Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For what it's worth, you don't know the man who’s pointing the gun at your face. It is difficult, in these circumstances, to convince yourself that this was somehow brought on by choices made in the past, even with the sophisticated talent you have for self-condemnation. He's not a disgruntled ex-boyfriend, or an unstable relative you sassed one too many times over Thanksgiving dinner. He isn’t one of your past mistakes. He's just some guy. 

He's aiming an M1911 somewhere below your clavicles and shouting words you've never been on the receiving end of, and in the time it takes him to do so, you're successful in finding one good thing about this whole experience: at least he isn't making one of your employees stare down the barrel, even if they have to watch you do it from a few feet away. Eliza and Ramón are adults, enrolled in the local college and with bills to pay, but to you they may as well be children. 

The man has a stutter you only notice when he calls you a bitch for the second time, deeming you too fucking slow in emptying the cash register into his bag. You wonder how he reached the conclusion that four hundred dollars would be worth the hassle. Who robs a bakery on a Saturday morning? People sleep in, especially in a small town. Or, most people do. The dark-haired man sitting all the way in the back with a half-eaten stack of pancakes looks wide awake. You don't know him either, but you don't think he's from around here. 

It's weird, in a way, that you aren't really thinking about what's happening in front of you. A bubble has fogged up your attention, and all that you remark upon is how the mellow 80’s playlist you picked out for today hasn't abruptly stopped playing. Thus, you'll always remember the current song as the soundtrack to your first time getting robbed. While you gather the bills from their slots in the register, it strikes you that you didn't have a song for other firsts in life. Not that there were that many worthy of background music. If anything, this feels fitting precisely because you couldn't have predicted which song would be playing when some asshole would pull his gun on you. What used to be lyrical perfection to you will likely ring a little apropos, from now until forever. You will, indeed, be waiting on a sunny day after this — many thanks to Bruce Springsteen for distracting you. 

"Are you deaf, bitch? Move it over. " 

The bubble evaporates. Yeah. Real grateful. 

You're going to do as he asks, because you are not alone. You won’t risk any lives, even if the Colt's safety has been on this entire time. You wonder if it's even his gun, by the way his hand curls around it clumsily. No real, hardened criminal would get so close when they have a ranged weapon, and maybe you’re right, but you won't take your chances. Speed in retrieving your own weapon is not the issue here — it's that if you do, you have to use it. You're not so sure it's the best course of action, even if the skin at your back itches against the warm metal nestled there. 

He's young. He didn't even bother covering his face, and the eye-watering lime green of his jacket is the very opposite of stealth wear. Maybe he's desperate, or maybe this is his first time too, though you don't think it'll be his last, especially since you've so far let it go smoothly for him.

You pause. This will give him the confidence to do it again some time, with someone else. Someone who isn't trying as hard as you to keep their impulses in check. Someone who doesn't have any urges at all, acting only on adrenaline and principles. 

You've always believed you weren't made out of the same things others were, and that's always proved true in the most unflattering ways. When you were followed home eight years ago and instead of freezing in fear, your body fought back until the skin barely clung to your stalker's face. When your first boss out of high school cornered you next to a dumpster to ask for a favor in return for the loan he'd given you, one that you'd already paid back, and he found himself short a couple of inches— terrible for him, because that was pretty much all he'd had. 

When Mark Davidson, a name you'd never forget, tricked your grandmother into signing away her house, and then his own turned to embers just two days later. It doesn't take you long to make a decision. It didn't take Mark very long to figure out the culprit behind his real estate mishap either, but only one of you walked away from the old quarry in that faded industrial town. 

There is, you realize, a choice being presented here. None of the other instances felt this ambiguous; either you fought, or you went along with an injustice and suffered for it. Plenty of people fight back out of a desire to protect themselves and their property, and plenty more do the exact opposite out of a desire to keep their lives. You aren't sure where you fit in this particular situation. The past has taught you time and again that you're part of the people who fight, but that has only ever resulted in a trail of smoke and no place to call home, because while fighting is one thing, not knowing when to stop is another.

“The fuck’s wrong with you?! I said move it over. ”

You didn’t have to do what you did. You could’ve stopped hitting when your stalker fell limp. You could’ve quit your job. Taken Mark to court instead of resorting to arson. Instead, you went with your instincts. You’re staring down the barrel again.

People catch on quickly in small towns, and having a reputation in the way that you used to is only good for warding off trouble. The bad people don't want to get close. But, neither do the nice ones. 

This is a nice town. Lively, warm. The people are bearable— even good, on occasion. Thoughts of your elderly neighbor are quick to surface, and the knowledge that Hazel expects you back home weighs heavily in favor of doing the very thing you're not used to doing. She'd be awfully disappointed if Sunday breakfast was canceled because you decided to give in to your worst impulses and fight like a rabid dog in the face of whatever provoked you. 

The man thrusts the gun even closer to your face with a slight tremor, a show of impatience. 

This is a good place to be. You never went back to industrial Auckney, and you don't want a repeat experience to follow you here like it followed you throughout the previous three towns where you tried to build a life. You don't want to have to leave. You don't want to make Hazel sad. So, you choose to let him go. You let it go. 

And just like that, you hand it over. There's no magical moment, no switch that flips. Making a decision that goes against your every instinct is a learning experience. You're not sure how suited you are to this new path. 

From there, things are quick to end. Once he's got a hold of the money, he backs out of the modest premises all wild-eyed, looking like he expects the cops to pull up at any moment. He's watched too much TV. Nobody even called them. A moment later, he takes off running down the street, green jacket like a neon sign against the stretch of asphalt. 

Breathe.  

Your rigid fingers unglue themselves from the counter's laminate surface and you finally turn your back, the gesture bordering on unnatural. As you do, your gaze settles on Eliza first. A nineteen year old girl with a frame that could be blown away by the wind is looking right through you, her fingers moving erratically against the blacked out touch screen of her phone. 

Five small steps bring you to her. You try to steady her shaking form while removing the phone from her hands. 

"Hey, it's okay. It's over, he's gone," you reassure her, but her breathing has picked up too quickly to go back down with just a few kind words. 

"Need to— I need to call the police. I—" 

Your hands find her shoulders as you hold eye contact and try to soothe her to the best of your ability. 

"You don't need to do anything other than breathe. I'll handle this. If you want to call someone, call a friend to come pick you up and drive you home. Ramón, you too. Take a few days off." 

The college junior throws you the strangest look you've seen in a while, but he too is shaken enough that he doesn't have the energy or the will to protest. 

"Come on. Go sit down for a bit. Both of you," you tell them, reaching under the counter for a bottle of water that you hand Ramón, silently gesturing towards the back room. A different environment would be good for wracked nerves. 

The two make their way towards the kitchen, and your eyes soften at the way Eliza has leaned into Ramón's embrace, quiet sniffles soon cut off by the stainless steel door. You aren't breathing quite right yourself, but you can live with it until things are settled. You can. You have to, because you aren't leaving this town. Not over some prick with shaky hands and horrible judgment. 

"Ma'am?" 

Instinct surges, and this time you can't force it back down. Fingers drawn to the Kimber's grip at your back, the movement feels almost liberating when you turn on your heel and lock target onto what startled you. Not that you'd ever admit it. You can't believe you didn't hear him coming until he was right there, staring at you with narrowed eyes. The dark-haired man in the back. Your only other witness. 

His hands go up in the universal gesture of surrender — or at least no harm intended — but it's too late. You've pulled a gun on a customer, and despite the fact that you kept your finger off the trigger, the damage is done. Lowering the weapon feels like a personal failure. You should've done this to the right person, less than three minutes ago. The man who's now in front of you has nothing to do with your misguided choice. 

But, he isn't leaving. Despite what you just did, he's looking at you in a way you can't decipher. Maybe he's one of those people who are hard to read, or easy to misread . Is it concern, or something else? On second thought, maybe you don't really care, unless he is a local and you've just tipped your hand in the long run. He certainly doesn’t look like the type of person to settle down in a place like this. If he’s just passing through, you can live with putting a gun in his face, as long as no one else saw you do it. 

"You alright?" 

The question surprises you, as does the way he asks it — genuinely enough, but the look he's pairing it with makes the hairs on the back of your neck rise. He's watching too closely. There's too much knowledge behind his eyes, and something within you stirs uncomfortably. You don't even try for innocent. Instead, you put the .45 back where it came from and sigh, looking as dejected as possible. It isn't hard to do. 

"I'm sorry. I didn't hear you. I'm a little jumpy after… all that." 

The man takes in your words quietly, a single nod his only response. 

"Hell of a quick draw, that." 

You blink in surprise. Answering the remark is tricky. Is it praise, or judgment? Both? What do you say to either? You can't let too much time pass before you answer, as that would be an answer in itself. You settle on hiding the truth in plain sight. 

"Probably wondering why I didn't do that earlier, huh?" you ask, a nervous huff coloring your words. You lean on the counter separating you from the man, painting yourself a version of fragile that you hope translates well to his watchful eyes. But, to your dismay, he shakes his head, scanning you even more closely than before. 

"Nah. You had kids in here. Couple bucks ain't worth dying for. You did the right thing." 

It's not what you want to hear. It's also not something you think he's entitled to say, as though he's some kind of authority figure. What makes him so sure this was the right thing to do? You don't think it was. The more time elapses between now and the robbery, the more regret pools in your chest. You're having a hard time with the follow-through part of your decision to let it go, and he is most definitely not helping. 

The vexation makes your jaw tighten and the corner of your mouth turn down just so, and the all-knowing eyes studying you take notice. The words spill out before your brain can catch the mistake. 

"I don't see a badge on you, mister." 

It only takes him a second to pick up on the scorn in your remark, but to your great annoyance, he doesn't seem offended. On the contrary, the smirk rising to the surface suggests sardonic amusement. It also paints his face with the kind of insufferable attractiveness you’ve always been agitated by. 

"Should be glad about that. A cop probably would've done something stupid. He'd have gotten someone shot, tryna be a hero." He speaks words you can't help but feel are directed more at you than a theoretical police officer. Yet again, you don't bite your tongue, speaking with the same stiffness in your jaw. 

"Maybe. Or maybe he'd have just shot him down before the guy could pull the safety back on his own gun." 

"So why didn't you?" he counters immediately, the low timbre of his voice almost making his words vibrate through you. 

You breathe in sharply through your nose. The challenge in his tone is more curiosity than genuine provocation, but it still doesn't sit well alongside your growing frustration. Another veiled truth finds its way past your lips as you hold his hardened gaze. 

"Like you said. Couple bucks ain't worth dying for." 

He considers your answer for a moment or two, and then it's as if something hidden from view pulls his features into a different scene. A softer look takes hold, and on a man of his size and projected disposition, it looks almost out of place. Almost. You're not sure if the sudden change means he knows you weren't talking about yourself. 

He shuffles on his feet imperceptibly — not a mark of discomfort so much as it is, you suspect, restlessness. He clears his throat once, and then his eyes are no longer on you. 

"You uh, gonna call the cops any time soon?"

