Chapter Text
It always starts out the same way: air thick with heat, muggy, the promise of summer tangled in spring rain. He can still smell it, each inhalation through his nose a refreshing burst of earthy petrichor, and under that the sharp tang of damp concrete now baking in the sun, steaming the last of the moisture from its pores. He can feel her fingers curled into his, her nails digging into his broken calluses; still see those dark eyes shining with expectation, tight curls bouncing with every step, still feel the warmth of the smile that reminds him of his own, dimpled more on one side than the other.
He can recall her exact outfit from that day with piercing clarity, her little white t-shirt, and the pale blue corduroy overalls with the butterflies stitched on the cuffs and the chest, her light-up sneakers with the rubber soles that glowed a different color with each step – a splurge, far too expensive for shoes destined to be quickly outgrown. (But denying her this fleeting joy was something he simply hadn’t been able to stomach, and so he’d found himself trapped in the purgatory of the checkout line earlier that week as she hummed with excitement, that neon pink box she clutched in her tiny arms a physical manifestation of his dwindling checking account.)
The novelty of those shoes has yet to wear off. Each step sends another jolt of color through the soles; she stomps with gleeful abandon in the shrinking puddles left by the morning’s rain shower, and he lets her because he’s too tired to tell her not to, and too fond of her giggles to want to, anyway. The zoo hums with its usual weekend throng, but his little navigator knows the ropes, their frequent weekend visits (free, thank god, for Travis County residents) granting them seasoned veteran status. They dodge and weave through the crowd, bypassing the “boring” exhibits for their grand finale – “the best for last,” she reminds him.
The rainforest building cranks the heat and humidity up a notch, a stifling embrace even for him, but it doesn’t slow her down. They climb the spiral staircase together, the sides enclosed in plexiglass so little eyes can peer through them and take in all of the tropical plants that make up the first floor of the building, many of them tall enough to stretch to the glass ceiling – and though he wishes that just once he could convince her to take the elevator, he can’t deny that view.
Her steps become bouncier as they reach the top, crossing a platform positioned precariously close to a cascading waterfall built on fake rocks, the water tumbling toward a pool below their feet. She doesn’t even stop to look at it, her eyes fixated on the glass door just ahead. She runs her fingers along the smooth wooden sign that cheerfully informs them that they have finally arrived at the Butterfly House, and it’s only now that she pauses, glancing back at him as though she’s waiting for permission.
“Go on, baby girl,” he urges her with a nod, and she’s gone on multi-colored feet, tugging open the glass door as he follows behind her at a far more leisurely pace. He plucks a pamphlet from an acrylic holder bolted to the wall and shadows her through another door, and the sunshine is on their faces again; warm and bright and filtering through a canopy of leaves – broad palms and towering trees – casting dappled light on their skin. The air here is a little sweeter, a mix of earthiness and something floral.
The Butterfly House is full of activity. Wings, a kaleidoscope of color, flit between branches and dance on gentle air currents. A squeal erupts from his little adventurer as a majestic blue butterfly lands on her outstretched wrist. Its wings, a stunning cerulean, slowly open and close with rhythmic deliberation, the black spots on its tips like curious eyes blinking back at her. The moment is fleeting; the butterfly takes flight again and she tracks its zigzaggy path from flower to flower, her eyes following it until it settles on a tree trunk just beyond the visitor’s rope. Unfazed, she shifts her attention to a smaller, vibrant pair of yellow wings, embarking on a new chase through the sunlight.
He can relax here, finally, a welcome respite after a full day of trudging from exhibit to exhibit out on the blazing pavement. This enclosure is small, a single room crammed full of as many plants and butterflies that the zoo could possibly source, and he can track her easily from his usual wooden bench, arm slung over the back and the pamphlet – that he has read so many times already that he’s certain he can recreate it from memory if he had to – held open in his hand.
“Did you know that butterflies taste with their feet?” he asks her, and she giggles when he arches an eyebrow at her, responds with a drawn out, “well, duuuuuhhhh,” as though he somehow isn’t aware that she knows more about butterflies than he ever could, like she doesn’t have at least a half-dozen well-worn books about them on her bookshelf at home.
He waits for her to jog another lap, and when she comes around again he clears his throat and pretends to read from the brochure: “Did you know that most butterflies are really good at math?” And she comes to a complete stop, eyes regarding him warily, then bursts into giggles.
“That’s not true,” she insists, and he shrugs lightly, waving the folded paper at her and then holding it high above her head when she tries to snatch it away from him.
“Says it right here,” he counters. “Have contests to see who can solve calculus problems mid-flight. Loser has to flap his wings twice as fast the rest of the day.”
“It doesn’t say that!” she laughs, and she jumps onto the bench next to him, tiny fingers reaching for the brochure he playfully dangles just out of reach. He scoops her into his lap with a one-armed hug, immediately uses the opportunity to kiss the top of her head, and she pretends to groan in annoyance, a preamble to what he supposes her teen years will be like. Undeterred, she snatches the brochure the moment he gives in, sliding back down to the floor and then scrambling to her feet. She races across the enclosure, the pamphlet clutched in her hand. With a flourish, she begins to read aloud, her voice echoing through the sun-dappled haven.
