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Chapter Text

Monday, November 21 ^st , 1988.

Although the end of the workday is fast approaching, it’s still a Monday – and Director Northmoor is just about ready to file this discussion with his Deputy Chief as “typical irritating Monday nonsense.” Broderick is walking quickly through Executive Affairs, just trying to get back to his office, but Zachariah Trench tails along in earnest, talking his ear off. Not about paranatural events or the operations of the Executive Sector – but about Thanksgiving. With uncharacteristic enthusiasm, and for the second time in the last four days. 

(At least it’s making him cooperative, which is an improvement over their usual dynamic at work.)

“Seems you’ve really got a bit of a…fixation here, Chief.” Broderick says. “Why am I letting you talk me into this again?” 

“Well, uh, I was reading about it down in Communications. Apparently, it used to be a Bureau tradition for the Director to host Thanksgiving dinner. Director Ash supposedly threw some legendary parties, and I’m sure you could one-up him.”

Any mention of Ash – either Sr. or Jr. – instantly dampened Broderick’s enthusiasm: “Seems like all the more reason to just stay in my office, then.”

“Sir, all our offices are going to be closed. Board or no Board, it’s still a federal holiday.” Trench says, as if something official might be more convincing than anything he’s read. 

“So is President’s Day. And we don’t have a celebration of gluttony for that.”

It leans slightly toward a joke; Zachariah takes it as an invitation to start planning the whole thing out loud. “How about it? You, me, all the Bureau Heads, Marilyn, at your place – we’ll do it potluck style? I’ll bring the stuffing.”

“A potluck? What the hell is this, a garden party after church?”

 “C’mon. You don’t even have to cook anything.” Trench continues. “You’ll just have to get the turkey.”

“Let me guess.” Broderick turns his eyes up toward the ceiling, “That’s some sort of Bureau tradition too?”

“Of course. Head of the Bureau, centerpiece of the feast, and all that.”

Trench has a wide, silly grin, which grates like a sharp file against Broderick’s nerves. This whole idea is preposterous. He can’t remember the last time he even had turkey. Or company for Thanksgiving, or any other holiday for that matter, or–

“I suppose I could have my cleaning lady pick one up at the store.” He says blankly, more out of desire to end the conversation rather than giving any real consent.

“That’d be great.” Zachariah gushes. “Remember, you’ll probably want to start thawing it tomorrow so that–”

“I know what to do with the damn turkey, Trench.” Broderick aggressively cuts him off. 

He’s lying, obviously. When it comes to most culinary matters, he’s one short step away from completely clueless – but that’s part of his job as Director: bullshit convincingly when he needs to.  

“So, can I round everyone up, and then call you Thursday to work out the rest of the details? How about around noon?” 

“I guess.” Broderick says. “Just use the unlisted number.” By virtue of his rank and legitimately nothing else, Zachariah’s one of six people who have earned the privilege to call him at home. 

Oh well. He thinks, relieved, as Trench eventually ducks away down a corridor, practically springing off the walls with delight. Grin and bear it. It’s just one day. 

***

Thursday, November 24^th , 1988.

Northmoor has a second home in the suburbs, thirty miles north of Manhattan: a bit dusty, yet a practical enough venue to be dragged into hosting Thanksgiving at. (Preferable, at least, to his cramped weekday apartment where he spends seven hours per day at most). 

It’s a modest, two-story Victorian-style house that he inherited from his aunt: light blue clapboard siding, creaky hardwood floors, an old stone fireplace, and a proper dining room. And he thought he’d croak before he’d ever use the dining room. Broderick has converted one of the two upstairs bedrooms into a study, and on Thanksgiving Day, he wakes up in the other at 9 AM, sleeping in after a very late night at the Bureau.

The late-autumn sunlight is biting in his eyes as he fixes himself a cup of coffee. Opening the fridge for the milk, he finds the turkey – all seventeen plastic-wrapped pounds of it – occupying the entire lower shelf in its foil roasting pan.

Ah, yes, his cleaning lady had picked it up with the cash he’d left her. He pokes it with mild revulsion. Seems thawed. Should all be uneventful enough.

Broderick peruses yesterday’s paper in front of the television. An early seventies model that was also his late aunt’s, its desaturated picture shows the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. He grunts his displeasure at the giant Pink Panther balloon; he was never one for holiday frivolities. When he grows annoyed enough for a wisp of smoke to rise forebodingly from the spot where his fingers meet the newspaper, he shuts off the TV.

*

Trench calls at noon, while Broderick is trying to fit the spare leaves into the dining room table. Even though he’s just forty-eight, they’re heavy, solid oak; a good way to throw his back out, and that’s before the phone startles him and he nearly drops them both on his foot.

After some mindless prattle about food and guests, and the reluctant sharing of his address, Zachariah announces that he’s coming at one-thirty.

“Why do you have to come so early, Chief?” 

“To get the turkey in the oven.” Trench sounds awkwardly eager, like a high schooler ready for his first prom. “At least, I’d presume you have an oven.”

“No.” Broderick spits sarcastically. “I cook all of my food with my paranatural abilities.”

“Really?” 

“I didn’t realize days off work made people so gullible. Of course I have an oven. It’s 1988, for God’s sake – what kind of question is that?!” 

Despite it being barely afternoon, he’s already so ill-humored he can almost see the steam rising off his forehead, like some fuming cartoon character.

“…Right.” Trench says nervously. “I’ll, uh, see you in ninety minutes.”

*

At 2 PM, Zachariah is clearly much grumpier than he was when he arrived. His cheery “Nice house!” had been met with Broderick’s silent, disapproving glare. Just like it always is at the Oldest House, the mood in the kitchen is tense.

“Um, a little help would be appreciated.” Trench says. 

“You said I didn’t have to cook anything.” 

“You’re not cooking.” Zachariah sounds testy as he opens the microwave door and removes a dish of softened butter. Broderick stands out of the way and sulks.

“Okay. What do you want me to do?” 

“Just…preheat the oven to three-twenty-five.” Zachariah instructs.  

Broderick turns the temperature knob, and then opts to lean against the refrigerator and watch. 

The Director can’t remember the last time he saw his Deputy Chief not adhering to Bureau dress code: Zachariah’s typical white button-down, tie, and grey slacks have been swapped for jeans, a plain heather tee, and a plaid flannel overshirt. Do people normally dress so…irreverent on Thanksgiving? Trench looks ready to go outside and chop firewood. It almost makes Broderick less self-conscious about the relative informality of his own khakis and sweater. Almost.

The oven beeps. Trench’s hands fish through the grocery bag on the counter. He measures out rosemary, thyme, parsley, and garlic powder from new spice jars and mixes them into the butter.

“So, did Kate teach you how to do all this turkey stuff?”

Trench’s shoulders fall. The metal measuring spoons clink dejectedly to the counter.

“Do you have to go there today?”

“You’re in my kitchen, Chief. If I’m going to tolerate that, can’t I at least make conversation?”

“Can we at least not talk about my ex-wife?” Trench snaps, beginning to rub the butter on the now unwrapped turkey.

“Fine.” Broderick says. He’s irritated and dismissive, feeling something akin to extreme Monday frustration – but on a Thursday. Trench stares daggers at him as he wrestles the unwieldy bird into the oven, and when he turns on the faucet to wash his hands, a slow-kindled argument predictably erupts.

“–God, you’re so passive-aggressive.”

“You started it. You can’t let your Board-sanctioned superiority complex go for just one day.”

“Why did I ever agree to this?”

“A little hospitality would go a long fucking way, you know.”

“Take your misplaced domestic fantasies elsewhere, Zachariah.”

The row only ends when Trench stomps off through the dining room and into the living room, with Broderick in hot pursuit. Zachariah flops dolefully into the recliner. 

“Do you have a goddamn remote, or do you turn the TV on with your paranatural powers, too?”

Broderick points to the coffee table, and Zachariah’s soon watching the Thanksgiving NFL game between the Detroit Lions and the Minnesota Vikings.

Great. Just goddamn great. If there’s one thing he hates even more than unnecessary parades, it’s football.

For the next forty-five minutes, Broderick continues reading yesterday’s paper. Trench is quiet, save a short gripe about the officiating.

“My sister.” Zachariah finally says. “And my brother-in-law. Learned how to do the turkey from them.”

Broderick is slow to realize that his junior is speaking to him. “You have a sister?” 

“Nine years working together, and you didn’t know that?” Trench shakes his head. “Jesus Christ, Broderick.”

*

At four, the others begin arriving. Marilyn, Broderick’s secretary of fifteen years, is the first, followed by Dale Martin, the Head of Security, who shows up with his Chief of Staff, Agent Lin Salvador (who follows him everywhere). At four-thirty, Zachariah answers the doorbell to find Henry Chang, a busy, country-club type who has served as Head of Operations for the past two years, and Carol Kirklund, the matronly Investigations Head whose son William works in the same sector.

Of course, Bill Powers, Head of Communications, is late – he always is. A big, ruddy-faced man of nearly seventy, he’s accompanied by his second wife, an eccentric woman from Executive Affairs who is twenty years his junior, wearing an unseasonable floral-printed sundress. 

“Good to see you, Bill.” Broderick tries his hardest to feign politeness. “And you too, May.”

“June.” Mrs. Powers corrects him.

Sure, his Bureau Heads are competent, professional people, but he wouldn’t invite them into his house if he paid them to clean the bathroom, and at this point, Broderick doesn’t give a damn if Powers’ wife is named February.

(Fortunately, Dr. Ash had rebuffed Trench’s invitation – Broderick might’ve rage-burned the whole neighborhood down, or telekinetically thrown him through a window, if he had showed up.)

Suddenly, there’s too much inane talk about the nice weather and the game, and too many dishes crowding the refrigerator: stuffing and mashed potatoes, green bean casserole and brussels sprouts and apple pie, and that intolerably spicy sweet potato…thing, that, much like Salvador, Martin insists on bringing to everything.

The sight of all this food, along with the aroma of roasting turkey now permeating the whole house, would be pleasing – if Broderick weren’t so blatantly unhappy over this whole proposition.

As the sun begins to set, the small talk segues into exclamations of “smells good!” and “Gosh, I’m starving!” Zachariah finds candlesticks, with their attendant taper candles, in the sideboard. Candles lit with Trench’s cigarette lighter, the group sits around the dining room table in rapt anticipation of the feast.

June brought a basket of wine and liquor. Because of course she did; the woman drinks like a fish at parties.

By five-thirty, Mrs. Powers, Marilyn, and Chang have all polished off several glasses of wine, becoming loud, insufferable gossips. Like a nest of sordidly buzzing hornets, they force Broderick to stay in the living room.

Which would be fine – except for the fact that the living room is the furthest room from the kitchen on the first floor, and he doesn’t smell the smoke. In fact, Broderick only notices the slight grey haze creeping in when the smoke alarm pierces through the chitchat at around quarter-after-six.

Then, he hears Zachariah go “oh shit”, followed by the springy sound of the oven door closing.

Broderick finds his Deputy Chief waving a dish towel at the kitchen’s smoke alarm, while Kirklund and Salvador, typical flinty FBC demeanor on display, assess the blackened remains of the turkey. Their report: likely inedible.

“I told you to set it to three-twenty-five!” Trench hisses at him.

“I did!” 

Trench looks at the oven dial and then exhales tensely. “You accidentally set it to five-hundred and twenty-five. No wonder it’s a goddamn charcoal briquette.”

“Are you saying I can’t read?”

“I’m starting to sincerely doubt it.” 

“Maybe you should eat it.” Broderick heckles him. “Probably hot enough to burn your smart-ass tongue right off.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Trench attempts to keep his voice low, “can we stop arguing for five whole minutes?”

Broderick at least has the sense to not go completely thermonuclear in front of guests – figuratively or literally – and a few seconds later, Marilyn pokes her head into the kitchen entryway. 

“Aw, it’s okay. Eventually we all burn one. We’ll just eat everything else.” She says, with the air of a mother consoling a distraught toddler.

Well, Broderick figures maybe that’s what he needs at this point – some garish carb-heap that’ll make him sleep until New Year’s and forget all about this.

*

“C’mon.” Martin tries to pass him the sweet potato casserole again. “I’m telling you! You oughta try it.”

Broderick sighs. “You know I don’t handle spicy too well, Dale.” 

Martin tries to make his case, saying something about how it’s what Thanksgiving tastes like in South Carolina. Broderick wants to tell him, go to South Carolina and eat it there, but he can’t, and he lets himself fade in and out of various conversations.

“…You should’ve seen what went down last Thanksgiving in Executive Accounting. With that intern? Turns out Agent Scott was stuffing more than just the turkey!” June howls. Drunk and uncoordinated, her arm knocks over one of the candles as she reaches across the table, nearly taking her bottle of gin with it. Chang immediately tips it back upright.

“Careful there, June-bug.” Powers laughs.

“God, what did he see in her?” Chang says. “She was an idiot. She thought Watergate was paranatural, for Pete’s sake.”

“I mean, in all fairness,” Trench interjects, “didn’t everyone at the Bureau think that at one point?”

“And what would you know about that, Trench?” Broderick finally says. “Weren’t you in diapers when that all happened?”

One of the younger Deputy Chiefs in Bureau history, Zachariah is only thirty-four; it’s a nasty dig at his age, and what finally makes him excuse himself to the living room. 

Broderick’s left hand, resting palm-down on the table, feels hot. Underneath, a dark brown handprint is scorched into the white tablecloth. His aunt’s handmade tablecloth, God damn it. He slides his half-eaten plate over it and opts to follow Zachariah.

Trench, watching the end of another football game in the dark, is thoroughly unimpressed with Broderick’s appearance.

“Why do you have to be like this?” Zachariah grumbles. “I just thought we’d all have fun for a day.”

“Well, why’d you have to involve me in it? My house, my rules.”

“Yeah. I know. You say that shit at work, too.” Trench stands up and turns toward the back porch.

Broderick yells after him. “Oh, get off it, Chief.” 

He takes Trench’s spot in the recliner and watches the small golden flicker through the window as Zachariah lights a cigarette. 

Some noise on the television; a field goal, or something. Turning off the TV, Broderick opens the cabinet beneath the lamp and grabs the bottle of rum that he’s stashed away for nights like just this. He tugs out the cork, takes a gulp straight from the bottle, and then another.

Thank God this is only once a year. 

Chapter Text

Perhaps remarkably, Northmoor isn’t hung over the next morning, and just as well. Holiday weekend or not, Friday is still a workday. 

He again wakes up, to a sunny day, at 9 AM. He swears he had set his alarm for six. Bothersome, sure, but he was quite inebriated.