At his question, your gaze follows his a few inches to the right, where Eliza's phone rests atop the counter. It's where you placed it intentionally, so that she'd forget about what she wanted to do. And from the way he asked, you wonder if he's onto you about that.

"I'll file a report later. No need for them to show up. Not like they're gonna catch him," you say dismissively, finally leaning away from the counter and straightening your posture. You put some distance between you and him by taking one step back, wordlessly signaling that you’re done talking and hoping he's astute enough to pick up on body language cues. The slightest pursing of his lips tells you he is. Conversation over. 

He lingers only one more moment before he offers a final nod in your direction, turning in a distinctly controlled way that reeks of military habit and walking off. Only, he stops just short of reaching the door, and his hesitation makes the tension in your jaw return. He doesn't fully look back at you as he speaks. 

"It'll give those kids peace of mind. You should call 'em." 

You hold back a scoff. 

"Are you familiar with the cops in this town?" you drawl, a twinge of sarcasm flowing off your tongue. 

"No, ma'am. Can't say I am." 

The half-smirk you can still glimpse pulling at his lips beckons you to wipe it off, but you manage to hold back. He's almost out the door, anyway. 

"Well, for the record… We'd be safer with a labrador for defense. At least it's got teeth."

"That right?" he grins as if you've tickled his funny bone. He doesn't seem to have all that stellar of an opinion about the police either, if his jab about the theoretical cop is anything to go by. He's still not looking at you, and you don't understand what the hell he's stalling for. Typically, anyone witnessing what he did a little while ago would be out the door the minute it was over. And yet, here he stands, after you pointed a gun at him. Still.

"Yeah, that's right," you confirm, hoping this is finally the end of the exchange. 

It sure seems that way for a short moment of blessed silence.

"Is that why you picked a Warrior?"

His eyes finally veer towards you, smile completely gone. The muscles in your back are suddenly taut once more, and your lungs fill with air they greedily keep for a few seconds longer than they ought to. You don't know what to say. You're not sure why he's bringing up the model of your firearm, like he isn't even bothered that you shoved it in his face earlier. Maybe he's not. Maybe he's a weirdo. Maybe you're trying to convince yourself he doesn't know exactly what you're thinking, despite all the evidence to the contrary.

A scowl fights for control of your features as your hands twitch by your sides. You're still high on anger and guilt and growing resentment for not doing what you were itching to do earlier. Right next to those feelings, the desire to preserve the image it's taken you four years to build is putting up its own fight, albeit much less valiantly. You just want to be alone with your thoughts. Just a moment where you don't have to pretend. You don't know how long you have before your employees return from the kitchen.

"I don't follow," is what you say instead of telling him to get the hell out already.

It's not the right thing to say, because he fixes you with an unimpressed look and takes a couple of steps back inside. You've never had your bullshit called this efficiently, let alone by someone who doesn't know you.

"They didn't name it that 'cause it's meant for defense . And that ain't no standard issue you got there. I'm just— Look,"

You can't resist the urge to make a fist when he closes the distance again, ending up right back where he started. The only thing separating you once more is the service counter, but with the way he's staring you down, it might as well not exist. He looks away briefly, like he isn't sure he's going to say whatever words are already forming on his lips.

"It's none of my business. I get that. But I know that look in your eye, 'cause I've seen it a hundred times before. So I'm just gonna lay it out, alright?" he says, not asking or waiting for permission. "You're gonna go home tonight, and you're gonna toss and turn and not sleep 'til dawn thinkin' about what happened here. And you're gonna want to even the scales, or whatever bullshit you're telling yourself right now. But I'm telling you not to. Once it starts, that shit never ends. It follows you everywhere. Every goddamn place you set foot in."

The gruff voice, steady and so determined it infiltrates some deep part of your mind, softens on the very end of the sentence that you have no doubt will be the thing you'll actually think about tonight.

It follows you everywhere.

You should've told him to fuck off ten minutes ago. If you had, you wouldn't be standing here, trembling in anger. Or, at least, not this type of anger. The air you forcibly breathe out does not ease the tension.

Whatever desire to hold back that was present before is overpowered in its entirety by one single element. One thing that could easily define your life up until this point, and probably in perpetuity: not knowing when to back the fuck down. If he wants to have a go, well, who are you to deny him?

"Getting awfully personal there for someone whose name I don't even know. Sure you're not projecting a tiny bit?" you incise, a pitying pout meant to yank his chain blooming on your lips.

"Is that why your finger's twitching?" he shoots back, gaze locked on to the left hand resting by your side, except for the consistent movement of one particular finger. You abruptly stop, but it's hard for knowing eyes to mistake a trigger itch for anything else.

He knows that you know that he knows what you're thinking.

"Look, mister," you begin, absent a polite tone. "Whatever you think I am or am not going to do, you're right: it is none of your business. But seeing as it's so important to you, let me give you some peace of mind ." Throwing his words back at him makes you feel better, like you're slowly gaining an upper hand in whatever battle this nonsensical exchange is.

Pausing, you lean a little closer to him unnecessarily, an air of defiance permeating the space between you. You're sure it's both him and you contributing to it. You bite the inside of your cheek briefly right before you open your mouth again.

The distinct squeak of the back door swinging open halts the flow of words before it even begins, and Eliza soon enters your peripheral vision. For one short moment, the interruption riles you up, but you realize that this is the best way to ensure he fucks off once and for all. Just focus on someone else. Anyone else. You're happy to avoid that unnerving stare for the rest of your life.

Your stand-off finally ends when the young woman reaches your side, and you break your gaze away from the man's in order to give Eliza your attention, as well as to clearly send the message he's been having trouble getting. You aren't interested in his lecture, or the way you can still feel his eyes on you for a few more seconds after you've looked away.

It's only as you talk to Eliza about having her mother pick her up that you finally hear the man's quiet sigh of defeat, though it sounds more frustrated than upset to your ears. Good.

Then, just when you think he's given up, a hand slaps against the counter with a crinkling sound, the familiarity of it leaving no room for interpretation. You're about to throw him a look and sass him about having already paid for his meal, but before you can, he's already started walking off.

Your lips purse as you watch him exit the building, gait once again reminiscent of military custom. It's self-assured yet stiff, and you're pretty convinced at this point that he must've served. Whatever. Some rando with a chip on his shoulder has no business getting a rise out of—

As you look back at Eliza, a cursory glance to the bills he laid down has your muscles tensing again, and you resist the urge to go out after him. It's not the four hundred-dollar notes that piss you off. How he knew the exact amount handed over in the robbery wasn't much of a surprise to you, what with how keenly he’d watched everything unfold.

It's the two singles laid out on top of the pile that really get under your skin, a simple message he went out of his way to send.

Couple bucks ain't worth dying for.

Chapter Text

Many hours later, guilt is eating its way through a considerable portion of your conscience, as it usually does following the clash of hot temper and arrogance— both of them yours. You're no longer insistent on pinning your shortcomings on the mysterious stranger with molten brown eyes, though you're still grumpy about his bold assumptions and oddly skewering way of getting a point across. 

Just let it go. Don't do what I know you want to do.  

You split the four hundred dollars he left between your two employees, but for some reason, the crumpled up singles still rest in your jacket pocket. The money takes up a lot more space inside your head as you drive home, radio turned up above its usual volume. It doesn't provide much of a distraction, because the faintly illuminated road ahead is the perfect canvas for a busy mind to fill. 

Traces of the past hide inside misshapen trees and uneven asphalt, and if your grip were a little tighter, it would leave the same dent in the steering wheel that it did the night you drove back from that slate quarry in your hometown. Nineteen years is a long time to still remember the smell of overheated excavation equipment. It's far away, yet surfaces so abruptly that your nose almost floods with it. Your lips press together in displeasure.

Well, at least you're breathing. You suppose Mark couldn't from beneath all that gravel you buried him under. Did he suffocate or was he crushed? Maybe a question you'll always have in the back of your mind. You know the answer wouldn't give you peace, were it to arrive from an omniscient being. What does it matter how he died? Yours is the will that killed him. Turning an event around and over and upside down two decades after it took place is just another way of engaging your guilt and letting it gnaw on more mental acuity. You need your wits about you, so you don't forget what all this is even for. You're alive. You have a life that needs living. Sometimes, there will be people who won't let you live it, and you can't just throw everything away to settle the score. 

Scoffing at the bullshit mantra you’ve tried feeding yourself all day, you take the last right turn before you're finally on the road that leads home, hand reaching out to lower the volume on the stereo. Whatever. You made it through today, and you'll try your hardest not to think about the little shit who stole from you and his neon green jacket. You’ll also do your best not to think about your encounter with the strange man and his gruff voice, lest he become the thing you lose sleep over tonight. 

It'll be hard to avoid it, because you kept his message. Maybe as a symbol, or maybe as an excuse. There is some part of you that wants to believe he was meant to be there today, if only so you didn't truly screw up this time and become a criminal. Shooting someone while they're robbing you and hunting them down to do it afterwards are actions that the law tends to distinguish between unfavorably. Just like it might distinguish between killing someone inside an old quarry and killing them after they'd already taken you there for murder.

The self-defense angle always felt shoddy in your mind. Maybe what you did to Mark would've looked like self-defense to a jury, but you sure know you didn't bury him under seven tons of jagged rock because you wanted to protect yourself. You didn't burn down his house because you were feeling reasonably threatened. You just wanted him to get what was coming his way. Karma, your hands. 

You might have a problem, but you're alive. You survived that and you're going to survive more, just as soon as you take a cold bath and chase away the heat settling in your bones. That's what mid-August spent in an ancient car with no working air conditioner will get you. Replacing the shitty truck will have to wait, because news of the robbery will spread and you don't want to be telegraphing the fact that the bakery isn't your main source of income. 

This may be a nice town, but today was a good example of a gap in people's decency— yours included, because you were so fucking rude to that mysterious stranger, and what did it accomplish? He replenished your losses and left without another word. The longer you look back, the more guilt advances on your psyche. It stills momentarily, however, when a suitable distraction finally appears as you find yourself a couple hundred feet down the road from your house. It’s true that you wanted something else to focus on, but this is so unwelcomed that it sends a wave of nausea through your body. 

The scene is flooded with the red and blue lights of two police cruisers and one ambulance, all parked along the narrow cul-de-sac housing only two buildings: yours and Hazel's. Your mind kicks into high gear before you even lay eyes upon the crowd that has gathered on your front lawn. The sky turned dark not long ago, the hands of the clock approaching a kind of twilight zone of your neighborhood: nobody is typically out at this time of night, and yet, at least twelve people found enough interest in the unfolding scene to leave the comfort of their homes. 

The commotion is centered around your property, but the ambulance suggests someone requiring medical attention. You live alone. Hazel is in her late 80s, and you've known her to need a doctor now and then. However, the police being here is the part of the equation that you really don't like. You try to slow down a mind that by nature has already zeroed in on potential scenarios, making a decision to pull over right outside the cul-de-sac instead of crowding it with another vehicle. In a neighborhood this small, your arrival is noticed. 

