatively to his honesty.

“They might even appreciate a visit, they probably enjoy seeing you.”

Shane followed the path toward town, walking without purpose, he just didn’t really have a place for these sessions just yet.

“I just--I dunno…” Shane runs his fingers through his hair. “I’m… I kind of want to talk to them about it. I feel bad just ignoring them, I just wish they didn’t see me like that.”

(I wish they didn’t see me drunk. I wish they didn’t see me completely fucking spiraling over losing my two best friends in one night. I wish I didn’t love that stupid farmer so much it hurts.)

He sniffs, staring out at the ocean.

“I really like ‘em.” Shane finally mutters into the receiver, it scares him half-to-death.

The ocean flows inward like it’s listening.

He lets it. The water’s cold, good thing he’s not wearing socks with his waterproof shoes.

“This is stupid, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be so upset about this.” He wipes his eyes, pressing his thumb and forefinger into his eyes.

“It’s okay.” he hears, the waves lapping at his feet, “You’re allowed to feel like this. I think it’s good, actually. They seem very nice.”

They are, Shane desperately wants to say. He wants to talk about how stupidly giddy he gets when they would walk into the saloon, how bashful he gets about all the little things they do for him.

“They’re very understanding, and they just… they get it, you know? They don’t make me feel bad about stuff, about having all these problems.”

There’s a tiny horseshoe crab scuttling a few feet away in the water.

“And they’re a good listener, even if it’s because they don’t really say much.” He jokes, laughing softly.

His therapist hums, probably writing a few notes down on their clipboard.

He shakes off the water from his shoes and walks back toward town.

✷𓆟✷

It’s a perfect summer day, the kind of day where you can feel the sun warm against your neck, but there’s a light breeze to keep it from becoming too uncomfortable.

Shane’s therapist, bless them, is trying to convince Shane to be honest with the farmer.

“Just ask, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“They never talk to me again.” Shane retorts almost immediately.

“Would they do that, though?”

(...Touché.)

“Probably not.” Shane finally submits. Damn you, therapist with your incredible insight.

Shane looks down the path toward the bus stop, except he’s looking further down the path, beyond the quaint wooden gate at the end of the dirt road.

“So, I have a little homework for you this week, please go talk to the farmer, I’m sure they’ll understand.”

Shane hums, “Okay. You win.”

His therapist laughs, thanks him for trying, and schedules their next session.

“Same time next week?”

“Yeah, I’ll see, though. Jas needs new shoes, and some new books.” School’s back on, and Jas has been doing amazing. Penny’s been such a good role model in Jas’ life, Shane needs to thank her somehow, maybe bring her some fresh eggs or something.

His therapist hums, and writes something down. “Keep me updated, then, okay?”

“Mmhm.” There’s a little more idle talk before Shane hangs up and folds up his flip-phone, sliding it back into his shorts.

The farmer is snipping the stem of an impressively large melon when they spot Shane, and they wave at him.

Shane opens the gate, which whines as it swings inward. The farmer pats the dirt from their gloves, wiping the sweat from their brow.

“Hey--” Shane starts, jogging over to the farmer, looking out at the large field of melons. “I, uh… I wanted to talk to you about what happened a few weeks back. At the cliffs. I just--”

He clears his throat.

(Hook.)

“Oh man, I dunno how to say this. I just--I’m sorry you had to see that.”

The farmer smiles a soft little smile, the kind that makes their eyes wrinkle a little bit.

“I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Maybe it’s because it’s them, maybe it’s because every word that comes out of them shakes him to his very core.

“Oh, uhm, thanks. Yeah, I just… Thanks.” Shane rocks on his feet and stuffs his hands into his pockets, looking down at the melon in the farmer’s hands.

Shane looks down, jaw tight and hands clammy.

“I started seeing a therapist, by the way. I’m sorry I kind of dropped off the face of the earth for a few weeks, I’ve been working on some stuff.”

Shane looks up, fiddling with his hands, and the farmer looks back with a smile that makes him want to curl up like a pill bug.

“Yeah… so, uh, thanks for helping me. I appreciate it.”

The farmer nods, and Shane can’t take being around them anymore, so he turns to leave.

They stop him though, and suggest dinner at the Saloon. To catch up, they say.

(Line.)

“Oh, tonight?” He asks, and the farmer nods, if he wouldn’t mind, “Yeah, okay. Sure, that works for me.” He says, almost a little too quiet with the cicadas screaming in the trees.

The sun is setting on their neck, their face framed by the light. They look radiant.

“I’ll see you there I guess? Whenever you finish with your things.”

They nod again and smile, and Shane can’t help it, he smiles back. It’s the kind he can’t stop, the kind that he hasn’t felt in a long while, the kind that makes him feel like he’s gonna die, in a good way.

He turns to walk away again, trying not to bounce on his feet with how excited he is.

(Sinker.)