The first clue that something is wrong is the table. As he walks through the dining room en route to the kitchen, Broderick notices that the tablecloth – with its candlesticks and singed hand-print – is missing. He knows he went to bed with it still on the table. His hand runs warily over the surface, where was sitting the previous evening. Was he that drunk? Did he dream that?

He switches on the television, hoping the noise might jar him further awake. It’s the Macy’s Parade again: the Spider-Man balloon floats cheerily down Broadway. A re-run from yesterday – or maybe his paranatural abilities are somehow interfering with the tuner? It had happened once before.

However, his skepticism rises as he brews coffee in the kitchen. 

And when he opens the refrigerator, there’s the turkey.

He jumps backwards from the surprise of it, sloshing milk right out of the carton. He’s still dreaming. He’s got to be; he’s just near-blackout drunk and this is a nightmare.

The “pinch yourself” test suggests the opposite, so his racing mind settles on someone must’ve drugged the rum as a cruel prank. A little holiday merriment at the Director’s expense. But it’s not a bad trip, either: he is very sober, and his suspicious touch reveals that the raw – and distinctly unburned – bird is real.

*

Trench calls at noon, and arrives, again, at 1:30 PM. Broderick is rattled, but at least has the sense to thank him for the “Nice house!” comment, even if it’s insincere.

Zachariah is still wearing the grey t-shirt and jeans. Broderick watches the same routine with the microwave, the butter, and the herbs, and lurks in the corner of the kitchen like a troubled statue, as far away from his Deputy Chief as possible.

“What’s with you?” Trench asks. “I’m trashing your kitchen, and you haven’t threatened to fire me yet.” It’s a stupid comment, but Trench is at least less moody than...yesterday? Today? God, Broderick has no idea what’s going on, and is just as unsure of what to say. Any attempt at the truth would sound crazy.

“J-just, uh, a little tired. Late night.”

“Feel that.” Zachariah half-smiles. “Think you could preheat the oven to three-twenty-five?”

“Sure.” Broderick carefully sets the temperature to ensure it’s correct this time. A small spot of grease on the number 500 makes it nearly indistinguishable from 300 at first glance. Huh.

Turkey in the oven and timer set, they sit in the living room. Northmoor uneasily reads Wednesday’s paper – that he had read once before – and Trench turns on the football game. The same two teams; the same edgy silence.

“Not a football fan, huh?” Trench says, noticing the quiet.

“Not really. S-seems to be the same game every…” 

Every year? Every day? Broderick can’t finish his sentence. He’s so confused and agitated that he excuses himself out the back door. Pacing frantically in the backyard for a good half-hour, he presses his fingers against his temples and tries to focus on one thing. Is he somehow part of a hallucination involving multiple people? An outbreak of mass psychosis? Or maybe he’s fallen into a weird space-time distortion – what’s Dr. Ash call it? – a wormhole?

He realizes quickly that he’s not going to solve whatever this is. But soon, he will have to interact with guests. Again. 

Shit. 

*

As before, June is drunk. She, Marilyn, and Chang start up their lurid rumor mill, all word-for-word identical to what they said previously. Zachariah lights the candles. 

The timer goes off at six-thirty, while Zachariah is out back having a smoke; Broderick opts to deal with it. The kitchen is just as quiet as the living room anyway. 

Removing the turkey from the oven and setting it on the stovetop, he hunts for aluminum foil to cover it. That’s what he’s supposed to do, right? It’s been a while since he attempted to cook, and even longer since he did so in this kitchen. He can’t find anything. Soon he’s quite angry: for some reason beyond his comprehension, his sense of time is completely broken, his thoughts are still running a mile a minute, and he’s hosting Thanksgiving against his will – again. And when he gets mad, he gets hot – the kind of heat that’s caused mail he’s opening to combust without warning. He can feel his powers straining at the bindings of his control.

While Broderick is rummaging in the cluttered cabinet over the range, Trench noiselessly appears in the doorway.

“What are you looking for up there?”

Broderick startles, knocking several spice jars down into the roasting pan with the turkey. When he reaches to grab them, his red-hot fingers light the butter and fat on fire. The perfectly cooked bird is quickly engulfed in a booming mass of flames.

The smoke alarm screeches. “Fire extinguisher!” Zachariah orders. 

“Uh.” Broderick says. “I don’t…”

“How can you not know where you have a fire extinguisher in your own house?!”

As it burns, Trench caroms around the kitchen, jerking open the cupboards to no avail. He finally quashes the blaze with a damp towel. Then, coughing and fanning at her face, Marilyn appears, just like the first time they reduced a turkey to carbon.

“Aw, it’s okay. Eventually we all burn one. We’ll just eat everything else.”

*

Martin offers the casserole. June knocks over the candle. Once more, Broderick makes a flippant remark that irritates Zachariah, but this time, Broderick excuses himself instead.

He leans back in the recliner, rubbing his eyes. He’s still in shock. He’s said about twenty words all day. He just wants it to end, and hopes whatever happened was just a surreal one-off.

The bottle of rum is mostly full, the way he had left it the previous weekend. Tonight, he only has a taste. 

“Are you sick or something?” Zachariah says somewhere behind him. 

“Why?”

“You’ve barely said anything all day.”

Broderick gives a brisk laugh – like he’s really going to say, I hate Thanksgiving, and I especially hate being forced to “celebrate” the same holiday twice for some reason I don’t understand?

Instead, he opts for: “What are you, my mother?”

“What, a Deputy Chief’s not allowed to worry about his boss? Hell, maybe you’re not quite insulting enough today, and I’m concerned.” Trench jibes.

“And why are you, of all people, concerned about my welfare when it’s obvious that I’m just tired of this particular Bureau tradition, as you called it?”

“Your welfare? Broderick, you’re a pyrokinetic parautilitarian who doesn’t own a fire extinguisher.”

At this remark, all Broderick can do is shake his head sullenly.

***

Thursday, November 24 ^rd , 1988 – For the Third Time

“God damn it!” Broderick swears, closing the refrigerator door with as much strength as he can muster. As if the Parade and the missing tablecloth weren’t enough of an indicator, the turkey is – it’s Thanksgiving Day again.

What the hell is happening? 

Staring out the kitchen window, he tries to think rationally.

Although his preliminary assessments suggest it’s not likely, could an Altered World Event be developing at his house? Is he about to suddenly cross some holiday-related extradimensional Threshold? Or are his paranatural powers finally starting to boil his own brain into insanity? He contemplates filing a report with the Bureau, but then remembers Trench’s words. Federal holiday. 

Broderick can’t recall the last time he’s taken this many days off work before – even if they are the same day – and he’s unsure how to pass the time at home. So he distracts himself by organizing the cabinet above the stove. Half those spice jars are bound to be expired by now, anyway. 

As he works, he thinks, over and over: why does this day have to repeat? Why couldn’t it have been the day he first picked up the Service Weapon and felt his new-found power surging within him? Or maybe the day the Bureau finally had that damn Swan Boat securely in Containment so it couldn’t kill any more people? Those were good days, but Thanksgiving is nothing but laziness and excess, feigning niceness for the sake of the calendar, and closed offices – the platonic ideal of everything he despises.

*

Instead of cold-shouldering Trench upon his arrival, Broderick just waves meekly today.

2:04 PM. The sun is bright. The microwave dings; Broderick is still reserved and avoidant. 

“Are you all right?” Zachariah asks, removing the butter. “You’re acting like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

There’s that whole concerned-about-his-welfare-thing again. For the second time in…well, however many days it’s really been.

“I’m fine.” Broderick lies. “Just, uh, you ever have déjà vu, Chief?”

“I mean…yeah. Doesn’t everyone? What’s up?” 

“Nothing. I just feel like I’ve been here before. It’s weird.”

“Maybe you’re just remembering last year’s Thanksgiving or something?” Zachariah suggests. “Although I kind of get the feeling you’re pretty new to this territory.”

Broderick hates any comment that suggests his inexperience, and huffs back: “Well, that’s a bit presumptuous of you.”

“Okay then, Director. If I’m so presumptuous, what should we preheat the oven to?”

“Well, I’d do three-twenty-five.” Broderick smirks and sets the oven temperature; Zachariah makes a proud “hm” noise. 

He wins this round, even though he technically cheated. The remaining preparations proceed as they had twice already: the whole sight, when Broderick thinks about it, is still rather dissonant, from Trench’s casual dress to his confident domesticity. Even though they’ve worked together for nine years, Broderick realizes that he knows Zachariah in a very limited capacity. And he prefers it that way – but now his Deputy Chief is in his house. Again.

“And how about you?” Broderick leaves his own head for a minute, trying to be polite. “It was your…sister who taught you how to cook, right?” 

“Wow.” Zachariah says, almost incredulously.

“What?”

“You were actually listening when I was talking to you on Monday. We ought to put out an official Bureau bulletin about that.” 

Well, he wasn’t on Monday, but Zachariah had also told him that two burnt turkeys ago. 

“Oh, buzz off.” Broderick tells him.

Another point for him, as ill-gotten as it is.

***

The Vikings beat the Lions, 23-0. Northmoor does the crossword puzzle in the paper. The Bureau Heads, June, and Marilyn arrive on cue. The timer chimes at six-thirty. Broderick chooses to let it go until Zachariah has his cigarette. Taking his seat at the dining room table, he tunes out the same relentless nonsense about various minor Bureau scandals.

To much fanfare (and wearing old oven mitts that belonged to Broderick’s aunt), Trench carefully brings in the turkey.

“Oh, look at that! Didn’t realize you could make such a swell bird, Trench!” Powers says, perhaps echoing Broderick’s earlier thoughts.

“Just gotta finish making gravy.” Zachariah beams at the compliment and departs back into the kitchen.

Dishes are passed around. Martin begins to shill his sweet potato casserole; Broderick declines.

“…You should’ve seen what went down last Thanksgiving in Executive Accounting.” June slurs, “With that intern? Turns out Agent Scott was stuffing more than just the turkey!”

June tips over the candlestick for the third time. She and Chang both try to grab it, but send the candle, along with June’s bottle of gin, spilling right onto the turkey. The alcohol and butter ignite with a bright flash and a whumph; loud swearing and jumping ensue.

“Well, that’s not good.” Trench says from the doorway, faking calmness.

Broderick finally remembers – and not a second too soon – that it’s in the garage. The fire extinguisher. It’s all a blur as he shoots out of his chair and through several doors, snatches it off the shelf, and tears back inside. The gust of white powder quickly takes care of the fire.

Unfortunately, the rest of the food is collateral damage, a mess that everyone gapes dully at until Salvador goes “Does anyone know if Pizza Hut delivers on Thanksgiving?”

The aftermath takes forty-five minutes to clean up, and then they have pizza. Pizza, gravy, and the stuffing that Trench had forgotten in the oven. It’s a revolting combination.

The evening ends the same way as the others: with Broderick sulking in the dark over the sheer disaster that preceded, nursing the rum and half-watching whatever sitcom is on after the game. He doesn’t even hear most of his guests leave. They ignore him; he ignores them.

Zachariah, his cigarette break finished, walks in through the back door. “Well, um, good night, Sir.” He says, sounding almost defeated, and departs without another acknowledgement.

“Night, Chief.” Broderick says, but by then, he’s talking to nobody.

Chapter Text

Thursday, November 24 ^th , 1988 – Take Four.

When Broderick wakes up on Thanksgiving Day for a fourth time, he decides on more drastic measures. 

He loathes asking for advice, and especially from his Head of Research and Arch Nemesis – Theodore Ash, Jr. – but he’s now strongly suspecting this could be a paranatural phenomenon.

The Parade on TV wheels on in the background as Broderick dials Ash’s home number from the kitchen.

Two rings, then: “Hello?” 

“Ted. It’s Northmoor. Got a minute?”

“What do you want, Ricky?” Ash’s voice falls. Ash hates being called Ted, Broderick hates being called Ricky; it’s just part of the streak of antagonism that runs through their every interaction. Broderick ignores that for now, and says:  “Something really strange is going on.”

“Oh, when is it not? Ash laughs at him. “And how much did you drink last night?”

“It’s not funny, Ted. I’m caught in some kind of time loop. I think it’s paranatural.”

“Hm. A time loop, huh? Not a whole lot we can do today, unfortunately.” Ash says, disbelievingly, with the same demeanor as a burned-out appliance repairman. “Unless…has anyone been hurt? Are you in danger?” 

“No. Not at all. I’m just miserable.”

Over the line, Broderick hears shuffling and clattering, followed by several beeps.

“Sorry, that’s my oven.” Ash says.

“The hell are you baking at nine-thirty in the morning?”

“Pumpkin pie. My neighbor invited me over at one-thirty.”

“Of course.” Broderick sighs.

“Listen. I need to go here.” Ash says. “But we’ll file a report first thing tomorrow morning if we need to. Just try and enjoy the day.”

Broderick doesn’t have a chance to say tomorrow morning will just be today again before Ash hangs up. 

But as he brews coffee and gives his customary stink-eye at the turkey in the fridge, he thinks about what Ash had said. Maybe if he at least pretends to enjoy Thanksgiving, time will reset to normal – some corny Dickens-esque redemption arc, or something. He’s willing to try.

*

The fire extinguisher thunks from Northmoor’s hand onto the kitchen counter.

“What’s that for?” Trench asks.

“I’m a pyrokinetic parautilitarian.” Broderick parrots Trench’s own words back at him. “General precautionary measure, you know.”  

Broderick, superficially good-mannered, tries to talk to Zachariah. He asks the same question about cooking and Trench’s sister; he gets the same barbed response about him actually listening for once. He forces a laugh.

“What’s your sister do for a living, anyway?” 

“Attorney. Property law.”

“Older or younger?”                                                     

“Older by two years.” Trench looks distrustfully over at him, his hands still rubbing the herbed butter onto the turkey. “Why?”

“Just curious.” It’s a fib, but it’s not entirely false: “I actually don’t know you very well.”

Zachariah seems to see through all Broderick’s disingenuousness. “You were never curious before.”

“Fine then. I won’t say anyth–”

Zachariah cuts him off. “How about you? You got any siblings?”

“No.” 

“Well, that explains a few things. The bratty, spoiled, only child complex.” Trench joshes him.

“Oh, shut up, Chief.” 

“Think you’re making my point for me.” As Trench washes his hands, he has a self-satisfied smile, which seems to egg Broderick toward more verbal fencing. 

“And let me guess. You act out and talk back so much because your older sister hogged all the attention.” Broderick says. “And are we going to put this turkey in the oven, or just stand here bickering next to it?”

“Well, at least my sister knows that we have to preheat the goddamn oven before the bird goes in it.”