You don't linger, unsticking yourself from the clammy leather seats and stepping out of the truck. The air outside is marginally better than inside the car, though heat still scalds with the gentler hand of a dry climate. At least you're not pouring sweat and disheveled, because it appears that bath will have to wait. And, after only a few moments of approaching the scene, you realize just how long that wait is going to be. There is black tarp on your porch. 

The closer you get, the more your spine tingles. Pairs of wide eyes settle on you as you pass them, and it isn't long before Sheriff Randy O'Hare nails you with his own bulbous gaze. He looks like an idiot, and not even one that's in charge. You glance at the porch again. 

Tiny surface area. Not much room between the ground and the black material taking up space. Small, lithe. Your house. 

The sheriff is having some sort of internal conflict you wish you weren't here to witness. He shuffles from one foot to the other and clears his throat as you stop in front of him, several feet away from the stairs leading up to your front door. It's spattered with blood, visible even against the dark brown oak. Fresh. 

Randy says nothing for several more seconds. You have many things to say, none which are appropriate. You've never been good at playing the emotionally fragile. There's a body on your front porch and you need this fucking idiot to speak or— 

"I'm so sorry. We're… We're all still in shock. I've known her—" He stops, wiping his mouth and looking away as if something startled him. "—my whole life, I swear. She never did nothing to nobody. Jesus help me, if I get my hands on the one that did it—" 

"Who is that, Randy?" you interrupt. It's a question you've asked law enforcement before in your life. The air pressing down on your skin is even warmer now. 

"Look, I can't imagine how hard this is. She meant a great deal to everyone in this town, but you knew her best. Ain't nobody ever have a kinder word to say than her. I can't believe—" 

"Randy, who the fuck is that?" 

If you snap, it's not of your own volition. You're not here. Not really. You aren't with Randy O'Hare, Sheriff of Apolline County who apparently can't utter a simple name. Your mind has traveled backwards in time, and the house you're standing next to isn't your own, but it's painted just about the same. It’s easy to slip away into memory. The awning and the windows are fashioned into the same mould as your childhood home, because those were the things you’d loved most about that house— a mistake. You made a mistake. Your eyes are drawn to the ground, mind working in all directions.

"Hazel Bergman." 

You think you hear another name for a brief and cruel moment. The sight of polished black boots atop lush grass only works to further blur the line between past and present. 

"I'm so sorry, honey." 

"What happened?" 

You haven't been so aware of the nuance in your voice since it last betrayed you by shaking as it now is. It's so, so warm outside, but not humid. Not like Auckney. It's not as bad as it was when you were standing in front of a similar house, aged nineteen and wondering why the woman who raised you wouldn't get up from her rocking chair. 

You need to get a grip. Look O'Hare in the eyes. You need to know if he lies to you, like cops always do. His face is melting under the cowboy hat. Even his eyeballs are sweating. He's emotional. He should be truthful. 

"Daniel Roywood said he saw her arguing with somebody on your porch. He ain't hear what they were talkin' about, just that she looked upset. I've never seen that woman upset once in thirty years. She must've had a damn good reason," Randy explains, looking torn between grief and inoffensive anger. You're not torn between anything. 

"Who was she arguing with?" 

O'Hare sighs, a curt movement of his neck telling you he doesn't know shit. 

"Nobody Danny knew. He couldn't get a good look— the damn house is too far away. But he just said they were arguin', and that was it. He shot her. Just some punk in a green jacket." 

It's a miracle you don't react in any meaningful way. For that small interval between the words hitting you and your brain processing them, you're as impassive as before. That brief amount of time is all you get, however, because putting a face to that vague description happens in the blink of an eye. 

You look away, covering your face with both hands. You slow your breathing as much as you can, trying to not make any noise as blood rushes through veins that have no hope of containing the pressure. It pounds at your temples and raises your temperature, and suddenly the only lever that hasn’t been flipped on your temper is labeled self-preservation. You can’t do this with people watching, and you’re briskly reminded of that as an unexpected weight settles upon your shoulders. It makes you flinch and move away, and you hear O'Hare apologize before he clears his throat again. A silence follows that isn't long enough. 

"Look, I know this is hard. But you know I need to ask you some questions, right? We need to find the son of a bitch that did it and if you have any idea who—"

"I don't." 

You've clipped your tongue with how hard you were biting it, but at least you've got your breathing back under control. Facing Randy is easier with a constant trickle of pain and metal. He looks torn, apologetic. 

"Come on, honey. I know you don't want to think about anybody you know doin' something like this, but we need something to go on," he pleads. You don’t like the implication behind his words or the ring of truth around it. 

"Randy. Everybody knows everybody here. I promise you, if Roywood didn't know him, then I sure as hell don't. I don't have a boyfriend. I'm not divorced. I generally don't keep male company. There is no one! " you seethe, and you're certain that he mistakes your outburst for lingering shock and anger about what happened. It is, but not in the way he seems to think. 

The Sheriff frowns, so obviously pitying you and finally seeming more at ease now that you're the emotionally vulnerable one. It's fine. It works in your favor. Tonight will be long and you will benefit from not raising eyebrows or invoking anything other than sympathy from both police and neighbors. The Sheriff looks around for several moments, lips pressing together like he's chewing on the words he hasn't yet said. Soon enough, they part. 

"Listen, I hate to ask right now. But if we have any chance in hell of catching this bastard, we could really use the feed from your cameras," he says, gesturing left. Your gaze follows his to the perimeter of the house, covered at every angle by wireless surveillance systems. 

Just like that, a spark. A needle to thread. Another choice presented. 

Crumpled up bills in your front pocket. 

Warm steel at your back. 

A splattered front door. 

The maligned prescience of four words. 

Ain't worth dying for.

"Randy, I…” You enjoy the first real breath since you've arrived. It really doesn't take you long to make a decision. “I'm sorry. I left those up for show more than anything. Couldn't afford the bills after a while. They don't work." 

O’Hare deflates. There’s no suspicion you’ve told a lie. It's as if the grit he's supposed to have is flowing through you instead, lighting up your eyes and triggering the itch in your fingers. It's the challenge, the defiance, the guilt that sears through your veins now. The air is almost cool compared to the heat of your skin and the surge in your temper. 

The Sheriff imparts more condolences you don't care to hear before walking away, but he's soon replaced by Deputy Dipshit, who you hope is wise enough to only offer pertinent details for the unfolding scene. You aren't interested in what Brent Rivers has been up to, and he usually insists on making it everybody's business. All you want to know is how long before you can enter your house, but pretty soon you realize he won't provide any clarity. It has to be his first murder scene, because he stumbles around simple words after greeting you with a mumbled hi . 

He talks and talks, and nowhere does he utter that crucial piece of information you’re waiting to be told. Too long into his jumbled speech, you find the right place to interrupt. He had the nerve to comment on how you’re holding up. 

"I'm sorry. I just don't think I'm all ears right now. All I want to do is…" A shaky breath rattles your chest. "… get away for a few days. I don't think I can sleep in my own house knowing this happened. Um, is there any way I could grab a few things and get out? I don't want to be alone once you leave." 

Along the way, your words are punctuated by little tells of vulnerability: eyes downcast, vocal chords trembling, excessive blinking. Your shoulders pull in. Brent nods up a storm, mood lightening up as his arm comes to rest around them uninvited. 

"Yeah, 'course. I can take you—" 

You break away from his grip with an apologetic smile, rubbing your neck to keep your hands busy. 

"Can you wait for me at the door? I'll feel better knowing someone's downstairs, and I already have a bag ready. You know, for uh, emergencies and stuff." 

The Deputy is less pleased than before, but he acquiesces to your request with a nod and a motion towards the house. You pretend to hesitate before taking the wooden stairs slowly, keeping your eyes averted as you plant your feet on the porch. The edge of the tarp is barely an arm's length away. From this spot, you can see both the pool of blood seeping out from under it and the drops spread across the brick wall. You retrieve the keys from your jacket as Brent stops behind you. 

"I'll be right here," he reassures in a too-gentle tone. 

You walk inside without a reply, and to Brent's briefly glimpsed surprise, shut the door after you. The security system needs a two-step deactivation that would raise eyebrows after you've told O'Hare you can't afford the bills for the cameras. You breathe deeply for another moment, finally alone. 

You only told a half-lie. There is a bag for emergencies, but not for the kind that people usually have. Downstairs as well as upstairs, you keep two duffels properly stocked and periodically checked. They're similar in contents, and yet your preference has always been clear. The bedroom closet. Upstairs. You move untethered towards your target.

Throwing two changes of clothes inside along with a plain pair of sneakers, you zip it back up and lift it over your shoulder. It feels familiar. This bag could be your life. Your life could be this bag. If things go wrong, you'll be good for a while. Back downstairs, where you arrive in the same haze, you make sure Piper and Mae will be good for a while too, replenishing the bird feeder and their respective water drippers, bidding them goodbye soon thereafter. You try not to linger in the house, but a glint draws your attention to the kitchen counter in your peripheral. 

The casserole you stuffed your face with this morning and forgot to put back inside the fridge is resting exactly where you left it, the blue sticky note still attached to its side. You remember the message word for word, as well as the curving of the letters you've always been impressed by, though never more so than by the kindness behind each gesture. Hazel couldn't grip the pen quite as well as she used to in her old age, but she liked to practice in the notes she left for you. 

She made you food. Cared for you. Made life feel less lonely. 

She's outside your door for the last time because you didn't do the right thing today. 

Ain't worth dying for.  

You don’t realize you’ve walked over until your outstretched hand hesitates before the small note. It's the final one you'll ever get. 

'Don't work so hard! It's Saturday, live a little!' 

More copper flows into your mouth, this time springing from the lip you tore into so a sob could be stifled. You fold the paper with care and it goes into the same pocket as the pair of singles, just as your mind goes to the same place it's always been more comfortable resting. Maybe, the only place it can have any peace. 

Keeping your head down as you exit the house, your eyes find her almost by accident. They're drawn to the tarp. You figure they have to be, since you put it there. You put her there, because you didn’t put a bullet in the right person. You didn't do what you knew you should've.

"Hey. Did you get what you need?" 

Ain't worth dying for.  

Your eyes don't stray, glued to a puddle of blood and the greedy floorboards swallowing it up. The eyes want to remember, just like the ears remember a thundering rock slide and the nose remembers diesel and construction equipment. 

You tell the truth, and it sets you free. 

"No."

Chapter Text

You don't know how many times you've abused the replay button by now, but your thumb returns to it without fail each time the video feed ends — a never ending loop, and it's up to you to break it. But, you know that once you do, you won't be able to sit still. 

And Sam Collins isn't home yet. He's had a busy day. 

You spent the first hour of staking out his place in wonderment. Last week, his life was normal. He was the average point of his demographic, and maybe even doing a little better than could've been expected given his background. He was enrolled in the local community college and had a steady job for three years at the only repairs shop in town. They do a little bit of everything. So does Sam, you suppose. He wakes up without a firearm permit on a Saturday, and that same day robs a bakery three towns away and shoots an old woman in the chest. Versatile guy. 