“‘The pupa of butterflies is also called a chr – a cry – a –’”
“A chrysalis,” he offers, and from the other side of the exhibit a mother looks up from where she’s kneeling with her toddler son, and offers him a warm smile that he only somewhat awkwardly returns.
They spend the rest of the afternoon in that little room. Other families ebb and flow through the enclosure, but they’ve staked their claim. As the day wanes, however, so does she; fatigue starting its gentle tug on her limbs. She rubs at her eyes with the back of her hand, her colorful steps falter, her earlier bounce turning into a more sluggish shuffle across the stamped concrete floor. He recognizes the shift by the way she hops onto the bench beside him, readily melting into his side when he drapes an arm around her shoulders, her cheek squished against his ribs. They watch silently as the butterflies settle for the evening, the room bathed in a soft orange glow, vibrant wings finally finding rest.
“You ready to go?” He whispers it, more to himself than anything, already anticipating the answer. As expected, she shakes her head slightly and buries his face against his t-shirt. And he sighs, scoops her up in his arms as he stands, a practiced maneuver honed by countless nights of bedtime carries, shifting her so her head can rest against his shoulder. He’s still a year or two away from it, but already he mourns the ending of this; of being able to carry his little girl safely in his arms, her arms wrapped around his neck and legs dangling loosely, sneakered feet occasionally coming alive with a bright glow as they knock against his hip.
“C’mon, baby girl,” he tells her, “time to go home.”
It always ends the same way: carrying her through the darkening zoo as dusk deepens, their path illuminated by the bright yellow lamps just starting to flicker to life overhead. Muffled music spills from speakers bolted to poles throughout the zoo – Fleetwood Mac, sometimes; the occasional Tom Petty or the Hollies – and he hums along to it quietly, a melody only meant for her ears.
Somewhere between the rainforest building and the main gates, something always shifts. The path always becomes a little darker, even when the lamps become brighter. She gets heavier in his arms, longer, and when she pulls back to look at him it’s with fear in her eyes – her features, for a fleeting second, seem older, etched with a maturity that chills him. A spotlight blinds them, a voice, heavy with dread, rings out, ‘I’m sorry,’ and there’s another flash, a bloodcurdling scream, and a searing pain that rips through him –
– And Joel wakes up, sitting bolt upright in his bed with a shout already primed in his chest that he bites down as the recognition sets in, as his familiar bedroom swims into focus. That feeling, that loss is always heaviest for the first shivering minute or two, settling heavy on his chest like a physical weight, constricting his lungs, a tide of grief that threatens to drown him.
Sometimes he lets himself truly feel it; cries along with it until it feels less raw, beats his fist over his heart as though to jump-start it again. He doesn’t, this time; he just breathes, wrists hinged over his aching knees, fingers curling in and out, heart eventually settling into a less frantic pace. The ache remains, a dull throb in his chest, but it’s more bearable now; familiar, that bittersweet companion that he can hold onto as he throws back the blankets and, groaning, pulls himself out of the bed.
It’s no mystery, why this dream has returned to him now, after months of its absence. He tries not to think about it too much, dressing quickly in the dark, eyes glancing to the wind-up alarm clock atop his dresser, checking and double-checking that he isn’t running too far behind. He grabs his pack from the foot of the bed, his rifle from where it lives at night, wedged between the nightstand and bedframe, and then his boots are thumping their way down the creaky stairs. He doesn’t spend too much time in the kitchen; just long enough to “brew” some instant coffee (not his favorite, certainly, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and it was kind that Tommy had shared it with him at all) and pour it into his thermos, grab the food from the fridge that he’d made the night before, and then he’s stepping onto his back porch, the chill of the morning a welcome slap chasing away the last vestiges of sleep.
The sky is still dark, save for a faint promise of sunrise bleeding from the east. It’s early in the season for there to be frost, but he can feel the threat of it prickling at his skin as he crosses the backyard; that chill, the dampness already clinging to his boots when his toes skim the grass. Twenty-three steps, in his long strides, separate his kitchen door from the garage, but despite how quickly he reaches the side door, he lingers for a moment, hand hovering in the air in hesitation before he can bring himself to knock his knuckles against the painted wood.
The response isn’t necessarily immediate. He has to knock again before any sound reaches him from the other side, before there’s a groan and a shuffling of feet across what he knows to be concrete floors and haphazardly-placed area rugs, before there’s a click and the light above his head flickers to life, casting him in a muted yellow glow. The door swings open, and he has to fight back a chuckle at the bedraggled form there to greet him – Ellie’s hair was half falling out of the ponytail she’d slept in, wrist rubbing against glassy eyes still crusted with sleep, her pajama pants too big for her and her NASA shirt desperately rumpled.