It’s a good comeback, and Broderick accidentally snickers a bit as he sets the temperature knob. So far, he’s not doing too bad of a job faking it.

*

“Is this the game with the, uh, penalty box, or whatever you call it?” Broderick asks, looking over the top of his newspaper. Detroit is playing Minnesota for the fourth time.

“That’s hockey.” Zachariah says. “Holy shit, you really don’t know anything about sports.”

“Working for the Government for twenty-four years will do that.”

Five minutes pass; Broderick looks from the television to the paper, and to the television again. “Why the hell are they hitting one another?”

“Stopping the forward motion of the ball. When the guy with it is down, the play is over.”

A few more minutes of reading: a review of a jazz album in the Times that he’s already read thrice; stock reports; some political spat or another.

“What’s a play?” 

“It’s like…the little unit of action that happens when the ball is snapped.” Zachariah explains. He points out the next play as it happens. “Okay. The whistle means that play is over. The ball moved four yards, and the next play for Detroit will start from that spot.”

“Too goddamn complicated.” Broderick laments, choosing to start the crossword puzzle again rather than inquire further. Maybe he can do it faster than he did…last Thanksgiving? Oh, what the hell? 

*

Broderick puts on an excessively amicable face when the guests arrive. He goes so far as to hug a very surprised June Powers, even though she’s wearing headache-inducing perfume. 

He inserts himself into their petty conversations, causing nervous laughs and unnatural silences. He’s not sure how to talk to these people outside of work, so he just talks. In fact, he only stops talking when he sees Zachariah walk by with the candles.

“Might want to leave them unlit.” He urges Trench, lighter already in his hand. “Fire hazard.”

Stove-related follies averted, the turkey turns out perfect. While everyone waits for Zachariah to finish the gravy, Broderick helps himself to one of the many bottles of wine supplied by Mrs. Powers. He deliberately lets it go to his head – anything to make this all more bearable.

“Can I tempt you?” Martin says from the left, handing him the sweet potato casserole with two potholders.

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. Even the Bureau’s doctors and scientists would advise against it: excessively spicy foods could adversely interact with his paranatural abilities.

“Oh, what the hell.” Broderick says, taking the dish from Martin. “Let’s see what all your hype’s about, Dale.”

It’s spicy, that’s for sure. Really spicy, the kind of licking-a-searing-skillet heat level that makes his eyes water and his throat tickle. His whole body feels too warm. His head reels; his nose is tingling and running. It’s a too-familiar sensation, but he can’t grab his napkin in time, and oh God, he’s had alcohol, too–

He lurches forward as he sneezes, sending a blast of fire rolling across the table like he’s a tipsy dragon. The turkey, of course, isn’t spared, becoming a ready fuel source for a merrily crackling blaze. Trench, who had just walked in from the kitchen, is so stunned that he drops the gravy boat, which shatters and splashes everywhere. 

Everyone recoils and shrieks; Zachariah and Broderick start toward the kitchen for the fire extinguisher, but they both slip in the mess on the floor; Broderick trips over Trench’s ankle while Trench is face-down with hot gravy all over his jeans. In a fit of growling and cursing, they eventually manage to stumble out the door. 

The meal is again ruined. 

“Does anyone know if Pizza Hut delivers on Thanksgiving?” Salvador asks.

“We had–" Broderick corrects himself, “I had pizza yesterday!”

*

The General Tso’s chicken, picked up from the Lucky Red Rooster Restaurant by Trench and Kirklund, is salty, but palatable.

Northmoor sits in the dark, again disregarding the party, stabbing crossly into his takeout carton with a plastic fork. The Dallas Cowboys versus Houston Oilers game flickers in the background. Pretend to enjoy it. What a stupid idea. He’d sincerely enjoy going to the dentist more. 

“What’s the score?” Trench says, coming in and slumping down on the sofa.

“How the hell should I know?”

“All right, all right.” Trench retreats. “Just…trying to be nice. You seem…”

“I’m exhausted, Chief.” Broderick interrupts.

“I can tell. Shit, you want me to fix you a drink or something?” 

Broderick opens the nearby cabinet and passes Zachariah the rum. “Sure. Anything with this is fine.”

Trench leaves and returns shortly after. “I know.” He says, passing over a glass of rum with three ice cubes. “You could’ve done that yourself, and you’re probably about to tell me that.”

“Thanks.” He’s not sure why, but Broderick actually smiles – for the first time in days.

The turkey burned again, and he still has no idea how football works, and he hates even existing right now, but beneath everything, Broderick feels the very slightest hint of appreciation toward the gesture, and toward his Deputy Chief, for looking out for him. It’s the tiniest fracture in his armor. He doesn’t know how it makes him feel, and simply lets the alcohol slowly wash it out of his brain.

***

Thursday, November 24 ^th , 1988 – And it’s Thanksgiving. Again.

His whole acting job was completely in vain, and when Broderick realizes it’s still Thanksgiving shortly after waking, he’s furious. He storms around the house, outraged and profane, slamming doors and pouring his coffee so violently that he spills half of it across the counter.

He doesn’t understand. What caused this? Is he being punished? For what? By whom? The Board? It can’t possibly be – they had blessed him. Is there some other paranatural entity that’s delighting in torturing him?  

He calls Dr. Ash again and tries to explain: “I told you yesterday that something really strange was going on. Well, it still is!”

“Mm-hm. And how much did you drink last night?” Ash jests, once more. 

“That doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if I drink or not. It just keeps happening.”

“Honestly, it sounds like you’re still drunk, Ricky.”

“I’m stuck. Stuck eternally in Thanksgiving, Ted!” Broderick hollers, banging the phone back into the wall cradle before he says something he regrets. 

Although as he ponders, it dawns on him – if he truly is caught in a time loop, he can’t regret anything. The day will simply reset, with no memories intact but his. He can, in theory, do anything he wants.

*

He burns the newspaper between his hands. He’s too irascible to even wash his coffee mug, so he telekinetically launches it right through the kitchen window screen. He disconnects the cable, and, although it takes some focus, he also levitates the TV into the backyard, setting it down ten feet out from the porch so that he won’t have to watch the goddamned Detroit Lions again.

While Trench works on the turkey, Broderick lobs snide remark after snide remark at him. With great force, he telekinetically pulls the dusty cooking implements and expired spices from the cupboard above the stove (all his hard work two days ago had annoyingly reset). Whisks and saucepans and measuring cups and even an eggbeater fly and crash around the kitchen; a mostly empty bag of flour thuds onto the floor and explodes in a fireball. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Zachariah shouts, clumsily pirouetting out of the way. “You’re going to kill us both.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have come over to my house.”

“You’re insane.” Zachariah says. His attention at last diverted from the turkey, he makes for the front door. “I’m going to have a smoke before you burn this place down. Hell, maybe I’ll even have two. Jesus.”

The excessive use of his powers has made Broderick tired. He stretches out on the living room sofa; it’ll be easy to nap now without Trench hassling him.

*

The doorbell wakes him up just after four o’ clock. He hears the murmur of Zachariah and Marilyn talking in the hallway, followed by the doorbell again, and Martin’s and Salvador’s voices, a few minutes later. Broderick feels his hackles rise dangerously at the thought of having to interact with them all again.

You can do anything you want. Broderick reminds himself. Get it all out of your system. It will all just reset. 

He ignores every acceptable social cue. He rudely makes fun of Powers in front of everybody. He hovers wine glasses off the table, tips them over into the carpet, and smashes them gleefully into the walls. He steals the bottle of gin from June’s hand and pours it down the drain despite her protests. 

In the kitchen just before seven, he looks curiously at the window screen, destroyed by his coffee mug that morning, and then into the open oven. 

Screw it. Broderick thinks, opening the window. Right through the same screen, he telekinetically flings Martin’s sweet potatoes into the yard.

And then he sees the turkey, golden brown and no doubt delicious, cooling on the stovetop. This goddamn bird. The reason for this whole wretched excuse for a holiday. He glares at it, hard, with pure enmity and paranatural vindictiveness until it spontaneously combusts, half-exploding with a bang. 

(The explosion and fire are quite accidental, but extremely satisfying nonetheless).

“Whoops!” He says smugly, walking away as if nothing had happened, waiting for the smoke alarm to do its job.

*

“Before we eat, I do have an announcement.” Broderick stands up at the table.

“Please tell me you’ve replaced my gin.” June scoffs.

“Oh, much better than that.” He says. “You’re all dismissed!”

Five seconds of tormented silence follow, before Chang says: “You’re firing us.”

“You will all surrender your ID badges and report to Communications for re-informing by seven o’ clock tomorrow morning.” Broderick leers cruelly. “Except for you, Powers. You’re going to oversee the re-informing.”

Sure, he’s had days where he’s wanted to fire everyone, but good Lord, he actually did it!

A fit of shouting detonates like a bomb; every obscene word stains the air. Chang and Martin scream their peace and are rebuked by stony silence. Kirklund leads a weeping Marilyn away by the arm. A car rumbles to life outside, and then another, until the dining room is empty, food and dishes all abandoned.

Trench is nowhere to be found.

After a brief search, Broderick finds him sitting on the back stoop, his head in his hands. As the Director lets himself out to join his Deputy Chief, broken glass crunches under his shoes.

They sit as far apart as possible.

“What the fuck was the point of all that?” Zachariah bemoans. “I take it I’m fired too?” 

Broderick ignores the question. “Just go home, Trench.”

A few moments pass. “Why the hell is there a television back here?” Trench asks, looking into the backyard and avoiding eye contact.

“I don’t know. I’m more concerned about why you’re here. Why are you here?”

“You know, I thought it’d be fun, all of us having Thanksgiving together. But apparently that was a goddamn mistake.” Zachariah stops to breathe, his expression crestfallen. “I thought well, it gets weird and isolating sometimes, what we do. Why’s it have to be that way?” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Broderick sighs.

“I just wish we all could be friends. Or more…familial sometimes, I guess.” Trench says. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We’re heads of a Federal Agency.”

“So what? I tried. And you literally burned it down.”

“You twisted my arm into doing this! I didn’t–” 

“You could’ve tried too, for just a day.” Zachariah scolds. “You could’ve been there for us for once. You could’ve–"

“I’m not a replacement for what you lost, Trench!” Broderick raises his voice over him. “Not for Kate, not for–”

At that, Trench takes to his feet in interruption, and says, “You’re a real asshole, you know that?” and disappears into the house, leaving Broderick alone.

Five minutes later, his utter bewilderment and fury over everything climax in a flaming television.

***

Thursday, November 24 ^th : 1988 was a Remarkable Year. There Were Six Thanksgivings!

Blowing off steam and doing whatever he wished was supposed to feel good. But on the sixth day, Broderick feels terrible, like a petulant teenager acknowledging wrongdoing for the first time.

It wasn’t just the way he had destroyed half his dishes, or how he had acted around his other guests. In his blind lashing out at everything, he had hurt Trench. And he doesn’t entirely know why, but that part bothers him.

As far as Bureau matters were concerned, he could prod and harangue his Deputy Chief endlessly. Even though they often disagreed, Zachariah was much like him – driven, stoic, derisive, and excellent at his job, revealing weakness only when part of a greater strategy. But what happened last night was different. Zachariah, trying to be informal and open-minded, had briefly let his guard down, and he had simply…fired at will, even going so far as to invoke Trench’s broken family, with no regard for rebound or recoil. 

Today will be the only Thanksgiving Day as far as Trench knows. Sure, he’ll have remembered none of the previous day, but Northmoor does. It had chewed nonstop at the back of his mind as he fell asleep and resumed as he woke up. 

Broderick feels wrung of all paranatural energy and mentally spent. He gets up only to check that the turkey is still raw and in the fridge before crawling back into bed.

He pulls the blankets over his head. The time loop, the endless turkey-related mishaps, and now these conflicting feelings – why is any of this happening to him?

Eventually, the phone rings in his study. Broderick drags himself out of bed to answer it. 

“Hello, Chief.” 

Trench, who must hear the Director’s mood in his voice, says: “Hey. You don’t sound so good. What’s up?”

“Ah, I’m not feeling very festive today.”

“Hmm. Somehow less festive than usual?” Trench needles a bit.

“Yeah.” Broderick says. “Definitely.”

“Well, I was going to tell everyone else to come at four, but if you’re not feeling well, should we push that to eight?”

“Eight? I’d like that.”

“Okay. So how about I come at one-thirty, we start the turkey, and then we take a walk or something?” Trench asks. “Get some fresh air? That was an old family tradition of mine.”

“I think I might like that too.” 

There it is again. That same…weirdly appreciative feeling. 

*

It’s a cold day, barely forty degrees, but the skies are clear as far as one can see, with a faint smell of wood smoke in the air. The afternoon sun streams down through the bare trees as they walk around the neighborhood. A few oak leaves – the last traces of fall – rustle around in the breeze between the hedges and picket fences.

It’s pleasant enough to help Broderick rein in his temper. Conversation-wise, he starts with the few inoffensive personal details about Zachariah that he knows: “So, your sister’s a good cook, and the whole Thanksgiving walk thing was tradition, huh?”

“Yeah. As my mom used to say, gotta earn those calories.” Zachariah says.

“Not a bad idea at my age.” 

“Oh, come on, you’re not even fifty.” Trench has an easy smile. “But how about you? Any fun Thanksgiving traditions?”

“No.” Broderick says quickly. “And I don’t really feel like talking about me, if that’s okay.” But as he watches Trench shrug warily, he decides to add: “Although my aunt was quite fond of bizarre Jell-O molds. One of the few memories I do have.”

“God, my grandma loved those goddamn things. Lime Jell-O and marshmallows.”

“Pretzels and cottage cheese embedded in gelatin.” Broderick laughs. “Somehow even worse than the Research Sector cafeteria.” 

“…Was that a joke? Because I think you just made a joke.” 

Trench fakes a puzzled expression; Broderick pokes back accordingly. “Just an observation.” 

There’s a small park a few blocks from the house, where they sit down at a picnic table. It’s when Zachariah’s stubbing out his cigarette on the old wood of the bench that Broderick remembers the previous night. He remembers what he said on the back porch, and abruptly blurts out “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Trench looks at him.

“Uh.” Broderick tries to backtrack. “Earlier…this week. I was quite rude to you. I apologize.” 

“Apology accepted, but…whoa. Maybe I should buy a lotto ticket. A joke and an apology in one day.”

“And maybe I ought to revoke your security clearance for that one.” 

Yesterday, that might’ve been a legitimate threat. Today, it isn’t at all.