The second hour — or rather, the first quarter of that second hour — was spent getting his girlfriend out of the house and inadvertently out of his life. All it took was a brief phone call with a sultry greeting by a woman's voice and she stormed off not long after, suitcase in tow. The neighboring houses were next, your supply of knockout gas swiftly depleted on the two families. The use of incapacitating agents with an expiration date four years in the past is dubious at best, and you hope the adverse effects will be limited. It's a good neighborhood with good people, not unlike yours. Neither you, nor him, deserve it. 

Halfway through the third hour, you were done inspecting the inside of his house for weapons and blocking all electronics on a 900-foot radius. Signal jammers are still cheap six years after you've last used one, a discovery that doesn’t surprise you in the slightest. Returning to this kind of life is as easy as it’s always been, a built-in failsafe for all those thinking their path could somehow deviate. You'll have to see about other items, but for now, you're as close to your goal as you can get by yourself. All that's left is for him to come to you, the end of a strict work-home routine he's kept for the past week nearing. Now, you can finally breathe. 

It's strange. You're at ease in a place you're not supposed to be, doing something no sane person does. You're comfortable in a way you haven't been in years. Visiting the range now and then doesn't help— at most, it takes the edge off. There's no satisfaction in putting holes through wood or paper, no success in taking down a target that's meant to be there. That suspicion you've always had can't be ignored anymore. You really aren't made of the same stuff as other people, and you'll never have the life they do. You talked yourself into that fantasy last time, and where did that get you? Back where you started: an injustice happens, it's your fault, and everything unravels. Even if you don't go looking for it, it always finds you. Cryptic words spoken by a gruff voice surface in your memory. 

Once it starts, that shit never ends. It follows you everywhere. Every goddamn place you set foot in.  

Nice. Prophetic, even. 

The man wasn't wrong, on the face of it. Whatever he saw when looking at you that day, he clocked it without hesitation. He witnessed the tell-tale signs of aggression and regret and blistering anger, and he called it out with no pretense or judgment. Although, he was mistaken about one thing: the assumption that it hadn't already started, whatever this is. Your obsession, your curse? God's plan for you, if you believed in that sort of thing? You're not sure why he was trying to prevent you from going down this road back at the bakery. Did he think it would be your first time taking a life? Would he have said anything if he'd known it wasn't? A sigh sinks you further into the only armchair in Sam Collins' living room. 

The replay button disappears under your thumb once more, and you've already memorized every inch of the space displayed on screen, every movement contained within it. The angle providing the best view comes from the camera right above your doormat, one nestled inside the wooden awning. Hazel's head is covered with her favorite scarf, the one her nephew had sent during his travels across India along with a bracelet for you, a sign of gratitude for the care you offered the only relative he had left. His grand-aunt had told him anecdotes about you, like she told anyone around town who would lend an ear. 

You watch her try to prevent your house from being broken into, or so she thinks. You listen as she tries to shame the man into leaving, and then feel as your phone vibrates with the sound of the gunshot. She falls forward into the arms of her killer, and he drops her like she isn’t worth anything, a weak cry bellowing from the speakers as contact with the floor breaks fragile bone. Her head cracks open and pained moans are muffled into the ground. Wood creaks as rapid footsteps depart from the scene. Hazel's breaths keep coming for seventy-two seconds, and she falls quiet not long before they stop. The replay button taunts with its reincarnation. Your eyes close again, just like the first time you saw it. 

A quarter hour more passes as you sit with your thoughts, and then, things begin to happen. It's almost 1 AM when the rumble of an engine comes to a halt in the driveway, matching what you expect his car, an '09 Subaru Impreza, to sound like after fourteen years of use. Sam’s weekend shift at the new diner is over and he has come home to another night of hypervigilance and paranoia, because today marks one week since he took his first life. You put away the phone and replace it with the suppressed Kimber, the same one you should've used when you first laid eyes on him.

It'll be simple. Clean. You'll air out your grievances and then it'll be over. This isn't like Auckney, and it isn't like Houghton, Roanoke, or Fargo. You aren't pretending you can return to the bakery and your quaint two-bedroom suburban house anymore, dragging out your days until the merry-go-round starts up again. You'll always end up back here, so why expect you'll ever do anything different? You like this. It's something you can do, and do well. If you aren't allowed an alternative, either by design or sheer bad luck, then you'll embrace the only thing that makes sense. This is who you are. It's who you've always been, and you see it clearly now that the fog of domesticity and kindness has dissipated for the final time. So you sit there in the dark, a phantom, because you want him to see too. You want him to wonder if his eyes are playing tricks on him, because reality would be too cruel. You want him to look at you and realize that he's right to feel the weight of what he's done and to glance over his shoulder at every turn. Most of all, you want Sam Collins to know it does follow you, and that for him, it's arrived without delay. 

You're watching the short hallway before the front door, gun propped up against the velvet arm of the chair, a perpendicular line of sight granting the best opening. And then footsteps arrive— not from the entrance, but from the other end of the hallway. Quiet, gentle… expectant. Your eyes snap to in the second before a voice like a rumble fills the room. 

"Didn't I tell you not to do this?" 

One single breath has time to leave you before a man comes into view. You train the gun on him instinctively, knowing you don't have time to get to your feet if he's carrying. 

But, he isn't. He has nothing in either hand, which you can be sure about because he's keeping both palms spread open and level with his head, the same gesture he adopted last time you had a weapon pointing at him. You're rattled, and you aren't so confident it doesn't show. 

How the fuck is he here? 

You run through several common-sense deductions in the brief time it takes him to come to a standstill in the middle of the hallway directly across from you. He's here. He's here , which means he's been following you and every movement you've made for the past week. His question leaves no doubt— he knows what you're here to do. He managed to enter the house without tripping any of your alarms. You don't want to risk it and take your eyes off him, but it's hard to resist the brief glance out the window to your left. You bite the inside of your cheek almost in punishment. It isn't a 2009 Subaru Impreza that's occupying the driveway, but a black tactical van with annex lights mounted overhead and no visible brand insignia. 

He parked in front of the house , and you were so arrogant you didn't even fucking check that the right person had arrived. Your finger caresses the trigger. 

"Don't do that. I'm not here to hurt you." 

Both your eyebrows raise involuntarily. You've yet to take control of your body's reactions, and every second that passes makes it feel like the upper hand is being transferred to him, even if you’re the one holding the gun. While he's standing there in jeans and a button-up, casually looking like he has all the time in the world, you're becoming more and more aware of each moment that led to this fiasco. The way he's watching you without clear intent adds to your ire. He's as calm as can be and you're descending into chaos. It makes you seethe, and you haven't forgotten about the main problem. 

"Where is he?" you ask, jaw so tense your teeth barely unclench. 

Again, you're both on the same page. You don't need to say the name, and he sure as shit doesn't need to pretend he has no idea what you mean. His gaze remains impassive as it devours you. It feels like his eyes are trailing every inch of you, from the tense shoulders to the feet aching to stand, and especially your hands. 

"Told him to take off. Leave town for a while," he says, the tiniest movement suggesting a shrug. 

Your eyes lock on to his with renewed violence. You trigger one shot next to his head, lead embedding in the drywall behind him. Left-side, two inches. 

You can’t accept that the situation isn't in your control anymore, because you aren't able to get over the fact that he didn't even flinch. Instead, his gaze has become even more unbearable, skewering you in place. He's doing everything a person might do to communicate just how unimpressed they are. You don't know how to respond besides letting off another shot. Your breathing is now audible in the otherwise quiet room. Left-side, half an inch. 

"Alright. You feel better now? Want another go?" 

He's mocking you with an amused drawl, threatening your composure even further by pretending to lower his hands. 

"Tell you what— Why don't I just take off a finger?" you sneer at him, unable to sit down any longer and rising to your feet. The living room isn't that large. Only seven or so of his steps would be enough to close the distance between you. 

"Nah. If you were gonna do that, you'd have done it already. You can put that down. If I wanted to hurt you, I would've shot you through the window." 

What he doesn't say is that he could've done it at any time in the past week that you'd been unaware of his presence, and he doesn't say it precisely because he knows you know. Again. The harsh grip on the Kimber is starting to cramp your hand, but you can't relax. 

"Look. I meant what I told you back there. Hell, I spent all week wonderin' what the hell I'm doing, getting involved in shit that's none of my business. Maybe I should've let you do what you feel you have to do. But if you're going to take a life, I'm here to ask you to reconsider . " 

You say nothing, because it's hard to find something to say in response to things you can't believe you're hearing. He's here to make you reconsider. He's arguing from the wrong end of the gun for a man whose only future is death by your hand, and you can't figure out what would motivate him to do such a thing. The question that leaves your lips makes his quirk upwards. 

"Who the fuck are you?" 

"Frank," he answers with a grim smile. "Don't suppose you'll tell me who you are?" 

He's mocking you. Of course. It's not like he doesn't know — just like he's known everything else so far. A bitter scowl fights to take over your features. 

"Hey, Frank ? I'm giving you one minute to tell me where Sam Collins went, and I'm being generous." 

"Wow. Thank you," he says dryly, and you've had just about enough of his attitude. 

"No, really. Remember that trigger itch? What's your plan for when time runs out on it?" 

"Are you a vet?" he counters with his own question, completely ignoring your threat. 

You wonder if you're dealing with some kind of lunatic. His eyes narrow, but his expression remains serene. He hasn't lost an inch of his composure, and yet you feel something lurking beneath that resolute surface. 

"Wha—" 

"Military. D'you ever serve?" he clarifies, and you could swear his voice has changed. There's something imbibing every word of a very simple question, and you don't understand it or why he's even asking at all. 

"What's it matter to you?" you deflect. 

"It matters because that Warrior you're pointin' at me is issued to US Marine Corps only , and unless you served or took it off a dead Marine, ain't no way you'd have one."

It's hard to mask the tension once his words are left to hang in the air between you, and you suddenly become even more aware of how much your arms are aching. You've never played the long game like this, and there's never really been cause for aiming at someone and not shooting. Conversations like this are not part of your life experience, colorful as that may be. Although, they do seem to be part of his. Whoever Frank is, you get the impression he's about as single-minded and relentless as a person could get, and something within you is repelled by the notion of being in his presence. It's the way he exudes restraint and rage in equal measure that twists sharp metal between your ribs and leaves a bitter taste in the mouth. It's his posture, rigid yet somehow at ease, that makes your cheek tingle without the ringing echo of a slap to accompany it. You don't like the way he looks at you. You don't like how familiar it all is. Something spills forward that you have no chance of catching, and the damage is already done. 

"I didn't take it off a dead Marine. A dead Marine left it to me after he blew his brains out with it," you spit out with no preamble, look so poisonous it'd be useful in a bottle. 

His turn comes to say nothing in response to your mindless confession, but he doesn't have to speak in order to reveal exactly what he's thinking. You gather it all from his eyes as he stares you down. 

"I take it he didn't do that out in the field." 

His voice is the roughest you've heard it thus far. Your arms hold in them a deep ache but you don't know how to lower the gun, the very thing that seems to have brought him to you in the first place. He remarked on it the first time you met too. You couldn't have known he recognized its origins.

"Made no difference in his mind where he was," you speak as evenly as you can. "Just like it makes no difference that you're here. I won't reconsider. I don't care where Collins ran off to, or how far he's gotten. He took something from me. There's nowhere he can go where I won't find him."

The words help reinforce your conviction, and they also seem to resonate with him. Either that, or he wasn't very adamant about persuading you to reconsider in the first place, because he isn't showing any signs of annoyance at your declaration. He doesn't reply or refute it in any way. There’s no fight. If anything, he seems passive — not quite defeated, not quite determined to try again. It's all the same to you. Getting away from him and towards your goal is the only thing you care about. Enough time was wasted here. 

You breathe in slowly, and when you look at him next, your mind locks on to a singular path. 

"Frank? Turn around." 

Judging by the crinkling of his eyes, your request amuses him. 

"Gonna shoot me?" he grumbles, lowering his arms another inch. 

"That depends on you. Now, you're going to turn around, walk out that door and get in your van. I want you to drive off into the sunset, never to be seen again. I've no reason to hurt you. But if you get in my way again, I'll have a reason. We clear?" 

His mouth turns up in a half-smile. For perhaps the first time since meeting him, you don't find his expression as condescending as the rest of him. 

"In that case, we might have a problem." 

Your finger caresses the curved edge of the trigger. 

"And why's that?" 

There's fire in his eyes as well as in his words. 

"Because the man you're looking for is in that van. And you should know…" His arms come to rest by his sides. There is a subtle tremor in your own. "His name isn't Collins— it's Huerta . You kill him, and you'll be starting a war."

Chapter Text

What do people think about in their final moments? 

You assume it depends on the amount of time they have, as well as the manner of death. People have disagreed on the subject of an afterlife for as long as they've been able to contemplate it, but the moment of death itself has seldom been the focus of debate. Of all the myriad ways that things can end, when the line is crossed and the numbers are tallied, you suppose anyone would say that all death, each one that has ever been and ever will be, is either violent or lucky. 

If there is struggle, there is violence. If there is not, a person is asleep, much like Sam is as you peer down at him. 

It's been interesting, this night, but as dawn looms over the horizon, your mood darkens almost in revolt. You can neither do this the way you would have back at the house, nor summon enough derangement to keep him in storage until nighttime returns in a little over seventeen hours, even if the setting permits a bit of mania. The desert looms over Tule Valley, shadowed by white rocks to the North and shapely knolls to the South, a barren nothingness stretching out for miles. Yes, nobody will find you here. No, you will not drag this out any longer. You already shot one more man tonight than you were planning to, though admittedly it was his own fault. 

Frank.  

You don't know what he was talking about, but hell if you cared to listen. The instant that he blocked that door with his body, your finger squeezed the trigger it had been glued to since you'd laid eyes on him. Served him right for sticking his nose in other people's business. If he'd just been a misguided stranger, you'd have let it go. Clearly, a few too many screws were loose in his head too, but he underestimated just how many were rattling around in yours. The answer was: enough to shoot him in the shoulder and take his van into the desert, with Sam out cold in the back like he'd said. At least he didn't lie about that, because you'd have gone back to shoot him again. 

The dark sky gives way to a crack of indigo in the far distance, and you push off the van's back door to approach the man lying on the ground several feet away. Given he's still wearing his server uniform from the diner, you guess Frank must've nabbed him after his shift. There's no visible injury on his person besides a little redness around the clavicles, indicating knockout via strangulation. Good — at least he won't be woozy from head trauma, because you'd like to talk to him. 

His face is plain, forgettable to anyone that isn't you. Twenty-two years old and not going to get any older. You scoff at his terminal stupidity. Having this much power over someone's life should come with a degree of somberness, but you're tired and cranky from hauling Sam out of the van and dragging Frank away from the door. You've done more manual labor than intended tonight, and it's not like you've had much sleep in the past week to begin with. You spare another look at Sam's figure, cheek pressed into the ground and breathing even. Nap time over. 

You don't have a knife, so you resort to grasping his left pinky and pressing down on the nail bed until he stirs. It takes around a minute for him to awaken fully, by which time you've stood up and retrieved your gun. You move a few paces away. For a moment you wonder what your face must look like, but Sam isn't close enough to catch all the nuances in your expression as he blinks at you with furrowed brows. He coughs twice but finds his voice pretty quickly. 

"Who the fuck are you?" 

Maybe your face is forgettable too. 

"Where the fuck am I?" he demands with a weak cry, voice hoarse from the treatment his neck received. He tries to get to his feet, but he barely turns onto his side before you let off a shot near his shoulder. 

"Don't get up, Sam." 

The gesture yields the intended effect. He stops and scrambles onto his back, scooting away from you on his heels and elbows as his body kicks up dust. You point the gun at his head, silently commanding him to stop moving. He does. You close the distance to what it was before. Sam glares up at you, but he hasn't had the time in his short life to build up any menacing qualities. There's still some roundness in his face from delayed puberty, because while his documents say twenty-two, the man in front of you looks barely eighteen. Some people just look younger than they are. 

"What do you want?" 

A hint of the stutter he had the first time you met him returns for that simple question. It's not one you've personally ever asked when finding yourself in similar situations in the past. No reason to play stupid and waste everyone's time. You raise an eyebrow. 

"You don't know?" 

A look of recognition passes over his features as he studies you, but where you expect fear or nervousness, something akin to vexation appears instead. His lips curl upwards. He's displeased and ready to make it known. 

"Look, I passed my fucking test! Tell Emi I'm ready. He doesn't need to do this shit no more," he snarls. 

New information. Hm. 

"So you don't know me," you say vaguely, studying him in return. 

"The fuck do I care who you are? What, are you some new bitch he's fucking this month? It ain't gon' last, I tell you that. Just do whatever he said to so I can go home. Got enough shit on my plate." 

There's delayed puberty of the brain too, it seems. He hasn't caught on that you are not who he thinks, but interestingly, the person he thinks you are is expected to behave the way you do. He's been manhandled, kidnapped and brought to the wilderness to stare down the barrel. He does so in defiance, not an ounce of fear in his eyes. Tests. Readiness. Emi. 

You put some fear right into his kneecap. 

Sam howls his agony into the expanse of the desert as the bullet tears through cartilage and exits through soft flesh. He grabs at his leg with both hands, rocking forward several times as if to get up. He's yet to understand that he'll never use that leg again, you think, because he does try to scramble to his feet again. It's haphazard and desperate, but it grants him valuable knowledge: he falls back on his ass in a stupor, looking at his body and trying to understand its betrayal. He can feel the pain, yet he can't feel anything below the knee. 

"Are you a good listener, Sam? I can tell you're not a good observer. Maybe we can change that," you say evenly, waiting for him to register your words over the adrenaline pumping through his veins. 

He looks up at you and yowls something fierce. From what you can see in the awakening darkness, there are tears gathered in his eyes. The fire burning in them is different now, defiance waning. 

"My brother's going to fucking kill you!" he screams. It travels along Tule Valley with its dips and mounds, only to be swallowed up by the sheer expanse of nothing. He has found out who you are not. Now, to refresh his memory. 

"You should be more concerned with what I'm going to do, to tell you the truth." 

He fumbles over the hole in his knee and wrestles with control of his ligament to no avail, and if you bear witness for a minute or two, it's not something you're ashamed of. A long sigh folds your body into itself as you crouch down to his level, keeping a knee on the ground for stability. Sam's whimpers have lost some of their intensity, and for a moment you watch him watch the blood that flows from his leg into the reddish sand, creating black splotches in the low light that resemble the ones on your front door. The desert is much colder than your neighborhood. 

"I've hurt some people," you tell him, commanding his attention before he goes into shock. He lifts his eyes to your face, and suddenly he looks like even more of a child than he did before. You nod both to yourself and him in the wake of your statement, as if to confirm you've really said it. Truths uttered inside a wasteland can be bent into unflattering shapes by something as inoffensive as a breeze.

"I have. Nobody that didn't deserve it, I promise you that. But I've never done this before," you continue, head tilted with a frown. "I've never let anyone go who I knew I shouldn't." 

"I don't know what you're talking about, you crazy bitch! Look at what you did to my fucking leg!" 

His voice is scratched, not yet broken. 

"You've hurt some people too, haven't you? Only, they were good people. Right?" 

The spell of dry wind descending from the white rocks to the North has travelled a long way to encounter you both, howling through the valley with a final effort to leave its mark on the wilderness. Its tendrils are harsh and nearly icy right before dawn, sending one last caress through the realm that will soon be transformed under a ball of fire. 

A flicker of recognition arises in the man's face again, and this time, he really sees you. In the absence of synthetic light, he sees your face from the same distance he did at the bakery, same hairstyle, same plain clothes. You are the same person you were a week ago, only now presenting as you truly are — hiding nothing, free of struggle. With your back to the sun and him before you, your eyes are black and resolute. You think of nothing and have no decisions to make. 

Clarity is good. 

The steel feels cold against your hand as it reaffirms its grip on the Kimber, but the trigger burns its shape into the crook of your index finger. You breathe. You pull. 

Silencer long detached, the true sound of oblivion rings out over planes and burrows into crevices, a responding hum finding its way back to the source as if the earth itself knows it has just become a tomb. You rise to your feet. A healthy adult man will take a long while to die with just one shot to the chest. That's alright. You want him to have all the mercy of the world he created. 

Four steps carry you to Sam Collins, who's a hair removed from shock. Chest rising and falling uncontrollably, it gives way to spasms and sputters both felt and heard as his fists pound the dirt against their will. The sporadic whistling produced by his lungs barely hits your ears for how delicate it is. Most of the gray of his shirt has been chased away by gravity luring his blood into the hungry earth, never to relinquish ownership. You find yourself peering down at his wide eyes and puffing cheeks and slowly get flooded with a sense of impending disquiet. 

He shouldn't get to see the sky. He shouldn't get to watch the sun rise over his last day and make the stars disappear by casting light upon them. The oranges and purples of a desert sunrise aren't for him to witness when others only get the rigid monotony of wood and steel, an endless night trapping them inside darkness before it swallows them whole. 

You wonder what he's thinking between gasping breaths and choked words. In theory, he wouldn't be thinking about anything but survival. Only if he has accepted death staring down his path can he start contemplating other things, but Sam is still young for the amount of time he has left. Youth is defiant, unafraid. It holds out the longest in the face of calamity. As he so clearly proved, youth is barely even capable of recognizing death. It either flees in the face of it or it falls quiet. 

Sam has done both. As he looks at you and you look back, there's no telling what you'll remember of him and this moment in another nineteen years, no use in searching for clues. Whatever your mind will latch onto is outside all control. What it knows of Mark Davidson is a look like a demon's and a fury like God's, and you buried them both under rock without spectacle or prejudice what feels like a lifetime ago. You remember fuel and heat, a thundering slide of earth and gravel. 

What you'll remember of Sam could be wind, just as well as it could be silence. It could be pleading eyes or a childlike face. Whatever memory will be kept, you bear witness to his struggle against ample tranquility. He's crossing over into darkness as the first rays of sun slither along the dessicated ground and towards his face, but just before his eyes are kissed by the morning light, the fire within them burns out. You remark on the color in peace. They're green. 