*

They chatter innocuously about the weather and minor Bureau affairs, and then walk home as the sun begins to set. The Dallas/Houston football game has started, and Zachariah is content to lounge in front of it until dinner. 

They don’t talk much for the next few hours. Trench closes his eyes for a while, and Broderick is, perhaps not all voluntarily, paying some attention to the game. Plays, he has found, can be divided into running with the football or throwing it. Soon, his mind starts running with absurd ideas, like: how might the game look instead if one random player per team were bound to OOP-5KE?

It’s quarter-to-eight when Zachariah, now awake, talks again.

“You know, we should do that again sometime.” 

Broderick’s concentration breaks. “Hm?”

“Just walk somewhere together.”

Broderick is just about to say “maybe” when the smoke alarm loudly interrupts.

“Oh, God damn it.” Zachariah groans. “I forgot to set the timer.”

In his haste to go outside on a nice day, Trench had not only forgotten the timer, but had inadvertently set the oven temperature closer to 375. After nearly six hours, the turkey is blackened and dry. The guests arrive to a smoky kitchen – and yet another inedible bird. 

Broderick does his best to swallow his frustration, but it still flares up intermittently throughout the evening (including in the form of a burning napkin). 

All in all, when he climbs into bed and reflects, the day was another insufferable Thanksgiving repeat. Although, against all odds, the parts he spent with Zachariah were at least unobjectionable. 

***

Thursday, November 24 ^th , 1988: A Second Week of Thanksgiving is On the Menu

“And that’s another touchdown for Minnesota!” The TV announcer exclaims.

It’s day seven, and they’re watching the early afternoon game again: Zachariah in the recliner, and Broderick on the couch. Just before halftime, Broderick turns to his junior and asks: “Hey, do you want to take a walk or something?”

“Sure. That’s actually an old family tradition, you know.”

Broderick remembers the previous day. “Gotta earn the feast, right?” 

“Ha! You sound like my mother.” Trench cracks.

“…Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

An hour later, they sit down in the park again. Trench’s drag on his cigarette is more cold air than smoke, and he coughs gauchely. “Swear it, one of these days, I’m going to quit. Just gonna kick this habit, cold turkey.”

“An appropriate expression for the day. Wonder where that one comes from?” Broderick muses.

“Oh. It’s known. Apparently, the protein in turkey can help fight nicotine cravings.”

“…You’re bullshitting me, Chief.” 

“Yeah.” Trench admits, busting out laughing. “God, you always see right through me. But I’ll get you one of these days.”

*

Trench prepares seven more turkeys in his kitchen. Seven more dishes of butter removed from the microwave; seven more turns of the oven dial. Although Broderick is still mystified by the time loop, he’s no longer spending every waking moment dwelling on it. Sometimes it infuriates him, and other times it just…exists, regardless of why.

It’s still unusual, seeing Trench walking around his house in jeans (let alone walking around his house at all) but in a warped way, Northmoor’s almost getting used to that too.

They walk the whole week, and Broderick is (perhaps begrudgingly at first) starting to like it by day nine. 

On day ten, when Trench smiles at him, he actually smiles back. It’s almost a reflex, and it’s the first time he recalls ever doing that. They walk for miles under the late-November sun, just talking. Sometimes it’s blundering and strained. Other times it’s easy and even welcome, uncharted waters into which Broderick’s never sailed; the same strange waters he dipped his toe into the night Zachariah had brought him a drink. Appreciation.

But no matter what, the turkey still burns. Broderick double-checks the stove and the timer. He keeps the candles unlit so June can’t knock them over. He remembers the fire extinguisher. He eschews anything spicier than black pepper. But it’s always something they don’t anticipate. On day eight, it’s quiet enough that Zachariah hears the timer from outside, and runs in, cigarette still dangling from his mouth. When Salvador accidentally elbows him from behind in the kitchen, the lit cigarette falls onto the liberally buttered turkey. On day ten, as the turkey cools on the range, Broderick accidentally turns on one of the burners beneath it while reaching for something above the stove.

On day fourteen, Trench makes him laugh. At first, it’s just a bad pun or two on their walk. A little friendly scrapping. Another near-instinctive smile. But then the outrageousness of everything snowballs until Broderick is piss-drunk at dinner with tears in his eyes, laughing so hard that he’s losing control of his telekinetic abilities. 

Although the gazes of his Bureau Heads follow the objects levitating from the table, the usual gossip continues, with Marilyn or Powers occasionally corralling a weightless fork or candlestick.

But just as Trench returns from the kitchen with the gravy, the turkey rapidly rises off the table. 

“Um, Sir?” Chang points, but Broderick gabbles on, seemingly oblivious, as the turkey flies over his head and into the living room.

“Broderick.” Zachariah warns, but just as Northmoor becomes aware of it, the turkey crashes right into the open fireplace – just outside the reach of Trench’s lunge for it – and bursts into flames.

“Oooh.” Kirklund grimaces. The bird burns vigorously; a hush falls over the table.  

“Uh.” Trench finally speaks. “...Unless we all feel like just green beans and mashed potatoes, does anyone else want Chinese?

Embarrassed and flustered, Broderick announces: “Lucky Red Rooster isn’t too bad.”

He hadn’t straight-up paranaturally lost it in a long time. What is wrong with him?

After that, Broderick, normally proud beyond measure, had been too mortified to socialize, and had simply sequestered himself in the living room until just he and Trench remained. 

It’s nearly 10 PM when Zachariah looks up from the evening comedy show that had started on TV.

“Well, if I’m going to get to the Oldest House by seven tomorrow morning–” he stands up and stretches, “–I should head out.”

Broderick briefly considers saying “eight o’clock is fine” – but thinks better of it. He can’t possibly want Zachariah to stay longer. He’s still drunk. 

Chapter Text

Thursday, November 24 ^th , 1988: Week Three of Thanksgiving, or “Shouldn’t We Be Thinking About Christmas by Now?”

8 PM becomes the new standard time for everyone else to arrive. The three-hundred-twenty-five degrees of the oven goes down to three hundred, so they can walk further and longer. 

A Bureau Director enjoying his Deputy Chief’s company like this isn’t anything odd – it’s just something that Broderick never thought he’d do, with the boundaries between his personal and professional lives always so strict. The suddenness of it, however, gives him pause, especially as it starts to tumble around in his head as he tries to sleep. It’s just making the best out of an otherwise unpleasant situation. Broderick reassures himself. Adaptation is normal, and even expected.

But on day sixteen, Broderick sits by the phone in his study, checking his watch, a smile compulsively overtaking his face as the hands tick closer to 12:07 PM – the exact time he knows Zachariah will call.

Is it still just an adaptation?

As before, the turkey burns the whole week. Some melted butter spills the wrong way on day seventeen. A bottle of oil, carelessly left on the stove, cracks and leaks on day eighteen. On day nineteen, Broderick is distracted, discombobulated, even, and instead of setting the oven to bake, he mistakenly sets it to broil.

“Well, they both started with B, I guess.” Broderick grumps, watching the thick smoke pouring out around the oven door after arriving home at six-thirty.

Zachariah rolls his eyes and goes “Shit happens.” 

That’s the night they get burritos from Crazy Pedro’s, and Northmoor learns that Chang can make a passable approximation of a margarita from a random bottle in June’s stash, brown sugar, and the bottle of lemon juice that’s been in the refrigerator a good nine months.

Still, after everyone leaves, Broderick sits in the dark solitude of his living room, watching the last fading tinges of the holiday on TV. He’s somehow anxious and dazed and excited at the same time. He doesn’t even know why.

*

There’s too much light pollution from the City to see much of anything on a clear night, but they make an attempt on day twenty. Broderick lies on his back in the frigid, dead grass of his backyard. He’s trying to find a star through the steam of his own breath, his hand bracing a cold highball glass of rum against his stomach.

“Oh, I think that’s four, maybe?” Trench says, pointing up from a few feet away.

“That’s an airplane.” Broderick replies, lightheartedly. “What are you, five? Stars don’t move like that.”

“You have any more rum, and they might.”

It’s a timely break from the misfortune that had again befallen Thanksgiving dinner. Trench had, for some reason, left June in charge of watching the gravy as he went to the bathroom. While she had gotten sucked into Marilyn’s particularly juicy story about a Mail Room attendant, the gravy had boiled over into the burner. It scorched and eventually caught the whole range top – including the turkey – on fire. Mrs. Powers and her husband had then quarreled over her inattentiveness while Marilyn came to June’s defense, leading to a jubilee of yelling for the next hour and a half. 

“Not a bad backyard you’ve got here, either.” Zachariah says. “Almost makes me miss my house.”

“You have a house?”

“Had.” Trench looks back up at the sky. “Sold it when Kate and I split. Lots of painful associations there, though, after my daughter…”

Broderick stops him. “You don’t have to talk about it.” 

“I know.”

“I’m…sorry all of that happened.” Broderick sighs. “And I know I did a lousy job of conveying that before, and I’m sorry for that too.” 

“It’s not your fault. It was always a mess with Kate.” Trench sits up and changes the subject. “You ever been married?”

“Other than to the Bureau, in a sense? No.”

“…Stupid question, I guess.” Trench shrugs. 

Some minutes of quiet pass between them, before Broderick asks without even thinking: “Why are you here, Chief?”

“I don’t know. I just wanted to do something different, I suppose. Sometimes, life feels like the same day over and over.”

At this remark, Broderick can’t restrain his laughter. And then he imagines a shooting star falling from the sky into his house, and he wonders if that’s how the turkey will end up on fire tomorrow, which makes him laugh even harder.

“What’s so goddamn funny?”

“Oh. I understand that feeling. Trust me on that.”

“On that note.” Trench stands and dusts himself off. “I’m going to get to the Oldest House by seven tomorrow morning, I should head out.”

He’s heard that before. Must be nearly ten again, Broderick remembers. “Eight o’clock is fine tomorrow. No worries.”

The sitcom rerun becomes the news, and the news becomes The Tonight Show. Trench lowers the volume and leans the recliner back as far as it goes, and soon, Broderick catches himself nodding off on the couch. As the beginnings of sleep take over, he feels a distant trace of sadness:

The day will reset. Trench will remember nothing. 

***

Thursday, November 24 ^th , 1988: Twenty-One Thanksgivings? It’s Old Enough to Drink Now!

He had fallen asleep on the couch and woken up in bed at 9 AM. Not only had the day reset, but his position had as well. While Broderick was alarmed because it hadn’t happened to him before, it makes sense – everything and everyone must go back to their starting places, like readjusting a chess board before the next match. But only his memories somehow persisted through the hiccup in time.

But as he makes coffee, he has a revelation: the only circumstance where he’s seen anything both this weird and this localized was when an Altered Item was involved. Although only a handful of Altered Items exist, he should have thought of the possibility earlier. But he’s hardly an Altered Item expert – that’s Ash’s job, after all – and everything had been clouded by panic and ire, and then by long walks and rum, and maybe even by a little amusement. 

At nine-thirty, the phone rings twice before Dr. Ash answers.

“Hello?”

“Hi Ted. It’s Northmoor.”

Ash sounds sour over being disturbed at home, as usual. “What do you want, Ricky?” 

“Just have a question for you. So, I know your leadership team always reviews reports on suspected Altered Items on Wednesdays. When you all looked…yesterday, did you note any local paranatural activity from the past week?”

“Nothing that our surveillance group immediately flagged. Why?”

Broderick takes a deep breath. “I think something could be Altered in my house. I don’t know if it’s from paracriminal activity, or some event that we’re not making a connection to, but…” 

Ash starts saying something, but Broderick immediately intrudes. “Yeah, yeah. You’re going to say I’m drunk or something. I assure you I’m quite sober.”

“Hm.” Ash says, repeating what he said earlier. “Has anyone been hurt? Are you in danger?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so.”

“If it’s not an emergency, not much we can do with the House being closed today. And I’m skeptical, obviously. But…do you have the checklist at your place?” Ash inquires. “The Form RS-1112?”

“It’s probably in my study along with all the other crap you’ve piled on my desk all year.”

“Well, if you suspect something is Altered, before anything else, you’ll want to do that form as a preliminary evaluation.” Ash says, followed by some background noise and the beeping of a timer. “Sorry, that’s my oven.” 

“Form RS-1112.” Broderick repeats. “Eleven-twelve. Think I’ll remember that.”

“Listen. I need to go here. But we’ll file a report first thing tomorrow morning if we need to. Just try and enjoy the day.”

 “Don’t burn that pie, Ted.”

*

After watching a quarter of the football game, Broderick and Zachariah again walk to the park. 

“Well, yeah, the stuffing’s her recipe too, but I haven’t actually seen my sister for Thanksgiving in a long time.” Trench says. “Gosh, since a couple years before the divorce.” 

Broderick sits down at the picnic table, next to Trench this time, rather than across from him. “So what do you normally do on Thanksgiving, then, if you don’t see her?” 

“Not much, past couple years. Turkey sandwich. Review files. Watch football. Sometimes have a beer with my neighbor. You know – bachelor life.” Zachariah waves his hand casually. “How about you?”

“Nothing.”

“You mean you usually celebrate it alone?”

“I mean.” Broderick says, “I usually don’t at all.”

“Huh. Why not, if you don’t mind me asking?” 

Broderick’s never told anyone at the Bureau about it before; perhaps it would’ve made him seem too human; too exposed. Even now, it feels ungainly coming out of his mouth.

“After my father suddenly died on November 19^th, my mother lost all will to celebrate much of anything. I just–” he pauses to breathe, “– never really saw the point, especially after 1964. Been busy three-hundred-and-sixty-five days a year since then.”

“Jeez, I’m sorry.” Trench lights a cigarette and offers up the pack to the Director. He declines. 

“Ahhh.” Broderick dismisses everything. “I was seven years old. Just don’t have many memories of Thanksgiving. Not much frame of reference, you know?”

“Yeah.” Zachariah’s voice is gentle. “Still. Did you ever spend time with family on holidays?”

“Oh, sure. Christmas, mostly. My aunt spoiled the daylights out of me. I was her only nephew.”

“Is she still alive?”

“No. I’ve just got her house, now.” Broderick says wistfully. “And we should get back there soon.”

Even though he knows that the day will reset, Broderick’s heart feels stuck in the back of his throat as they leave the park. 

Why is he telling Zachariah all this?

*

“Aren’t you going to come in?” Trench notices that Northmoor seems to loiter on the path leading up to the front door. 

Broderick is quiet and perturbed. Talking about his family felt like the most intimate thing he’s ever told another human, and he replies: “Yeah. I just…need a minute.” 

“Okay. Tell you what. I’ll go check the turkey, see if it needs basting or anything, and meet you in the backyard? Should sit outside. Not gonna have many more nice days before it snows.” 