Clarity is good. 

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The downside of being undisturbed following a murder is that you aren't really sure what to do with all your clarity. The last time you did this you were behind the wheel of a stolen car too, but back then you had the benefit of mental turmoil. You weren't thinking about much more than getting away from that quarry, weren't feeling anything but guilt and fear and a pervasive sense of biblical doom. 

Now, you're maybe a little restless. Maybe a little inconvenienced. Overall, once you're done getting rid of this van and the coyotes are done getting rid of Sam's body, you don't know where you're going to plant your feet — besides Frank's dash, that is. 

Going back to your house is out of the question right now. You're not in Utah— you're in sunny California, staying with relatives and recovering from last week's events. Showing your face so soon will raise eyebrows on faces that you aren't likely to see again anyway, so there is little point in swinging by. You will have to eventually, if you want a clean break. Few things today can't be done remotely if money is no issue, but you sprung too many roots in that town and now have to sever them yourself. 

One of them is staring back at you from the phone you've just turned on for the first time in seven days, a written update from Eliza with a photo of Piper and Mae attached. The pair of rose-ringed parakeets are snuggled together on what looks to be a desk cluttered with psychology homework. You're not surprised they've taken to her so quickly as to be comfortable outside their enclosure. Eliza is a good, caring person and as gentle as they come. You don't reply to her text. 

Sifting through the flurry of notifications and emails from purveyors with whom you'd unexpectedly suspended contracts, your eyes catch on one message that is neither inquiry nor update. It's an alert from your home security system, encrypted and blinking impatiently for it to be acknowledged. It is. 

Only some forty hours too late.

Chapter Text

What Randy O'Hare was doing inside your house, you could only speculate. Well, for now — you'll definitely be asking him yourself when you get back to town, but Frank's shitty van does no more than sixty-five when you need it to do one twenty. If you're being reasonable, it's good that something is reining in your temper and ensuring you don't get pulled over for speeding, but you're not feeling very reasonable.  

Clearly, the Sheriff must've lost something of great importance at your house if he was willing to go fishing for it after hours and without your knowledge. That was the best possibility. The worst, and consequently the most critical, was that he'd lost you and was looking for you at a time when you'd be least alert. Perhaps a little of both since he cleared each room with his gun at the ready, yet when your absence was apparent, he didn't immediately leave. The footage from your hidden cameras showed him fumbling around drawers and cabinets, and the man had come prepared with gloves, so you know he meant business — just not what kind.  

Frustration is a self-insulating state of being. In you, it manifests in the form of repeated sighs and a tightening grip on the steering wheel, which in turn enforces the reflexive nature of your thoughts. You want to hit something, so your foot keeps pressing a pedal that's already down flat, and because nothing happens, you keep catastrophizing. It took you just shy of four hours to make it to the Valley from Sam's town, which was another two hours away from your own, so you were in for a long drive inside a stolen car. Not that you're expecting Frank to report it missing, because that would be hilarious given the weaponry he's got stocked and his potentially corresponding background. He's not just some weirdo: confirmed. You don't know who the hell he actually is, but he ranks towards the bottom of your priorities at the moment. Even if he does have grenades in here.  

Your hackles stay raised for the entirety of the way back, especially when the fuel light comes on just before you cross into Appoline County. There's still thirty miles left to go and you don't know shit about vans and their capacity, so you make the grievous decision to park it in the first shadowy ditch you can find that's closest to the police station. It's nearly 10AM and the car isn't the only one that's running on fumes. You're approaching thirty hours without sleep and will go no further, because while anger keeps you awake, it doesn't do shit for your aim or reasoning, both of which you're going to need for a confrontation with O'Hare. Unfortunately, everything under the Utah sun is flat and exposed — sniper's nightmare, you've heard it called when you were little. There's no place to hide a car of this size that would be both convenient and secure, so you resolve for just secure. It takes more than one try to get the piece of shit off the road and inside the tree line on either side of it, and you wish you were kidding, but the car stops dead right as you manage to wrangle it past the only maple with hanging branches. Looks like you're walking the rest of the way.  

Just breathe.  

A Sunday morning isn't the worst time to find oneself stranded on the outskirts of town, because no one goes anywhere in this place. The women outnumber the men almost two to one, and nearly a third of the town is over the age of sixty. You can make the walk back without issue once the sun goes down, and until then, all that's left to do is sleep. Except, you're hungry… and there's a perfectly good turkey sandwich at the bottom of Frank's cooler. Somehow, you don't think he'll mind.

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In theory, he can't blame her for shooting him. Frank doesn't have to try hard not to be a hypocrite — he sort of naturally leans the way of honesty, even if he's an asshole about it.

The truth was, he got involved in someone else's business, and when people have done that to him in the past, he responded much like she did. Aside from that, he's pretty sure she didn't mean to just by the look in her eyes right before she did it. To Frank, her reaction was more that of a startled animal than a cold-blooded killer; he just doesn't know what exactly caused it. Either way, the result was the same. He ended up with a slug in a really inconvenient place and a minor concussion, but he has no doubt it could've been worse. Curt would say it serves him right and to mind his own business next time. Lieberman is definitely on the cusp of telling him something similar as he calls him for an update, but Frank cuts him off before he can.  

"Yeah, yeah… Just track it for me, will ya?"  

There's silence on the other end of the line before David sighs in that fatherly way that gets on Frank's nerves.  

"I am. It looks like it's coming back your way, but we don't know for sure. Still on Route 50 for now."  

Frank grunts his acknowledgement of the information as he finishes up the last stitch in his shoulder.  

"Listen, Frank—"  

"Let me know when she gets close," he grumbles, not really in the mood for David's preaching.  

"Will you listen to me? I know you'll do whatever you want, because that's just how you are. I'm not trying to talk you out of anything. I'm just asking you to really think about what you're doing here, Frank. You don't know this person, and she just shot you. She might do worse next time," David says, and although Frank begrudges him his worry, he can't bring himself to be a dick after what they've been through together.  

"There won't be a next time, Lieberman. I ain't getting close again 'til I know what I'm dealin' with."  

It's as good as David's going to get from him, and apparently he knows it, because he doesn't try again — just sighs and confirms he'll return with an update on his van's whereabouts. For once, Frank's not mad about how invasive technology has gotten, even if he's definitely tossing the hidden phone once he gets his car back. Leave it to a guy that calls himself Micro to find a way to stay "in touch" without Frank's knowledge. In a way, he's grateful for having friends who would even bother to check if he's still alive now and then. In another way, he almost wants to goad David about his wife again.  

"I'll let you know. Be careful. You don't wanna die in Utah," David warns before the line goes quiet.  

Frank sighs.  

Jesus, what a mother hen. Yeah, he'd be fucked without David right now, but does he have to make him feel inadequate all the damn time? So he got shot. So what? He's done it plenty of times before and walked away. The problem is, that was back when he was guided by a singular purpose. When he was willing to die a thousand times over to see his mission completed, things were easy. He knew which decisions to make and which battles to pick. Can he say the same now? The earful he'd get from Karen if she knew what he was up to these days… He's not supposed to be a loose canon anymore. He's got a feeling that wandering the country looking for trouble isn't how his friends would want him to spend his 'after', but then again, he's never really known what that might look like. His life is untethered. He didn't die when he should have and now he's a phantom, traveling desolate roads and making ephemeral homes in dead-end towns whose names he can barely remember. There's no purpose, no mission to focus on. There's only a stretch of highway and the same four walls every time he lies down to rest, and that half a life he's got left keeps shrinking under its own weight. It's not like he could grow roots somewhere even if he wanted to. Pete Castiglione has no past that can't be reinvented at Frank Castle's convenience — it makes this cloak he's been asked to don as fluid and unstable as the ever-changing scenery of an episodic life. Fickle, almost. Even the costume he's supposed to wear has no substance behind it.  

He is a ghost, and ultimately, ghosts haunt the things they know.  

And damn if that look in her eyes wasn't familiar.

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David really needs to stop being an enabler. At least, that's what Sarah tells him every time she hears him talking to Frank Castle. He isn't really sure if that's true. David thinks he's doing the right thing. He's being a good friend and a good human by helping the man who got him his life and family back. He just wishes that man wouldn't be so determined to run into trouble the moment it flickered into existence in his general vicinity.  

David also wonders if this isn't partially his fault. He knew it the moment he opened his mouth and uttered the word cartel that Frank was hooked. On the one hand, he couldn't not tell him, but on the other, once he did there was no turning back. If Frank was going on the hunt, he needed to be told the details of what he was getting into. At the same time, there are some things that David did not relay to Frank — a whole history of puzzles and their missing pieces that someone went through a lot of trouble to make sure stayed missing.  

He lost her trail after Houghton, Michigan, which means there are roughly nineteen years of history that he can't account for. It's not a professional cleanup job. He knows what those look like, and this isn't government-sponsored. He'll find it eventually, but incurring Sarah's wrath is not high on his to-do list, so he's relegated to glimpses of research here and there. Between family dinner and helping Leo with her coding, he's got maybe twenty minutes at a time to delve into whatever mess Frank is chasing.  

He'll have to tell him eventually. If a week ago Frank set out to help a woman not get in over her head, that spell has likely dissipated by now. It was left unspoken between them, but they both know that her driving out into the desert only meant one thing. She did what she set out to do. Whoever this person is, David is pretty sure she can handle herself without Frank's help. Or, he was — until the corner of his screen started blinking unpleasantly, an alert he'd set up earlier this morning just in case. The worst outcome is no longer a hypothetical, and now he has to make a decision for everyone involved.

One thing was certain: if Sarah didn’t kill him, Frank definitely would.

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She couldn't sleep. Again.  

It was that same restlessness looming over her, making the head heavy when the eyes were still alert, and each time she closed them, they popped back open on their own and stubbornly remained so despite her many attempts to give in to darkness. The scratchy bandages rubbed unpleasantly against her shirt, and the room was much too hot for the blanket she'd pulled over her shoulders. She tugged at it like the stitches tugged at her skin and sat up abruptly. A ball of frustration, that's what she was, and no comfort would come from indulging in a secret midnight snack. Well, mid-morning, if the clock on her nightstand was to be believed - and it had lied to her before, so she wasn't terribly inclined to trust the red lines.  

'You can't go to him,' she told herself quietly, getting up to meander about the room. She'd repeated those words for several nights in a row, yet they made no more sense than the first time she heard them from her grandmother's mouth. It was an accident, and everybody acted like it wasn't. She knew better. Her dad would never do something like that on purpose.

‘You can’t go to him’, she said again, this time a whisper.  

She didn't want to listen to that command, and she was damn good at not doing the things adults said to do. Simple chores would become insurmountable tasks the moment someone imposed them. She was going to do the dishes when she felt like it, and telling her to do them would only ensure they didn't get done. She didn't feel she was a bad child for it. In fact, she begrudged adults the assumption that she couldn't do what needed to be done on her own initiative.  

If her grandma didn't want her wandering the hallways of her own house, well… then she shouldn't have told her not to do it.  