“Sure.”

Broderick sits down in an old lawn chair and waits. Five minutes pass, and then ten. He looks at his watch. After fifteen minutes, he figures he ought to go see what the hang-up is. But as he approaches the house, he hears something faint and high-pitched – the smoke alarm.

A giant plume of black smoke billows out at him when he opens the back door. “Chief?” He calls inside. 

No answer.

Broderick crouches beneath the dense cloud and steps into the living room. “Zachariah?” 

The room is hot, and almost completely obscured. He finds his junior curled on his side in the dining room, coughing uncontrollably above the horrendous roar of a huge kitchen fire.

“Zachariah!”

Without further thought, Broderick grabs Trench by his collar and half-walks, half-drags him outside until he’s splayed on the porch, lungs sputtering for fresh air.

“Holy shit.” Broderick chokes into his elbow. He pulls the cuff of his sweater over his hand and wipes a smear of ash from Trench’s cheek. 

“Jesus.” Trench’s panting eventually leads into a mild titter. “That’s the last time I cook anything at your house.”

Broderick exhales in relief, and then realizes that his hand is still on his Deputy Chief’s face. He quickly jerks it away, as if he’s been burned.

*

A punctured roasting pan? Superheated grease? All they know is from Zachariah’s description: when the oven was opened, the turkey had exploded.

They had called the fire department from a neighbor’s house. Although the blaze was easily extinguished, the kitchen is unusable: the stove is warped from the intense heat, the wood of the nearby cabinets is charred, and a fine layer of rancid-smelling, oily soot has permeated every crack of the first floor, forcing Trench and Northmoor out onto the porch.

(And obviously, the Thanksgiving potluck is canceled).

“It’s odd.” Trench says.

“What is?” Broderick looks up from the telephone book. He had been thumbing through the yellow pages, looking for food that wasn’t pizza or Chinese.

“That you’re not somehow…more upset about this. That’s got to be ten thousand in damage, easily.”

“Well, nothing else I can do beyond hope the insurance covers it.” 

“Says the man who nearly burned down Communications over a lost mail tube.” Trench pokes fun at him.

“That was highly classified material!” 

In all seriousness, if there was ever a day to be appreciative of a time loop, this would be it.

“Okay.” Broderick taps his finger on the open telephone book. “What do you think about Ishani’s Kitchen? Thanksgiving in India? My treat?”

Trench lights another cigarette, presumably to soothe his jangled nerves. “Sounds good, if you can get them to tone down the spice for you.”

Reaching over, Broderick plucks the cigarette right out of his mouth. 

“Hey!” Trench objects.

“Haven’t you inhaled enough smoke today, Chief?”

***

Thursday, November 24 ^th , 1988:  Again, with Clearer Intent

At just after 9:15 AM on day 22, after making coffee in his magically restored kitchen, Broderick finds the Form RS-1112 in the top drawer of his filing cabinet and sits down at his study’s desk to read it.

The questions, designed to whittle down whether an Altered Item could be responsible for observed paranatural effects, are simple: 

Are you experiencing abnormal sensory input, abnormal emotional states, unusual physical/environmental forces (e.g., teleportation), a scientifically inexplicable illness, or perceived changes in the flow of time?

Broderick checks “Yes”. 

Have these experiences repeatedly persisted in the absence of external substances, medical conditions, or psychological trauma?  

“Yes” there too.

Have you experienced potential danger, or observed potential danger to others, because of the suspected paranatural activity?

Does being caught in endless Thanksgiving count as “potential danger?” He decides on another Yes, even if he seems to have completely dodged being burned alive on several occasions. 

“Does the suspected activity seem to localize to, or associate with, one particular object?” 

It’s Thanksgiving every day. Broderick thinks. Thanksgiving isn’t an object, but a concept. But the turkey also burns every day. The time loop and the burning turkey are definitely connected somehow. Yes! Another epiphany – the turkey!

“Is the object in question a well-known and recognized symbol of a daily routine, a certain place, or a holiday or other ritual of shared significance?

“Holy shit.” Broderick says out loud, chewing on the end of his pen after checking yes to both. “This goddamn turkey’s Altered.” 

(Really, is there anything more iconic than a turkey on Thanksgiving?)

*

“Okay. I swear I haven’t been drinking, but I have a bit of a strange question, Ted.” Broderick says into the phone. 

“Well, fire away, I guess.” Dr. Ash replies.

“…Can food become Altered?”

“Hasn’t been reported so far, but I don’t see why not. Food can absolutely be archetypal to the collective subconscious. Why? Are your Brussels sprouts singing in Russian or something?” 

“No. Just uh, being hypothetical.” Broderick chooses his words carefully. “And I’d presume Altered food has the same properties as any other Altered Item?”

“Yes.” Ash says. “Presumably. A predictable paranatural effect, and likely ‘pacified’ by some sort of ritual.”

“I’ve heard. So how do you find out what the ritual is?”

“Jeez. Have you ever read my research briefings, Ricky?”

“I try.” Broderick laughs tautly. “Sometimes.”

“Well, rituals can be unpredictable to sort out. In my Ritual Division, they usually start their studies by trying out something related to the Item’s effects – often something that opposes it. Say the Altered Item causes you to dance uncontrollably. An investigator might try playing the Item some music that you simply can’t dance to. Or maybe they’ll deliberately dance themselves to exhaustion. Reverse psychology.” 

Broderick hears the now-familiar noises from Ash’s kitchen, followed by his stove timer.

“Sorry, that’s my oven.”

“No worries. I’ll let you go. Thanks, Ted.”

As Broderick puts on the Thanksgiving Parade for background noise, he wonders what to do next. He obviously can’t change how time works, but he knows a thing or two about fire. Up until now, all turkey burnings were accidental, and always followed by the day resetting.

But maybe, if he burns it on purpose (concealing his intent to his guests, of course) the time loop will cease. Reverse psychology!

The thought entertains him, and the thought next in line behind that one does even moreso: it was the first time he hadn’t made a hostile remark toward Dr. Ash in…well, forever. 

When he unpacks that thought more, he also realizes that it had been at least ten days (of Thanksgivings) since he had made a hostile remark toward Trench. 

When Broderick sits upstairs next to the phone again near noon, feeling unusually enthusiastic, he wonders if he has the guts to ever be callous to him again, the fact that Zachariah is his subordinate be damned.

*

The goal for today: burn the turkey intentionally without anyone getting suspicious of him and his paranatural powers, which unfortunately just happen to involve burning things. He had certainly given it some forethought, and decided the surreptitious approach was the best way to start.

“Nah, I got it. Really.” Broderick ushers Zachariah out of the kitchen with a light nudge to his elbow. “You’ve done enough today. Go relax.”

Trench regards such gentle language with mild skepticism, but eventually vacates the area.

Broderick turns the heat off beneath the gravy he had volunteered to make, and shifts his attention to the turkey. Focusing his thoughts – and by proxy, his abilities – he hovers his hands over the roast bird as if he’s a sorcerer summoning flames. A few seconds after the resultant whoosh of fire triggers the smoke alarm, he switches to the next phase of his plan: some good counterfeit concern.

“Shit!” Broderick yells out. “Chief! Help!”

When Trench reappears, Broderick then switches to phony cluelessness. “I have no idea what happened! Must’ve had a hot burner or something!”

“Fire extinguisher!” Trench barks at him.

“Garage. Shelf to the right of the door!”

But Zachariah will never find the fire extinguisher, because Broderick had rolled it underneath the car two hours ago.

By the time they snuff the whole thing out with towels and Zachariah’s flannel overshirt, the turkey is far beyond any hope of edibility. 

“Aw, it’s okay. Eventually we all burn one. We’ll just eat everything else.” Marilyn reminds them (although it had been a week or so since the last time she did!)

*

Broderick tolerates the presence of his guests, and makes glib, evasive conversation as best as he can. With any luck, it’ll be Friday tomorrow.

When everyone else has at last left, he and Zachariah sit in the living room, in the muted light of the sitcom rerun on television. 

“Gotten cold in here.” Trench says, cutting into the quiet.

“Well, let’s see what I can do about that.” Walking over to the fireplace, Broderick kneels on the hearth, and with a swipe of his palm across the largest log in the grate, he starts a fire.

Zachariah nods in approval from his seat in the recliner. “It was your paranatural powers, wasn’t it?”

“W-what was?” 

“The turkey.”

“…Probably.” Broderick confesses, returning to the sofa. Either he’s more transparent than he lets on, or Trench knows him better than he thinks. “You know, uh.” He changes the subject, moving over to one side and leaning against the arm. “You can sit here too if you’d like. Probably going to be warmer.”

Trench accepts the invitation. They watch the fire together for a short while, before Trench says: “Thanks for having me over, you hard old bastard” and innocently slaps Broderick on the knee.

“Thanks for coming.” Broderick means it, and here in the firelight, he might mean it a bit too sincerely, fighting against an unexpected deluge of stimulation. 

Where’d that come from?

“Do you, uh, like this show?” Zachariah points at the television.

“It’s growing on me.”

Chapter Text

Thursday, November 24 ^th , 1988: A Four Week Mess Makes for Weakness

It doesn’t work. The Altered turkey not appeased, day 23 is still Thanksgiving. Maybe the way the turkey burned wasn’t correct? Broderick deliberates more, and then spends some time delving into the disarray in his garage before Trench arrives at one-thirty.

“Chief.” Broderick says as he walks Zachariah in through the living room. “Been thinking about the turkey. I’ve got an old barbecue grill. Thought we’d try grilling it?”

“Great idea. Not a bad day to cook out.”

“Well, you’re in luck, then, because I just fired it up before you got here.”

He had lugged his aunt’s ancient grill into the driveway, found a cobweb-encrusted bag of charcoal, and managed to light the coals with a combination of lighter fluid and his fingertips. 

It’s easy to burn things on the grill. Broderick tells himself as they set everything up outside. Just keep calm and pretend it’s an accident. 

As soon as the turkey’s on and the grill lid’s shut, Zachariah asks, “Watch the game with me?”

“Sure. Go on in – remote’s on the coffee table. I just need to…make sure the temperature’s stable.”

When Trench goes inside, Broderick grabs the lighter fluid, opens the air intake on top of the grill, and empties the entire bottle into it.

That doesn’t work as a ritual either, but at least he and Zachariah get to enjoy an impromptu driveway bonfire while eating ribs from Fat Sam’s Smokehouse.

On day 24, Northmoor asks Trench, “You ever deep-fried a turkey, Chief?”

Turns out Martin has a turkey fryer – that’s apparently common practice in South Carolina too. They set it up in Northmoor’s backyard, and the guests dawdle around the porch, drinks in hand, as Trench lowers the bird into gallons of hot oil. 

…And then Martin no longer has a turkey fryer because the ice cubes that Broderick had secretly shoved inside the turkey prior to its immersion guaranteed not only a burned turkey, but a fifteen-foot mushroom cloud that consumed everything. June had tipped half a bottle of wine down the front of her dress from the shock.

“I’ll…make sure the cost is reimbursed on your next paycheck.” Broderick sheepishly reassures Martin. 

That also fails to break the time loop, but the idea of oil and lighter fluid lodges in his brain. Maybe he just needs to find the right accelerant!

On day 25, before Trench ever calls, Broderick carries the raw turkey, in a large stock pot, into his backyard. From the red can he found in the garage, he splashes in some gasoline, drops in a lit match, and sits down on the porch to watch.

When Zachariah does call, he knows exactly what to say: “I’ve got bad news.”

“What sort of bad news?”

“I don’t have a turkey, unfortunately. My cleaning lady said they were out at three different stores.”

*

He tries olive oil, canola oil, and rubbing alcohol, whiskey, Listerine (which works poorly), and paint thinner.

“Ted. Northmoor here.” Broderick groans into the phone at Dr. Ash on the thirty-second day of Thanksgiving. “I know you can’t talk now, but I just have a question for you.”

“What do you want, Ricky?”

“Do you have any idea where to find kerosene? Don’t think too many hardware stores are open on Thanksgiving.”

“Kerosene.” Ash repeats back at him, sounding rather cynical. “Do I even want to ask?”

“Or 200-proof alcohol. Know where I might get some?”

“I know you’re not a big holiday person, but drinking that much isn’t going to solve any problems.” Ash jests.

“It’s not for drinking, Ted. But if you don’t know where to get that, ether might work too. You scientists have ether, right?”

“You know the rule, Director. If you want anything from my labs, you’ll need to file a material requisition request.”

“Well, that’s a silly policy.” Broderick sighs. The way Ash says Director as “die-rector” always makes the back of his teeth hurt.

The Head of Research chuckles back mockingly. “You wrote it.”

Having excused himself when Ash got the usual signal to tend to his pie, Broderick stands in his living room wondering what he should do, when his eyes settle on the cabinet beneath the lamp. 

Well, he hasn’t tried starting a turkey fire with his favorite bottle of rum yet, and decides he might as well do so while he’s got the time (much to his great consternation).

*

“Well, that stinks.” Trench says over the phone several hours later. “Huh. Didn’t realize there was a turkey shortage this year.”

“Me neither. She went all the way to Eastchester to look, and – nothing!”

“Well, not gonna be a very good potluck – I’ll let everyone else know, I guess.” Trench starts. “And I know you, uh, aren’t terribly enthusiastic about this whole thing, but if you’d…like company at all, I’m free.”

After a short pause where he takes a sip of coffee, Northmoor says. “You know, I think I might, Chief. We could always take a walk and order take-out.” 

“That’s a family Thanksgiving tradition, you know. The afternoon walk.”

“Hm.” Broderick says honestly: “Funny. It’s my Thanksgiving tradition, too.” (At least, as much as something he’s been doing on and off for the past three weeks can count as a “tradition.”)

“Well then, it’s a date, I guess. See you at one-thirty?” 

The Director chokes on his mouthful of coffee and covers the phone receiver with his hand. 

A date!? Oh, that’s got to be some serious, mocking sarcasm. 

It’s just more of Trench’s constant wisecracking. That’s all it is. Why is the idea of anything different even in his head? 

(Still, he’s jumpy and sweaty, his pulse racing against all better judgment, as he waits for Trench to arrive).

To clear his head, Broderick chooses a different route to walk today, down the hill to the west and toward a playground.

“So where’s a good place to eat around here?” Trench begins. “Gonna sound weird, but I could really go for a milkshake.” 

“What are you, a high schooler going to the drive-through?” 

“And what are you, a robot? Seriously, you’ve never craved ice cream when it’s cold outside?”