Huffing her way back to bed, she turned on the small tortoise lamp that sat by the clock. It cast a greenish glow that barely made it past the foot of her bed, but that was enough. As she tip-toed across the floorboards, a tiny smile scrunched the corners of her mischievous eyes. Grandma didn't have to know. She'd be in and out before sensitive ears caught her transgression, and then she could—  

The knob twisted, but the door wouldn't move. Odd, but this was an old door in an old house. They jammed sometimes, and she'd slammed it on more occasions than she could remember, so maybe this was its way of getting back at her. No matter. She could try again. However, yet again, the door wouldn't move. Clearly, it was not the door — it was the lock, which nobody ever touched, including herself. She’d never even seen the keys for it. So what was going on?  

"Dad?" she called out with her mouth by the lock. His room was closest. He would hear her first, and he was also the least likely to be mad at her for being up at this hour.  

Grasping at the knob again, she twisted it and grimaced at the ruckus it made in the otherwise silent house. No dice. Pausing to think, she chewed her lips impatiently. She wasn't going to stay locked in here. The feeling was foreign and most definitely unwelcome, and sleep wouldn't come now even if she beckoned it forth with prayer. She rolled her eyes to the gods, a sigh for the ages deflating her shoulders.  

"Daaaad?" she called out again, abandoning all hope of not getting an earful from her grandmother in the morning.  

She waited with her ear pressed to the wood for any noise of acknowledgement. None came.  

"Da—"  

Her head bounced off the door with the booming sound that rolled like thunder through the house. She wound up tripping over her own feet and falling on her ass, stitches pulling unpleasantly at her side. She sat there a moment, because while her ears knew what they had heard, her mind wasn't quite sure. It was dark. She could've mistaken it for something else. Brows scrunched together, she'd just opened her mouth to call out again when heavy footfalls manifested from down the hall and stopped in front of her door. Finally.  

"Dad?"  

Her eyes widened in tandem with the scream that pierced the door, a terrible one that made her chest hot and tight. It was warm in the room and warmer still inside herself, and that wailing wouldn't stop. It didn't give way to her frantic calls for help and didn't care for her questions as she banged her fist against the door until two of her fingers broke. No answer would come 'til morning, when her door would finally part and a strange man would stand before it, looking even more unpleasant than she felt.  

She turned on her heel and ran past him the instant he opened his mouth, rounding the corner before he could swipe at her. This was her house, and he was an intruder in uniform. Her dad would not take kindly to his presence, and his door was just within her grasp. Her fingers grabbed the handle and she pressed down with all her strength.

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Sudden ringing startles you awake. Not that you aren't used to jumping out of bed at the slightest crackle and squeak, but this particular melody is not familiar to you. It belongs to neither your personal nor your 'work' phone, both of which are on the cusp of giving up the ghost anyway. No, this is another device that roused you, and maybe you should be grateful for that, because while you were sleeping the van took it upon itself to morph into an industrial oven. Plat du jour: tenderly roasted adult woman who doesn't know how to set an alarm so she doesn't die in the August sun. A mouthful, most likely.  

You gulp down air as you exit the car, the air outside feeling like a winter morning compared to the hell of Frank's van. Pouring sweat and somewhat disoriented, you take note of the fact that the ringing hasn't stopped. Hesitant to approach the burning car, you curse softly when you realize you're going to have to get back inside. The phone is nowhere within reach, and it takes a few tries to pinpoint its location, the revelation of which astounds you. Why it's hidden inside the roof lining above the passenger seat is a question for another day, because unfortunately, it stops ringing before you can do anything. Inspecting it more closely, you notice that before you yanked it out, it was connected by one long cable to the van's electrical system, most likely so it could remain permanently in operation. Okay. So Frank might be a weirdo. After all, what else could explain—  

The ringing starts again. This time, however, there's something even more disquieting about the phone: it's flashing your name as the caller ID. It's so effective in getting your attention that you answer it without the slightest bit of contemplation, holding it away from you and putting it on speaker. What sounds like a relieved laugh is the first thing to hit your ears.  

"Oh, thank God. Thought you were gonna destroy it or something. Listen, I need to talk to you. You don't know me, but you should really listen to what I have to say if you—"  

You hang up on the rambling man chatting up the line just as quickly as you answered. Dropping the phone in the grass, you're two seconds away from doing exactly what he thought you were going to do by stomping on it, when a simple text lights up the screen.  

Don't.  

One moment later, another.  

I know where u are.  

You bite the inside of your cheek, annoyance growing. Obviously. Of course. Your day was going so well already, and naturally this makes it even better. Another ding is muffled by the grass. You peer down at it with a glower that rivals the afternoon sun.  

I haven't told Frank. He wants to help you, but I think that's a really bad idea.  

For fuck's sake. You're both the clown and the circus all wrapped up in one. You should've driven his godforsaken van off a cliff. How the hell did you wind up here?  

Another chime grates on your last nerve, and because you just can't help yourself, you chance a look down at the screen. Frustration is a self-insulating state of being.

Just pick me up so we can talk.

Chapter Text

David needs to tread carefully. The last time he did something like this was when he talked to Madani behind Frank's back, and Castle let him know what he thought of him in no uncertain terms. It nearly ended their friendship. A repeat experience might actually entice Frank to drive back to New York just to communicate his feelings about this second subtle betrayal. 

Okay— so maybe he's being a snake in the grass. But if being a snake means he gets to avoid Frank walking into a silent trap and prevent her from getting herself killed, then David will slither right along with a clean conscience. It doesn't mean he won't be a little nervous when he has to break the news to his friend, but he'll cross that bridge when he gets to it. In the meantime, he repeats the information he wants to relay in his head as the phone rings, much like he would for a doctor's appointment. 

After the fifth ring, a whooshing crackle floods the speakers, and a quick glance at his third monitor reveals the phone is still on the ground. He's getting clear blue skies and tree branches through the frontal camera he surreptitiously activated. 

"Hello?" he says, and if his voice wobbles just a bit, he chalks it up to not having done this in a while. Truth be told, he was almost as nervous to do it to Frank for the first time, back when he was trying to get them to team up. He suspects nothing of the sort will be happening here. 

"Hellooo? Are y—" 

"Let me see you or I hang up."  

He freezes at the sudden command. Shit. No. No, absolutely not. He's not turning on the camera. Play dumb. 

"This isn't that kind of call—"

"You have ten seconds."  

Fuck. 

"How did you—" 

"I changed my mind. Five seconds."  

Fuck! Jesus Christ, Sarah was going to murder him herself. Time runs out and he resigns himself to his fate, granting permission to his video feed at the last second and instantly cringing at the mustard-stained shirt staring back at him in high definition. For a while, things are silent. Then, a full-blown sigh is released through the speakers as the woman comes into view, having finally picked up the phone. She looks a little worse for wear with the sun beating down upon her, but David can't make out too much detail in her face. It's a poor connection on her end and a shitty camera, mostly because the phone was built for durability more than anything else. 

Silence ensues again as they stare each other down for a few long moments. David blinks first. 

"Are you going to say anything? Because—" he begins, but is interrupted yet again. 

"Are you his sidekick? You look like a sidekick. The nerdy type, obviously," the woman says. David takes immediate offense, yet he finds that in this instance, he kind of fits the role she assumes of him. He's got monitors for days both in front and behind him, and the newly acquired pair of glasses he hasn't gotten used to rests uncomfortably on the bridge of his nose. He has to admit he looks the picture. Still, he protests. 

"Frank doesn't do sidekicks. And anyway, I'm more of a guidance system. He'd be lost without me. So, not a sidekick," he chides. Even with the shitty connection he can tell she isn't impressed. 

"Yeah…" she says, sounding pretty bored to David's ears. "…To be honest with you, I don't care. I want you both to leave me the hell alone. Figure you can use your guidance system to get lost?"  

David resists the urge to roll his eyes, though a snort does escape him. 

"Trust me, this wasn't my idea. I think you might want to listen though, before you make any more wise choices, yeah? Because right now, I'm your only chance of avoiding a bullet," he warns. 

"Is your friend looking to return the favor?" she asks. David balks at the misunderstanding. 

"What? No! Not from Frank. You know, I don't think you've realized yet that he's actually trying to help you. I mean, okay— He's not the most friendly-looking guy, but he means well. And I don't think he blames you for shooting him, if you were worried about that." 

"I wasn't." She moves some hair away from her face, seeming to gaze at something in the distance. "As for helping me, nobody asked him to. If he gets involved again—"  

David takes the chance to interrupt her this time. 

"Did you kill Collins?" 

An amused smile subtly lights up her face. 

"I'm sorry, who?"  

"Come on, we both know what I'm talking about." 

"You expect me to admit to murder over FaceTime?"  

"You think I'm recording this?" 

"No, no. I trust you, stranger who knows my name and location."  

David's eyes roll back until they hurt. And he thought talking to Frank was like herding cats. He decides he's fine with being accused of having no patience; he has to break through her unbothered exterior somehow, and letting her know the depth of the pile of shit she's in might be a good start. 

"There's an APB out for your arrest in Apolline County." 

It feels like entire minutes pass as he studies her features, though in reality it can't be more than a few seconds. David thinks he sees a hint of the emotions she ought to be feeling, but they disappear as soon as they come. She reverts to impassivity, but at least now he knows it's a carefully constructed façade. This isn't unlike someone else he knows, and he dreads to think what other points of congruence might be found between them. To his trained eye, she and Frank are pretty similar. 

"Hm. Well that's handy. I was just about to turn myself in."  

Morbidly similar. 

"You're going to the police?!" David sputters, incredulous. 

"The police went to my house. I'm just paying it forward," she replies, and it's at this point that David wonders if he shouldn't just let her and Frank figure it out themselves, because this kind of stubbornness will never be reasoned with. 

"You're walking into a trap, is what you're doing," he mutters, watching his screen for any pending alerts. He needs a new approach to this entire conversation. He needs to stop wasting time. 

"Not anymore, now that you've told me they're looking for me."  

David thinks talking to a wall might actually result in a more fruitful exchange. Jesus Christ. He slams a hand down on his desk in frustration. 

"No, you don't understand. The arrest isn't based on a warrant. No judge issued one. It means the police are trying to find you without anyone knowing it if they do. That's why they didn't broadcast it beyond county lines. They don't want anyone asking questions. They're luring you and you're giving them exactly what they want." 

"And why exactly are they luring me, if you're so knowledgeable?" she drawls, leaning against a tree. 

"Personally, I think it might be because you did exactly what Frank warned you not to do," David snarks. 

"What's that?" she asks with a sigh. 

"Uhh… Starting a war with a drug cartel because you killed their boss' little brother?" 

Silence.

Prolonged, extended silence. Laborious. Heavy. Poignant, if David may say so himself. 

"He did tell you that, didn't he?" 

Extremely poignant, apparently.

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In retrospect, you did hear something about a war coming out of Frank's mouth right before you shot him. The information had not been this concise, unfortunately. Perhaps his nerdy friend should've been the one relaying all the details from the beginning. Perhaps you shouldn't have shot him like a spaz just because he blocked the door , your conscience objects. Eyes rolling back into your skull, you ponder the inconvenience-turned-potential-disaster while the phone waits inside the van, urgency be damned. With your head leaned against the tree bark, you quietly wish for that clarity you had just hours ago to return. Could things be better? Maybe, but that's neither here nor there. Could they be worse? Definitely. Regardless, the future is the only thing you control. 

A bird's eye view from an omniscient being would be nice to have. Instead, you're weighed down with hindsight and nothing else, much like the never-ending video loop of past events. You know what happened and in what order, but you can't intervene. The what-ifs begging to be factored into your reasoning are harshly buried. You've been down this road before, and those questions only serve as a distraction. You're not very interested in avoiding reality at the moment, particularly when your mouth is parched and you're showering in your own sweat under the Utah sun. 

A few more hours to go until dusk and you're stuck in a random patch of woods, theoretically armed to the teeth but realistically fucked in more than one capacity. Fresh off a murder. An APB for your arrest that only a couple of police stations know about, both under the Sheriff's jurisdiction and command. A home that was broken into by that very Sheriff. Location and name known to a very talkative and weird stranger, who appears to be friends with a not very talkative, even weirder stranger. Micro and Frank , a perfect comedy duo. 

So here you are, realizing how complicated the situation is and immediately resentful of the fact that you agreed to work with someone who has clear leverage over you. Around you, the woods are pretty quiet, not that you're very deep inside the tree line. You can still spot the road ahead if you peer around Frank's van, and it's still just as empty as you knew it would be on a Sunday afternoon. The occasional supply truck traveling between towns doesn't really amount to much traffic. There are no birds chirping or leaves rustling, because everything is either dead or dying here. You don't intend to become one with the scenery of godforsaken Utah, so just this once, you ate your pride. It went down worse than a dry-swallowed pill. Well, at least now you know what Sam meant by 'my brother's going to kill you'. Actually, you think he might've said 'fucking kill you'. A small chuckle tickles your parched lips. Sometimes you just have to learn to find these things funny. 

Agreeing to follow Micro's instructions is most definitely funny, considering your general inability to do as you're told. The contents of his plan are also hilarious in and of themselves: leave Apolline and never look back, keep the phone with you so he knows when you've left the state entirely, and in exchange he'll pretend he lost your trail when his friend asks about you. 

In all honesty, you're not sure what their deal is. Why Frank is eager to get in your way and his friend is willing to lie to ensure that he doesn't is just another one of life's little mysteries. One thing, however, is no mystery: you don't want to cross paths with the man you shot, grudge or no grudge. Leaving suits you just fine from this perspective, but from another, doing as Micro said is completely at odds with your whole life philosophy. You're not looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life, and that's exactly what you would be doing if you cut your losses and left. You could've done that back in the desert, but you didn't. You came back for a reason. 

O'Hare was inside your house. It doesn't matter that you were never going to live in it again after what happened. He invaded your space. He was looking for something — apparently, that something was indeed you. An inelegant snort falls from your lips. He wants to arrest you? You can only imagine his line of thought: someone murdered an old woman on your porch, so naturally you're the only suspect. He's probably under pressure from the mayor to find a culprit, what with elections coming up. Nobody's been murdered in Apolline since the late 2000's. You know. You've checked.

So what’s a girl to do in this mess? Could you run and never be found? Probably. 

Are you going to?

…

Another chuckle, much fonder this time, really accentuates your thirst. It’s stupid to even pretend you could ever follow along with Micro’s plan, no matter how eager you are to never see his worse half again. You don’t run before business is wrapped up. It’s not something you even know how to do. If you’ve stepped on a little cartel’s tail, you’ll deal with that as it develops. And if the Sheriff is really looking for you due to misguided reasons, well… who are you to deny him discovery? 

Pushing away from the tree, you wince as your skin protests from the harsh imprint left by the bark even through clothing. You need to change, a thing you’d be able to do if you’d had the wherewithal to grab your duffel from the car before hijacking Frank’s van last night. Your house is too risky to go back to, but maybe a detour to the bakery wouldn’t hurt. After all, you can’t show up to the police station in your murder outfit, confident as you are that it won’t incriminate you. 

Before you do anything at all, though, you need to find a way around the agreement you just entered into. In order to get back into town, you need to lose the phone so Micro can’t track it and figure out your steps. It’s a problem that really gets your gears turning for a few good minutes, until you remember exactly where you are and what time it is. Sunday evening is precisely when two shipping trucks make their way into town with supplies for three different stores, and the road you inelegantly capsized by is the only one into and out of Apolline. 

A small smile finally curls the edges of your lips, and the invigorating effect of a good idea isn’t far behind. At the very least, there’s an upside to this whole thing. You really aren’t bored anymore. 

Chapter Text

If anyone asked, the only thing that could be offered by way of explanation is that it simply... happened.

The grass beneath your feet is lush but not dense, long yet quite frail. It gives way under your weight as if you're treading on clouds and remains bent in the wake of your steps, laying down a welcoming mat as if it's no problem at all that you're here. It might not be. You've filled up a spot or two in places like this before, so maybe it's an acknowledgement of your contribution. The earth is always hungry for guests and kind to those who provide them.

The town of Apolline doesn't have two of anything to rub together except places of eternal rest. It's a curious event when a town's dead begin to outnumber its living, but that is not the origin of this particular settlement. Apolline has two distinct cemeteries, because one is for the loved, and the other is for the faded. Many of the people who die in a place this isolated have few to remember them in life, and those who embark on their final journey with no relatives left behind will lament to find their resting place a neglected garden of overgrown weeds, shielded by hickory trees and lonely as can be.

Hazel would've turned a legendary pout at the state of it.

You were not in charge of her funeral arrangements. If you had been, she wouldn't be here now— tucked inside the corner beneath the largest tree, shaded from the ruthless sun but obscured from all other light too. She was supposed to let you take care of this like you'd once discussed, but she put off the notary appointment every single time it came around. As a result, the township made the decision to situate her here instead of the smaller cemetery closer to town, branding her unimportant in the afterlife. You're not sure if you're allowed to begrudge her the repeated delays. Maybe she didn't truly want to think about it, even if you never got the impression that Hazel was scared of death. Indeed, if anything, death might've had reason to be afraid of her, with the way she'd always speak so plainly of it. She left it no veil of mystery, and it felt mundane to hear her contemplate her life through the prism of its inevitable ending. Sometimes it felt like she was stealing those thoughts directly from your brain, and maybe that's why you were never phased when she'd detail all her morbid imaginings after asking you to make a good cup of coffee.

'Might be the last one I'll have, so it better be excellent, kiddo.'

She always did that. She always broke her days up into moments, always made them more significant than they had any reason to be. Hazel seemed to live on an internal clock that had fully accepted its eventual cessation. You never thought you'd be responsible for it. You should have— because that's what your purpose in life seems to be.

Thinking yourself ready for change was, as in retrospect most things are, foolish and pointless. The four years that have transpired since you stepped foot in this town could never be enough to unravel the intricately woven tapestry of binding habits that is your life, just as well as they could never be enough to meaningfully build upon it. Nothing that has happened in this near half-decade can be said to amount to real progress, except perhaps for you finally accepting life as it is. Of course, the last seventy-two hours have played an integral part in that— perhaps, even, the only part, because Apolline is a town where nothing ever happens.

With barely any life to it, it's the sort of place you once believed might be good for containing whatever is inside you that aches to devour less unassuming places. The town could hardly provide an opportunity for conflict to burst from containment and lay waste as it usually does in urban sprawls; unlike a vibrant city, Apolline is just a stretch of wilderness imbued with boredom, the personification of a lame tumbleweed. Despite this, moving here was among the greatest risks you've ever taken, all in the name of living some fleeting fantasy you might've once had.

It shouldn't have taken this long to come to your senses. Lots of people navigate adulthood with the guiding realization that there's no forcing themselves into boxes not meant for them. It's taken you longer than most to stop jamming that square peg into a round hole, but that's mostly because the only hole that would genuinely accomodate it is nothing but a freshly dug grave. There's only misery in that chasm, which you were once hoping to avoid. You're not so sure as to why anymore. To any outside observer, the natural progression of your entire life would only ever lead here: an abandoned cemetery outside the town that just a week ago you were still trying to convince yourself could be a home.

Coming to a halt in front of the murky grey headstone, your thoughts get swallowed up by the rattling silence characteristic of all forgotten places. What do you say at the grave of a woman whose death is your fault? It's not the first time you've happened upon this question. Too many years have passed since your grandmother's eulogy for the words to be remembered, but you're certain you used to know how to do this. Still, the words do not come.

You did not intend for this to be the destination when you set out from Frank's van, some time after the sun began its journey West. Truth be told, you did not intend to come here at all, ever. But especially not after everything you've done. There's none of Sam's blood on your person, but it doesn't matter. Killing always leaves something behind in the face, in the posture, and of course, in the smell. There's no way around it— you smell a little bit like death, and death has always smelled like rot to you. Not blood or guts or singed flesh, but rot; sometimes you think you can't really tell whether someone's truly dead until you smell it on them.

The wind shifts. A while passes.

You never saw her body, but you know it's the last time you'll stand before her, so you try to have some kind of moment. You try to stretch it into something more meaningful, like she would have.

In the end, you don't know what to say, so you say nothing. All the better— because the silence makes you remember where you're headed. A fucked up kind of pit stop, that's what this is. On the way from and towards more death. Your presence here accomplishes nothing. Hazel will never know that justice was done, no matter how hard you stare a hole into her name and the words beneath it. The epitaph is shit. You wonder who chose it. Her nephew didn't bother showing, and in a way you can't judge that. People who can do so build lives in rich communities, and you imagine they'd think Apolline a sad and pathetic little corner of the world they left behind. Returning would be uncomfortable.

Not so for you. In fact, you can't wait to arrive at your destination.

The brazen honesty startles momentarily. For a brief and perilous instance, it's almost like she can see you, the real you, yet can say and do nothing to show disapproval. She's a helpless woman under six feet of dirt, lying beneath emptiness and neglect.

It leaves a bad taste in the mouth, but you have to accept it: your entire life here, your very presence more than anything, is what earned Hazel a resting place among all these ghosts. You wonder if it's disrespectful to have even spoken to the woman at all. To have served her coffee and breakfast and freshly made bread from the same hands that have torn and split and crushed and squeezed. Was it cruel to have made her share her time with you? Deceitful to have presented yourself as normal? If she'd known, would she have run?

And are you wondering all this to avoid the natural conclusion?

You didn't do right by her in life. Why would you manage now?

Having yet more guilt to bear, you make your way around the weeds and hanging branches, heading towards the exit on the other side of the cemetery and keeping to whatever shade you can as you will the ruthless sun to descend faster.

Hazel will stay with the faded. There is no one in Apolline to remember her often enough to visit, and you've laid eyes on her for the last time.

You never meant to come. It simply happened. The cemetery was just on the way into town, down by the old brewery coming into view as you walk down the sweltering path. Both establishments are equally abandoned, slowly but surely being claimed by nature until they're as entwined with it as regret is with wrongdoing.

A sense of belonging was always hard to come by, but not as the rotting wood of the cellar door gives way and you step into the ambient darkness.