Broderick turns around to say no, that’s weird, but suddenly, the golden late-afternoon sun catches in Zachariah’s eyes. They’re blue, the kind of soft, striking blue that reminds Broderick a bit of his own eyes when he looks in the mirror. He doesn’t want to gawk, but he’s caught and can’t look away; it’s the emotional equivalent of finally tripping on that damn corner of the throw rug that keeps curling up. 

He stumbles, hard, and unexpectedly, he can’t say anything at all. 

*

The Bluebird Diner, six blocks away, has a blue plate special: turkey, mashed potatoes, and stuffing, all slathered with copious gravy. Trench even gets his milkshake, before they walk back to Broderick’s house to watch the second half of the Dallas-Houston game. 

“Think Dallas can pull this off?” Zachariah looks up from the recliner.

“Not if Tony Zendejas has anything to say about it. He’s been kicking pretty well this season, it seems. Houston gets anywhere near the thirty-five, and it’s instant points.”

(Trench doesn’t know it yet, but Zendejas will kick three field goals to put Houston ahead for good).

“Didn’t know you were an Oilers fan.” 

“I’ve watched them a bit more recently.” Broderick says. “Them and the Lions. It’s like they’re always on here.”

As he had once before, Broderick lights the fire, and returns to the couch. 

“Shit, you read my mind.” Trench laughs. “It’s freezing in here.”

“You know, I’m not going to hog the whole couch, if you’d like to sit here too.”

When Trench obliges him and sits down, their knuckles brush together accidentally. Their hands come to rest, side-by-side, and Broderick intentionally leans his pinky finger into Zachariah’s. When his Deputy Chief doesn’t flinch away, Broderick feels hot all over, a tingle of paranatural energy and unrefined passion that he’s never experienced, so astounding that he somehow half-inhales and half-coughs and shudders all at once.

Zachariah looks at him. “You all right there?” 

“Yes, Chief, I just…”

Jesus, he can talk for hours in meetings at the Bureau, but now, he’s hopelessly tongue-tied, focusing on nothing but that small, shy, overwhelming point of contact.

“Just…”

“Just what, Broderick?” Trench whispers.

It can’t be. Oh, dear God, it can’t be.

***

Thursday, November 24 ^th , 1988: More Holiday Rituals

Perhaps the required ritual doesn’t involve the turkey at all, Northmoor concludes on day 33, after no solvent, fuel, or liquor was successful at ending the time loop. His next hypothesis, after speaking with Dr. Ash again, is that the ritual is merely associated with Thanksgiving Day somehow – or “tangentially related”, as his Head of Research had described.

So, the next day, he sits down and watches the entire Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, from the first gaudy float to Santa Claus at the very end. He’s even memorized some of the commercials. He watches both football games in their entirety on the following day. That’s also to no avail, although he does find the experience to be less of a chore than he’d thought. (He temporarily convinces himself that it’s because he’s starting to enjoy the sport, and not because Zachariah’s in the same room).

Maybe some specific good deed on Thanksgiving Day is necessary? Broderick thinks. Lord knows that stopping short of committing major crimes, he’s already done every bad deed. 

On day 36, he and Trench walk all the way west to the playground instead of detouring to the diner. While they sit on a bench and talk, Broderick watches, in the distance, a young couple walk past with their daughter, a girl of no more than two years old in a puffy red parka. Tripping over a divot in the sidewalk, the little girl face-plants in a fit of loud bawling.

“God, that never gets any easier to see.” Trench says at the sight, a hint of melancholy in his voice.

The next day, when the girl begins to stumble, Broderick, from across the park, telekinetically holds her upright just long enough for her father to grab her hand. 

It’s a good deed – but it’s obvious by the next morning that it wasn’t the right one. 

He sets the table and washes the dishes dutifully. He compliments Marilyn on her apple pie; he had never tried it before, but despite not being a “dessert person”, he finds it delightful. Later, when he excuses himself to the kitchen to fetch another piece, Trench jokes, wow, you really did earn your calories today.

On day 41, Broderick fixes drinks for June, Marilyn, and Chang. “Oh, believe me.” He says, “This is much better than pickling yourselves with all of that gin.” With a wave of his hand over the platter, the tops of the cocktails ignite for a few seconds. Nothing wrong with showing off a little.

Chang takes a sip and nods approvingly. “Well look at that. You’re a regular master of paranatural mixology, Director!”

The group giggles, and for the first time, Broderick doesn’t want to burn the house down in disgust. 

As obnoxious as it is at times, there’s a sort of unique charm to all of them, from June’s boozy mirth and Kirklund’s motherly affinity for Marilyn, to Martin’s pride over his cooking, Salvador’s obsequious agreement with everything the Head of Security says, and Chang’s eternal rabbit ears for Bureau scuttlebutt. Other than his usual dry sense of humor, it’s been a while since Broderick’s taken his anger out on any of them, either; after nearly six weeks, it’s almost comfortable. 

And when Broderick glances across the table and sees the way Zachariah’s eyes crinkle up in the corners when he smiles, he feels himself turn red right into his glass of wine, struck silly by a heavy mix of alcohol and genuine pining.

He’s changing. 

*

But the turkey keeps burning. On day 37, as Trench removes it from the oven, the bottom falls out of the flimsy foil pan; a flood of near-boiling butter gushes right into the heating element. On day 42, when Broderick again makes cocktails next to the stove, he somehow lights one of June’s liquor bottles on fire, which quickly spreads to the whole counter.

Sometimes, they don’t even know why the turkey burns, and are merely greeted by the warning trickle of smoke from around the oven door or by the smoke alarm shrilly stopping all conversation. Some Altered Items can be, by nature, fickle and nonsensical.

“Hey. Let me help you out there.” Broderick says to his junior on the forty-third day of Thanksgiving. He steps in next to Zachariah as he makes gravy. 

“You go look for a carving knife. I’ve got this.” He reaches over to take the wooden spoon from Trench, and whether impetuous fancy or genuine accident, he grabs Zachariah’s hand for just a second. They’re close: their forearms bump; their thighs press together ever so slightly.

And that’s how Broderick gets so overpowered by nervous exhilaration that his paranatural powers ignite the spoon, the gravy, the turkey, and the whole goddamn stovetop.

“Shit! Where’s the fire extinguisher!?” 

“Garage! Shelf to the right!”

Zachariah puts out the fire, and then he laughs. He laughs and laughs, doubling over and smacking at his leg like the sight of the Director’s ruined turkey and messy kitchen are the highest form of comedy that exists. Broderick follows suit until he’s struggling to stay standing, absolutely howling at the unimaginable absurdity of everything.

Marilyn appears in the kitchen entryway.

“Guess we all burn one eventually.” Broderick shrugs. 

“Well, you must be psychic, because that’s what I was just going to say!” She snaps her fingers and laughs too.

Perhaps, just perhaps, this is the togetherness that others always spoke of during holidays.

*

Still stuck in an interminable time loop and running out of potential rituals, Broderick takes a break. He tries his best to replicate day 32 (complete with its rum-fueled fire), just so that during an utterly ludicrous conversation about milkshakes, he can see the sunlight in Zachariah’s eyes again. 

The Bluebird Diner. The walk home. Houston versus Dallas. He lights a fire, and Trench sits with him on the couch all the way through the sitcom reruns. Their hands touch again, and Broderick hooks his fingers between Zachariah’s, common sense and Bureau policy both neglected. 

It’s quiet, save the low television volume and the occasional pop or crackle from the fire.

“Sir, I–” Trench talks first.

Again, Zachariah doesn’t move his hand. Broderick’s hot blood is pounding in his ears; he’s never felt anything like this. He barely knows what to say. Even knowing it’s unwise, he asks anyway: “Want to stay here with me tonight, Zachariah?” 

“If-if…” Trench mumbles, obviously surprised by the request, “If I’m going to get to the Oldest House by seven tomorrow, I really should head out.”

“Nine o’clock is all right, Chief. I’m – I’m sorry about – ah, too much food gone to my head, I think.”

“Thanks. For having me over.” Zachariah cuffs him on the shoulder. “For, everything, really – but I just should…get home.”

Before Broderick can walk back his words further, Trench is halfway out the door, saying see you in the morning.

Broderick is left alone in front of the slowly dying fire, waiting for his heartbeat to slow down. Leaning over the arm of the couch, he thumps his forehead twice into the upholstery. God damn it.

*

He feels much the same way in the morning: aching, agitated, and cursing his own foolishness. It’s while he’s making coffee on Thanksgiving morning for the forty-fourth time, that Broderick formulates another plan:

What if he does…nothing? 

No guests, no cooking, no indication that this is a holiday at all – a turkey can’t burn if it’s raw in the refrigerator, right?

“Hey, Chief.” Broderick says over the phone, trying to permeate his voice with artificial malaise. “Bad news. I think I finally caught that cold that’s going around Executive. Don’t want to give it to everyone else, so I should hold off on hosting Thanksgiving.”

“Well, that’s too bad.” Zachariah says. “But oh well. Just let me know if you need anything.”

There’s a lot he needs. As much as he’d love his Deputy Chief’s company right now, he has to do nothing.

“Thanks. We’ll do something when I, uh” – he sniffles exaggeratedly – “feel better.”

The turkey sits undisturbed; Broderick does the same. The day is extraordinarily dull and isolating, and frequently, he catches his thoughts returning to the previous evening. So many days – years, even – where he’d simply wished for Trench to get out of his sight, and now, he can’t seem to get tired of him at all. 

What is he doing? What, exactly, does any of it mean? 

Why doesn’t Trench ever move his hand away when they’re sitting together at night?

Could they both feel the same way?

It itches away in his head all the way into the late evening. Soon, he’s loafing in bed, daydreaming, busy over-analyzing every little gesture of Trench’s from the past six weeks – until he starts to smell something. Grippy and bitter, like cooked plastic. Coming from downstairs.

It’s strongest in the kitchen. Broderick glances mistrustingly at the refrigerator. When he yanks on the handle, he gags on the foul grey smoke: the turkey has burned through its plastic wrapping, and is horrifyingly melting the inside of the fridge, ominous blue flames licking along its Altered wings.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” He slams the door.

(He’s getting his money’s worth out of his fire extinguisher, that’s for damn sure).

***

Thursday, November 24 ^th , 1988: Week Seven: Just Like Cinderella?

Day 45. It’s a state he never thought he’d find himself in: Broderick’s unnecessarily wobbly and hot, like a teenager who’s just found a love note in his locker. 

They had tried again (and failed) with the turkey; the Bureau Heads and Marilyn had eventually departed. Now, the fireplace lit, Broderick manages to pop the cork out of the wine bottle without scorching it. He pours two glasses, which he sets on the coffee table.

“Shit, didn’t even hear you open that. What is it?” Trench looks over from the television, and Broderick passes him the bottle. 

“1978.” Zachariah reads the label. “Oh, I’ll definitely try this. That was a good year. Something about the amount of rain they got out in Napa Valley – did something to the sugar content of the grapes.” 

“…You’re bullshitting me, Chief.” Broderick teases.

“God, I’ll never get anything past you, will I?”

“Never.”

Trench again sits beside him, and they sip wine in the low light, Broderick’s fingertips idly rubbing the back of Zachariah’s wrist. 

“Ah, I should head out soon, if I’m going to get in by seven tomorrow.”

Broderick’s chosen his words more carefully tonight, and some hesitance is obvious in Trench’s voice.

“Well, seeing as half the Bureau’s on vacation until Monday, go ahead and come in at ten.” 

“Thanks.” Zachariah leans back, and Broderick sees him shiver. “Jeez, I’m still freezing. Do you provide all the heat your house needs, or something?”

Broderick excuses himself upstairs and returns with a weighty wool blanket, which he tosses over the couch – and halfway over his junior.

Satisfied, Zachariah wraps himself up and reclines into the opposite end of the sofa. “Today was good.” He yawns. 

“It was.” Broderick chuckles. “Well, other than that whole part where the turkey blew up.”

The Tonight Show heralds the hour of eleven o’clock. Trench falls asleep; Broderick watches him longingly.

“Why are you here, Zachariah?” He whispers. 

Soon, his eyes also grow heavy, and he lies down too, his feet resting next to Trench’s, the relentless surge of emotions finally fading into a slow trickle, and then into comfortable sleep.

*

When Broderick wakes up in bed at nine o’clock, his mood sinks. He’s obviously still not performing the correct ritual, and every time he restarts the day alone, reality kicks him in the shins harder and harder.

Perhaps, other than for his own selfish reasons, he needs to stay awake. Maybe it’s a fairy tale, just like Cinderella, with some magic happening at the stroke of midnight. Maybe enchantments are just paranatural phenomena.

But no matter how hard he tries, how many actions and words and hours and entire days he repeats, Broderick always falls asleep on the couch before Thursday can become Friday. He’s always tempted – and always denied. 

(And he didn’t even know it was possible to burn a turkey this many different ways, either.)

On day 50, when Trench still announces his intention to leave, Broderick says: “Take the day off, Chief. It’s a holiday weekend.”

Trench, of course, has a witticism at the ready: “Who the hell are you, and what have you done with the Director?” 

“You can even stay here if you’d like.” Broderick laughs. “Probably shouldn’t be driving if you’d had wine, anyway.”

“Might take you up on that.” Zachariah turtles the blanket up around himself and leans back sleepily, almost seeming to curl up. “Ah, today was good.”

“It was.” Broderick says, and then adds, “You’re all scrunched up in the corner there. Go ahead and stretch out if you’re more comfortable.”

When Zachariah chooses to turn around and rest his head right in Broderick’s lap, Broderick instantly stiffens with the surprise of it, causing Trench to ask, “Wait, is this weird?”

“No.” Broderick reassures him. “Whatever’s comfortable – you’re my guest.” Broderick’s words drip with endearment, more than he realizes at first.

As he looks down at his Deputy Chief, handsome, vulnerable, and now resting so close to him, Broderick simply surrenders to his feelings. He doesn’t care that Zachariah is a man, or that Zachariah reports to him – he adores him, and there’s nothing he even wants to fight against anymore. Zachariah’s face is relaxed, his eyes closed, his mouth half open. His lips look enticingly soft, and Broderick thinks of how easy it would be to just lean over and kiss him. Break the enchantment, just like in a fairy tale. But he won’t take advantage of someone so exhausted – instead, he gently runs his hand through the long, light-brown tangle of Zachariah’s hair. 

“Hm.” Trench smiles weakly. “You’re so warm. It’s nice.”

So Broderick keeps going. His thumb traces across Trench’s brow, feather-light down to his cheekbone. He repeats the motion and goes further, until his whole palm strokes Zachariah’s jaw and neck; he finally settles on massaging his shoulder caringly. It’s such a simple, intimate gesture, and it’s everything Broderick’s craving. 

For nearly his entire adulthood, his thoughts, his feelings, everything he is – has belonged to the Bureau; an emotionless, powerful monolith, he’s become the same with time. But this – this is different; it’s warm and bright and deep, and for a minute, Broderick doesn’t want time to reset to normal. Why would he ever want to return to his routine when every night, he can have this?

But as Trench succumbs to sleepiness, Broderick’s thoughts turn more serious. He must decipher the ritual, and soon. It’s no longer about just ending Thanksgiving and returning to work – if he never moves forward in time, he’ll never resolve whatever this is between him and Zachariah. He’ll be stuck wondering, perhaps forever, how Trench really feels. 

He’s growing tired himself, the day dying to embers just like the fire. In the gentlest rearrangement possible, Broderick lies down, easing his sleeping Deputy Chief on top of him until Zachariah’s head rests against his chest. Pulling the blanket up over them both, Broderick enfolds Zachariah in his arms, holding him until the consciousness dissolves from his very sense of touch.

*

More than he had ever hoped for anything in recent memory, Broderick hoped they would wake up together this time.

But he’s in bed, in his cold upstairs bedroom. On Thanksgiving morning – by himself.

“God damn it!” he whines, pounding his fist into the mattress so hard that sparks fly into the headboard.

What does he have to do?

A glum heap propped up by coffee, Broderick calls Dr. Ash again a short while later.

“Hi Ted. It’s Northmoor. Sorry to call you at home. I just have a question.”

“What do you want, Ricky?” Ash retorts as usual.

“I recall you talking about investigating Altered Item rituals. How you’ll try some action that opposes the effects of the Item, some reverse psychology, or–” Broderick remembers their last conversation, “–something related to what the Item symbolizes.”

“Well, I’ll be dipped.” Ash says. “You actually read this month’s research briefing. But yes, that’s typically what we do. What’s your question? I don’t have long to talk.”

“What do you do when those things simply don’t work?”

“Well, if an Altered Item can’t be pacified by some direct physical action on it, or by direct physical action associated with what it stands for, then we’re likely dealing with a ritual involving memory, emotion, or some manifestation thereof.”

“Which means what, exactly?” Broderick asks. 

“That the ritual itself actually is a thought or a feeling – and that then might dictate your course of action. Some Altered Items seem to know our innermost desires.”

Broderick doesn’t even respond to Ash’s oven timer – the revelation is that swift: feelings and innermost desires? Does this whole thing have to do with Trench somehow?

But after he has that thought, he again defaults to confusion. Before he tries anything else, he figures he should tell Zachariah about it. 

Broderick trusts him.

Chapter Text

Thursday, November 24 ^th , 1988: Week Eight: Firelight and Starlight

Trench will surely think he’s insane. A perpetually burning Altered turkey causing nearly two months of Thanksgiving is going to sound like the ramblings of a bitter, petty tyrant who’s finally grown paranaturally unhinged.

Nonetheless, on day 52, Northmoor calls Trench first thing in the morning. Even though he expects it, he flinches when Zachariah answers. This is serious.

“It’s me, Chief.”

“Hey there.” Trench says. “Was going to call you in a couple hours anyway. What’s going on?”

Broderick cuts to the chase: “Is there any way you could come over to my house now? Or as soon as you can? I need to talk to you about something.” 

An hour later, Zachariah is sitting at Broderick’s dining room table, expression calm but guarded. 

The Director passes his Deputy Chief a cup of coffee, smiling to hide his worries. “Got a little cold, so I warmed it with my hands.”

And then he sits down opposite Zachariah, and he explains everything. The fires. The time loop. The failed attempts to crack the ritual. All the mishaps and mayhem that had befallen them both along the way. It takes him at least an hour. At first, Zachariah just rests his chin in his hands and asks the occasional brief question, but when Broderick starts talking about the spontaneous combustion of a turkey in the refrigerator, Trench’s brow folds with disbelief.

“Have you told Dr. Ash about any of this?”

“I have. Many times. He’s been advising me on the rituals, but we can’t do much else with the Bureau closed for the holiday if it’s not an emergency – it’s just one day, nobody’s in danger, and all that. And honestly, I’m not sure he believes any of it either. But I even filled out the Form RS-1112 and scored it. All the signs of an Altered Item are there, Chief. I just…I don’t know what to do.”

Somewhere, during this clarification, Zachariah had stood up, and is now backed against the dining room wall, looking at Broderick as if he’s just sprouted wings.

“Y-yeah.” Trench hesitates. “Altered Items can do some pretty strange things, but this is…whoa. This is a story, Broderick.”

“Look. I know it sounds like total bullshit. If someone told me some yarn about Altered food, I’d call it total bullshit too, but…” Broderick is growing desperate, and looks quickly around the room to find some evidence. His aunt’s old television! He jogs over to pick up the remote. 

“Okay. The Macy’s Parade is today.” Broderick starts, checking his watch. “It’s eleven-twenty right now. We should be seeing Ronald McDonald pretty soon.” 

He turns on the television, just as the parade announcers fawn over the giant balloon in the familiar clown’s likeness.

“And you like football, right?” He continues. “The Lions are going to lose twenty-three to nothing today. And the Cowboys are going to lead for a while, and then they’ll lose because Houston kicks three field goals in the second half.”

Zachariah sits back down, and after staring at nothing for a while, says: “Guess this means I’ve had fifty-something Thanksgivings, too, huh?”

“You have, technically.” Broderick says. “But it’s like every day is your first, because you don’t remember any of it when the day resets. Only I do.”

“So what do you remember? What did we do all that time, then?” 

Broderick tells him about their walks; about stargazing, barbecuing, watching the games, and ordering take-out from nearly every restaurant within a five-mile radius; about sitting and drinking wine together in front of the fire.

“…And you know I’m not really into holidays, but truthfully it hasn’t been bad, getting to know you a bit.” Northmoor concludes.

“You, getting to know me?” Zachariah snaps back, his arms crossed cagily in front of him, and Broderick can’t tell if the look on his face is disgust or intrigue or what. “You’ve barely talked to me in nine years beyond just ordering me around. This has to be bullshit. This seems like…”

“You have a sister.” Broderick interrupts. He’s reached the point of trying anything to get Zachariah to understand.

“Yeah. I do. Why?”

“Sh-she taught you how to roast a turkey – not Kate. She’s two years older than you, and she’s a property lawyer in Nashville, Tennessee. Your brother-in-law works for Old National Bank. They’ve been trying to get pregnant but can’t seem to, which is a source of stress in your family.”

Trench’s face softens immediately. “…What else do you know?”

“That your grandma made lime Jell-O molds with marshmallows. She passed away right when you started police academy, and you miss her. You really like to cook, and you’re good at it. You’re not a big fan of Indian food, but you really like Chinese. Although to you, the soy sauce in the Executive Sector cafeteria tastes like gasoline.” 

“It does.” Zachariah says. “But go on.”

“You’re a football nerd. The New York Giants are your favorite team, even though there’s a good chance they miss the playoffs this year. You want to quit smoking, you want a dog someday, you miss your house, and you easily mistake airplanes for stars. Right now, you’re thinking about how you’d really like a milkshake. A couple of times, we’ve even gone to get one during our walks, you know. The walk is a Thanksgiving tradition in your family.”

Trench just eyes him, unblinking, as Broderick continues.

“Your wise-ass sense of humor is a defense mechanism. It protects you from being hurt. At least, that’s how I interpreted it at first, but now I really don’t know at all. And when you smile in the sun, your eyes…” 

As he walks back toward his junior, Broderick’s turning sentimental, confessional even, but he doesn’t care. There’s still a good chance that Trench doesn’t remember any of this anyway. “…Your eyes are amazing. Never seen anything like them.”

A light blush suffuses Zachariah’s astonished face. 

“The truth is, Chief, I appreciate you. I never did before. I never could before, but now I appreciate you so much. More than you know.”

He reaches down and squeezes the back of Trench’s hand. “More than you’ll ever know, Zachariah. I–” Broderick’s suddenly lost all ability to articulate anything, “I–"

“Stop.” Zachariah finally breathes. They acknowledge each other tensely before Broderick finds the courage to make eye contact again. His hand, still resting tentatively against Trench’s, is growing hot with disquiet.

“Chief…”

“It’s all right.” Trench looks up at him kindly. “I believe you.”

*

Northmoor brews another pot of coffee, and they sit in the dining room as the Lions and Vikings play in the background.

“So what are we going to do?” Trench asks.

“I was hoping to get your thoughts.” Broderick replies. “You were an Altered Item expert before you transferred up to Executive.”

Zachariah seems taken aback at Broderick’s deference. “Hm. Based on your investigations so far, I’ve got two ideas. First, since the effects on time and this ‘retained memory’ thing are both localized to you, you’ll likely have to perform the ritual, as you’ve figured. And I’m agreeing with Dr. Ash on this one – there’s something psychological going on here. Maybe the turkey can sense your dislike of Thanksgiving and always ruins the holiday in response?”

“You’re telling me this turkey can read my goddamn mind?” 

“It’s no more unlikely than a videotape that brainwashes people into hearing creepy music.” Trench rubs his chin contemplatively and gulps his coffee. “Hm. Have you ever successfully made a turkey before, either in past years or during this, uh, time glitch?” 

“Truthfully?” Broderick laughs. “…No. I’m actually a really shitty cook.”

Zachariah doesn’t judge. “That’s all right. I’ll help you out. But I do think that’s the first thing we should try.” 

Broderick stands up. “Okay. But before we start, I need to make a phone call.”

*

“Ted. It’s Northmoor.”

“Hello, Ricky.” A different time of day, a different response – but the same thinly veiled antipathy. “What can I do for you?”

Broderick does his best to sound charming: “How about you bring that pumpkin pie over to my house tonight?” 

Ash, for good reason, remains somewhat suspicious. “C’mon. I was going to bring it to my neighbor.” 

“Well, bring it to your neighbor and then make another one. We’ll have everything else – except pumpkin pie. You just can’t have Thanksgiving without it.”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to go get another pumpkin. They don’t grow on trees, you know.”

“Yes, they grow on vines, Ted.” Broderick jokes. “And are you really going to make me issue a Directorial Order over this?”

“…Is seven o’clock all right, then?”

“Sure. Good enough for government work, as they say.” It’s when Broderick is giving Ash his address that Zachariah appears in the kitchen with both a grocery bag and an amused countenance.

“Ah! – I should go start the turkey. See you soon, Ted.”

Their roles are reversed: Broderick measures out the herbs, melts the butter, and unwraps the turkey – he’s seen Zachariah do it so many times that he doesn’t even need directions. Zachariah’s assertion of you seem to be an okay cook to me is met with well, I’ve seen it dozens of times by now!

He’s still a bit squeamish about the whole hands-in-raw-poultry thing; his application of the butter is a bit scanty.

“Oh, you’ve got to rub it in there good under the wings and legs.” Trench instructs. “You won’t get good browning if half of it’s still in the bowl.”

Broderick tries again, and Zachariah replies, unconvinced, with “Ah, let me...” 

“But I have to do it.”

“No, I mean, let me–” Zachariah sidles up right next to him, pours the rest of the butter over the turkey, and grabs Broderick’s wrist to direct him. “–there.” 

When Trench slides his palm over the back of Broderick’s hand to guide his motions even more carefully, Broderick turns his head to find his junior’s face just a few inches from his own. Their arms and shoulders touch; in the quiet moment that passes, Broderick feels an instant rush of heat and adrenaline. He wants to lean into it and savor it as long as possible.

“Oooh.” Trench winces. “Your hand just…got pretty hot. Careful you don’t start cooking it.”

And then Zachariah beams, and he very deliberately glides his fingers in between Broderick’s. 

“I think we’re good now.” He says quietly. 

Several possible meanings there. Broderick thinks.

*

Trench, who was busy watching the last quarter of the game, jolts with the surprise of the blanket dropped over his lap from behind.

“What’s this for?”

“You always eventually complain you’re cold here.” Broderick says. 

“Thanks. And looks like you were right about this game, too. Detroit was dead on arrival.” Trench sounds amazed. “This is ridiculous. This is–shit, do you think this turkey’s safe to eat?” 

“That’s a good question.” 

“Assuming we don’t burn it, I volunteer to eat it first.” Trench declares. “I was an Altered Item investigator. I’ve definitely done dumber things.”

The Director’s reply is simple: “No.” 

“No, what?”

“I’ll go first. Eating it could be a part of the ritual. And my abilities are sensitive – they’ll be a paranatural barometer of sorts. We’ll wait fifteen minutes and see what happens.”

“Got it.” Trench states. “So if you don’t vaporize the whole block within that fifteen minutes, we’re probably in the clear?”

“Exactly.” 

(Broderick’s insistence is, and he knows it, born more from the sudden and very instinctual urge to protect Zachariah than anything to do with the ritual.)

After the end of the game cuts to commercials, Broderick says, “We have a couple hours before everyone gets here – let’s take a walk.”

“Sure.” Trench agrees.

“Gotta earn those calories, as your mother used to say.”

Broderick knows his favorite route like an old friend: south a few blocks, and then right at the big oak tree by the stone wall. Through the cloudless sky, the sun has already begun its predictable journey westward. They’re almost to that certain spot where it happens – but there’s no mention of milkshakes today.

“Wait. You actually sabotaged me putting it out?” Trench says, obviously entertained. “Where the hell did you put the fire extinguisher?” 

“Under the car.” Broderick battles an advancing grin as he recounts day 22 of Thanksgiving. “You had to put it out with your shirt.”

Trench gestures at his chest. “This shirt?”

“Yes. Was a damn shame too. I like that shirt.”

“You like this shirt? Seriously? I think this is the first time I haven’t seen you in a suit.” 

“I meant I like it on you.”

“Oh.” Trench appears a little surprised. “Thanks. Huh. A compliment. Are you sure it’s not your brain that’s gotten Altered?”

Broderick looks at his watch, and then up at Zachariah’s face. Bathed in brilliant orange light, his eyes seem as bright as the sky in contrast, reflecting levity and contentment. Their gazes lock together, and as always, Broderick feels simultaneously hot and cold and enraptured and frightened with anticipation, before he says, “God, it’s so good to see you, Chief. It always is.” 

Zachariah puts his hand on Broderick’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you too.”

Behind and beyond him, in the sky, Broderick swears he can just make out the evening’s first star. 

*

Perhaps Broderick doesn’t expect it, but it’s remarkably good to see Marilyn, Martin, Salvador, Kirklund, Chang, and Bill and June Powers, too. 

The foyer of the house grows replete with hugs and handshakes, and curiously, nobody seems too put-off by the Director’s friendly behavior. Some people are completely different outside of work, he figures they probably think, maybe this is how he really is.

And maybe this time they’re right.

Drinks and conversation both flow easily: they talk about food, the weather, and the game, complete with Zachariah commenting that Broderick has an uncanny ability to predict the score. 

“Well, when you watch the Lions as much as I have, you know when they’re gonna stink.” Broderick says, shooting a knowing glance at his Deputy Chief.

Broderick excuses himself to the living room, and when he returns, he approaches June and says, “I’ve got something for you.”

Into the picnic basket of wine and gin at June’s elbow, he clanks the bottle of his favorite rum, and tells her, “It’s better than anything in there, I guarantee. Just sit and sip it.”

June smiles genuinely up at him, and Broderick adds: “Ah, take it home with you.” 

The party slowly migrates to the dining room. Simply ignoring the gossip, Broderick heads to the kitchen instead.

“How are we doing?” He asks Zachariah.

“One-eighty. Looks good and smells better.” Trench says, removing the meat thermometer and lifting the turkey from the oven. 

“Need any help?” 

“Nah. It’s gotta cool. I’ll need you later though.” 

As Broderick returns to the dining room, he lingers on Zachariah’s words, even though they’re quite innocent. I’ll need you later. I’ll need you. Need you.

“I’ll need you too, Chief.” He mouths without speaking. 

*

There are no incidents with the stove knobs or burners; no freak accidents with cooking oil or cigarettes. June, who seems to have heeded Broderick’s suggestion of slow sipping, is amazingly sober; the candles all stay upright.

“Honestly, I feel bad,” Martin says from Northmoor's left, “that I brought something too spicy for you! I keep forgetting about that.”

“Ah, no worries.” Broderick reassures. “It’s the thought that counts, or something like that. Just glad you could make it, Dale.”

Although it’s a bit of a hack job, Zachariah carves the turkey a few minutes later. 

“Well, we’ll see what happens.” Broderick says, pilfering a slice and setting fifteen minutes on the timer. 

(It’s delicious, and nothing happens, beyond Trench’s gravy boiling dangerously close to the top of the saucepan while he’s nattering about how he’s excited to eat an Altered Item.)

Finally, everyone sits down at quarter-to-seven. Broderick immediately stands back up. 

“You know, I think we should have a toast.” 

“Well, around you, most things do get toasted eventually.” Trench jokes, like he had been holding it for a while. Everyone laughs; it’s the best joke Broderick’s heard all day – or rather, all fifty-two of them.

They drink to the holiday and the Bureau, and just as Broderick picks up his fork, the doorbell rings. 

He opens the door to find Dr. Ash standing on the stoop. His hair is its usual disaster, but he’s dressed up in a sweater-vest and bow tie.

With a wry smirk, he passes Broderick the pumpkin pie. “Good enough for government work, I hope.” 

“Hello, Ted.”

As they walk through the foyer toward the dining room, Broderick says, without any warning or context, “Thanks.”

“For what, Ricky?”

“For all your advice and, uh, useful ideas.”

“Oh, now I know you’ve been drinking.” Ash hoots. “Although I do have one question.”

“What’s that?”

“How did you know I was making pumpkin pie?”

Broderick stares Ash down with faux severity. “…Oh, let’s just say we’ve got some things to discuss on Monday.” 

*

It’s a great night and a great meal, but eventually, the post-dinner drowsiness that’s so symbolic of Thanksgiving night falls over everyone. 

By eight-thirty, The foyer again crowds with hugs and slaps on backs and leftover pie toted home in Ziploc baggies. Broderick tells everyone he’ll see them on Monday.

“Hope three days is enough to sleep off the food coma!” He calls out after a giggly Kirklund and Marilyn, who are the last to leave.

The house now quiet, he and Zachariah retreat to the living room. 

It’s gotten cold, and the firewood ignites easily as Broderick scratches his fingers down it. As he had many times before, he pours two glasses of wine, and pushes one into Trench’s hand. 

“Happy Thanksgiving, Chief.” 

“Well, you too, Sir.” Trench’s voice is gracious. They clink their glasses together, and Zachariah takes a healthy glug of wine before he says: “You were two for two on the games, you know. Jeez, too bad you didn’t get the lotto numbers or something.”

And then they sit, almost impossibly close, on the couch. Their hands gravitate together, Broderick’s fingertips teasing across Zachariah’s palm. 

“Broderick–” Zachariah starts to say something else, but stops, instead grabbing his Director’s hand firmly.

Broderick fixes his eyes straight ahead on the fire, his head a swirling storm of too many thoughts. Have they at last found the ritual? If time resets to normal, will he ever know anything like this again?

They should talk about it. 

He needs to know.

He must make some wordless noise, or have his face wrinkled funny, because Zachariah asks if he’s all right.

“I’ve been here before, too, Chief.” Broderick says distantly, petting the side of Zachariah’s hand. “We’ve been here before, rather. And I don’t know what it means.”

Trench pats him on the thigh. “Well, let’s go deal with that goddamn pile of dishes, and then we can talk.” 

*

Removing his hands from the soapy water, Zachariah dries off his arms and rolls down his shirtsleeves. After finally pushing the button to start the dishwasher, Broderick leans back against the front of the refrigerator. He stretches and sighs, a mixture of exhaustion and trepidation and something even approaching relief all boiling over inside.

Trench is standing in front of him, his face wearing an excitable, well, now what?-expression.

After a minute of just looking at one another, Broderick asks, at last: “Why are you here, Chief?” 

“Getting all existential on me?”

“No, I mean here.” Broderick motions around with his hands. “In my kitchen, at nine o’clock on Thanksgiving.”

“Well, do you want the cliché about ‘giving thanks and eating too much’, or…?” Zachariah takes a couple steps toward him.

“Whatever’s the most honest.” Broderick says. “Is it all just this stuff about wanting the Bureau leadership to be more of a family, or…?” He can’t quite find the proper words to continue, but he knows what he wants to say.

“Sure. I don’t know on what day I told you that, but that would be great.” Zachariah starts. “But it’s more than that. Even though you seem to know me pretty well at this point, I was hoping I could maybe…get to know you a little better.” 

Broderick notices that Zachariah’s hand is braced flat against the refrigerator door, right next to his ear. 

“Get to know me a little better?” Broderick feels himself flush, and then he feels Trench’s thumb, gentle and exploratory, on the side of his neck.

“Oh, come on. I’ve always wanted to know you.” Zachariah’s voice is low and flirtatious, and Broderick can sense his paranatural energy spiking in response. “Maybe this was all just my way of showing that I like you.”

“W-wait.” Broderick stutters. His emotions taking over, he drapes his arms around Zachariah’s waist, and somehow asks the absolute dumbest question he possibly could: “You like me? Like me as in…?”

“God, for someone so smart and powerful, you are really goddamn oblivious.” 

And that’s when Zachariah leans in and kisses him. It’s a surprise at first, but it’s so unselfish and soft that Broderick instantly relaxes in Zachariah’s embrace. Soon, he’s pouring out days of unsaid affection, drawing Zachariah’s tongue against his, his hands strangled in the floppy mess of Trench’s hair. It’s everything he’s fantasized about. It’s perfect.

When they break, when Broderick can comprehend anything again, he just stares. Zachariah’s lips are wet and his eyes almost glow with joy, and Broderick rests his forehead against Zachariah’s, and he smiles, all satisfaction and giddiness and wanting.

Trapped between Zachariah’s warmth and the refrigerator, he can do nothing else but chuckle at what just happened – and how overcome he is by it.

“What?” Trench asks. 

“Come to bed with me, Zachariah?” Broderick says, lovingly holding his Deputy Chief’s face in his hands.

“Yes, I just…”

“I mean, only if you want. Wouldn’t want you to do something you regret.”

“No…I just hope we found the ritual so I can remember it.” Zachariah whispers, and he kisses Broderick again. But no more than a few seconds later, he pulls away. “So, did we do this during any of your Thanksgivings?” 

“No.” Broderick says into Trench’s cheek. “But you did put your head in my lap, and I rubbed your shoulders until you fell asleep. We fell asleep together.”

“God, I love shoulder rubs.”

“I know.” Broderick presses his lips to the corner of Zachariah’s mouth. “I know.”

Chapter Text

November ???, 1988

The first thing he notices is that the light is different; the kind of subdued light that causes a more gradual awakening. 

Northmoor grasps his watch off the table beside his bed. It’s 8:20. 

…Not 9 AM! 

Right away, he springs to his feet, and is immediately cold, having woken up wearing just a t-shirt and boxers, rather than in his usual pajamas. 

Pulling the curtain away from the bedroom window and looking outside, Broderick sees that it’s snowing. Huge, lazy snowflakes are falling from the grey sky and are already beginning to accumulate on top of the streetlamps.

He falls back into bed and exhales for what seems like thirty seconds.

It’s Friday. The Altered Turkey had been calmed. He did it. They did it.

A door closes down the hall, foreshadowing Trench’s arrival. As he steps into the bedroom a moment later, Zachariah’s half-dressed in just his jeans, rubbing his wet hair with a towel.

“Good God, the shower’s freezing.” He gasps. “Are you literally the only warm thing in this house?”

“Ah, it’s Friday, so that means you’re complaining about something.” Broderick laughs. “Just like every other day of the week.”

“Well, in light of the ritual, thank goodness it’s Friday, as they say.” Zachariah sits down in bed beside his Director. “Please tell me you’re going to file a report on this whole incident.”

“Of course. Ted’s going to lose his mind over all the paperwork. I’m just a bit…distracted right now.” Broderick rolls over and kisses Zachariah’s bare lower back playfully. At the gesture, Trench turns around and lies down, tucking himself under Broderick’s arm. 

“So. Do I get three days off too?” Zachariah asks. 

“Yes. And we both could use it, honestly.”

“What are you talking about? You had fifty-two days off already!”

“It was only one.” Broderick maintains. “Paranatural phenomenon or not, the calendar doesn’t lie.”

And when Broderick looks down into Zachariah’s eyes, he knows he’d have gladly endured a hundred Thanksgivings for this, or maybe even five-hundred – for just one morning of finally waking up with him. He folds the comforter up across them both, yawns, and asks: “So after we get some coffee, what should we do?” 

“Hmm. The answer’s probably no, but have you ever gone shopping on Black Friday?”

Broderick pulls Zachariah flush against him, rests both his arms around his junior’s shoulders, and says: “Oh, I already hosted Thanksgiving. Don’t push your luck, Chief.”

The house is chilly. Outside, the snowflakes whirl around in the wind as if the house is nestled inside a snow-globe. Broderick’s glad they got their walking in yesterday.

The tablecloth is folded up and set neatly on the tabletop, with an empty wine bottle beside it. The dishwasher is full of clean dishes, and all that remains in the fireplace grate are ashes. Lunch will be – what else? – leftover turkey.

While Zachariah fixes coffee, Broderick turns on the television. There might, according to his Deputy Chief, be college football today.

Instead of the Parade, a 1950s western is on. Its grainy, black-and-white stampede of cowboys is soon interrupted by a Sears commercial with a Christmas jingle.

***

Friday, December 16 ^th , 1988.

The first draft of the report is delivered to Northmoor’s office three weeks to the day after he and Trench had woken up together. Bound in the typical red cover of Altered Item reports, the heavy stack of documents details worldwide cultural archetypes of Thanksgiving, paranatural surveillance logs of grocery stores and restaurants (born from the observation of Altered food), and every reference to temporal manipulation that the Bureau’s agents could uncover. 

Like with all Altered Item reports that come across his desk, Broderick starts by reviewing the summary, or as the Bureau likes to title them, the Procedures:

Bedford Farms Turkey (Temporary Designation: AI33-KE):  

Containment Procedure: No containment procedure implemented at this time, as the entirety of the Item was consumed during and shortly after [REDACTED]’s Thanksgiving dinner party. Following the recommendation of [REDACTED], all persons who had consumed the Item were placed under mandatory paranatural activity monitoring, some covertly, for two weeks; no abnormal paranatural effects were documented.

Description/Altered Effect: A “Bedford Farms” brand frozen raw turkey, 17 lbs in weight, purchased at a grocery store in [REDACTED], New York on November 22 ^nd , 1988. The Item was unremarkable, wrapped in white plastic, and reportedly identical to all other frozen turkeys at the store. This is the Bureau’s first report to date of an Altered food item. 

Purchased for [REDACTED]’s Thanksgiving party, the Item induced a “time loop”, which caused Thanksgiving Day of 1988 to repeat fifty-two times prior to its pacification and eventual consumption. The effect was localized exclusively to [REDACTED], and prior to inducing its repetition of Thanksgiving, the Item would always combust – it was reported to do so even if left unwrapped and raw in the refrigerator – and did so, fifty-two times, causing untold damage and frustration.

Background: It is hypothesized that the item was capable of sensing [REDACTED]’s dislike of the Thanksgiving holiday, and thus, intentionally or not, ‘trapped’ [REDACTED] within its Altered “time loop”. The exact nature of the ritual that eventually subdued this Item remains unknown, but potential hypotheses include: a) [REDACTED]’s genuine enjoyment of the holiday; b) [REDACTED]’s preparing of the turkey for the party (as compared to another person); c) some other unknown interpersonal phenomenon of significance to [REDACTED] that was thus “recognized” by the Item.

Zachariah, whose chin had been resting on Broderick’s shoulder from behind as he read the report, suddenly interrupts just as the Director turns the page.

“‘Unknown interpersonal phenomenon of significance?’” He cracks, “That’s what they’re calling us?”

“Well, do you want to go down to Dr. Ash’s office and tell him everything?” Broderick asks, reaching up and tugging at Zachariah’s hair. 

“No. But it’s just so…euphemistic. It’s like calling a nuclear weapon a ‘device’.”

“Ah, that’s just the government, Chief. At least this one isn’t anywhere near as bad as the report on the talking Christmas tree.”

“Speaking of, have you decided if you’re having a Bureau Christmas party or not?” Trench asks.

“You know, I think I might. How do you feel about the twenty-second?”

“Works for me.” Zachariah says, his hand smoothing down Broderick’s arm. “Gotta head back to my office now, but I’ll  help with the details later.”

As Broderick watches Zachariah walk away, he thinks: the details, of course, are insignificant: regardless of how it happened, a holiday celebration had brought him actual meaning; it had brought him Zachariah. 

All’s truly well that ends well, so perhaps he ought to celebrate more of them.

(And yes, maybe someday, he’ll even have a celebration of gluttony for President’s Day.)

***