There are things he chooses to ignore now, as he always does – the stale haze of weed that wafts through the door and clings to her clothes, the tattoo that curls down her arm, bold black lines forming fern leaves, the curves of the moth covering the most rippled parts of her burned skin…even the nonchalance in her greeting, laced with something akin to…disdain? that flickers across her face before surprise smooths it over. “Joel,” she groans, craning her neck to squint at the dark sky, “it’s stupid early, what –”
“Hey, kiddo,” he says, with no missing affection, “I’m headin’ out for a bit. You, uh…interested in taggin’ along?” He shifts his rifle’s strap on his shoulder, smiles down gently at her as the confusion on her face only deepens, then morphs into a guarded wariness. She seems to scrutinize him for a moment, eyes raking over his gun, his pack, the clear markers that he wasn’t just out for a casual morning stroll – and he steels himself for the familiar cocktail of disappointment and rejection; for the fabricated excuse as to why she can’t join him, the patrol shift she’ll claim she already has (she doesn’t; he’s already made sure). She leans against the doorframe for just a moment, arms crossed, and lets out a low, tired sigh.
“Yeah,” she says finally, shrugging. “Sure.”
And his heart soars.
≪ ◦ ❖ ◦ ≫
She’s quiet as they wind a path away from Jackson, silence hanging heavy between them – and that’s fine, he reasons with himself, because she’s there at all, trailing just a few paces behind him atop Shimmer, at least slightly more put-together than how he’d first greeted her that morning (her hair brushed through and then secured in a new ponytail, and she’s traded pajamas for jeans and a suspiciously-familiar, oversized flannel, and her lighter jacket).
She has her own rifle resting comfortably on her back, and the way she handles the reins – handles herself, really – is a far cry from the girl he’d brought back to Jackson nearly a year-and-a-half ago. She’s sixteen now, training for patrol herself, more confident in a saddle, head on a swivel even when the look she casts around the valley is a rather subdued one. And he can’t help it – he’s proud of her, fiercely so, even with the knot of worry lodged in his gut at all times, the ever-widening distance between them.
It sometimes feels like the ground itself has split open, leaving a raw, awkward space that stretches across Tommy and Maria's kitchen table whenever one of them gets a bug up their ass about “family meals” (because Ellie can avoid his invitations all she wants, but when Maria summons you, it’s non-negotiable). He doesn’t know exactly where it comes from; doesn’t have the answer, the root cause of this estrangement – though he can certainly make an educated guess. But for now, he can push those thoughts down and focus on the simple fact that she was here now, riding close to him. The silence isn’t so deafening with her presence, a fragile thing he holds onto with a white-knuckled grip.
The sky gradually surrenders its inky cloak as they head north, filling with streaks of crimson and purple, the Tetons, once shrouded in the night, beginning to reveal their snow-capped peaks, catching the first kiss of gold from the rising sun. Everything around them glitters in the morning dew, a crystal landscape they cut through that blooms with color. “Where are we going, anyway?” she asks, and he glances back at her with a grin, pleased that her curiosity has apparently won out over her preference of stony silence.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he drawls, and he’s rewarded with a scowl.
“Well, duh. Otherwise I wouldn’t have asked.”
He chuckles, turning away from her while rolling his shoulders. “Tommy and me came across somethin’ last night, when we were headin’ back from Teton Village. Figured you might get a kick outta seein’ it for yourself.”
“Uh-huh.” Her tone makes it clear that she doesn’t quite believe him but, for once, she doesn’t push. “Something cool, huh?”
“I ever steered you wrong on an adventure, before?” he counters.
“Uh, yeah?” she shoots back, nudging her horse forward until they’re riding side-by-side. She expertly ignores his disapproving frown as she leans over dramatically, straining in her saddle just to pat Old Beardy’s dark neck. “You took me to Miller Cabin, like that was supposed to be some amazing experience.”
“Well,” he faux-grumbles, “excuse me for thinkin’ the Queen of Puns might appreciate the humor in that.”
“How was that funny? It was just old, and boring.” She pauses, glances at him thoughtfully. “Actually, now that I think about it, it was kind of familiar –”
“Hilarious,” he cuts her off with a scoff, and her sudden burst of laughter, a sound he hasn’t heard in what feels like a lifetime, is music to his ears, sweeter than the songbirds just starting their morning melodies.
“Okay – wait –” She’s still wheezing, and he’s still smiling, “I’m gonna guess where you’re taking me, okay?”
“Knock yourself out.”
She keeps them both entertained for the next couple of miles, her guesses becoming more and more elaborate as they steadily climb the rising highway. She starts off innocently enough (“You and Tommy finally started that coffee shop, huh?”) but by the time they crest the last hill of their journey, squinting into the vast expanse sprawling beneath them, he’s chuckling along. (“Is it…a giant trampoline? Like, one of those ‘world’s biggest’ things – like the ball of twine we saw? I need to see you do a flip, Joel.”)
She follows him as he pulls his horse off the road, weaving through a swathe of flat land hemmed in by the road and rolling hills. The Tetons, bathed in fading gold, still dominate the western horizon. There is little here offering cover; a few scattered trees poke up from the tall grasses, and it's towards a line of particularly tall cedars, reaching skyward against the red dawn, that Joel directs them. He dismounts a good forty feet from the spindly white trunks, swinging his leg over the saddle and hopping to the uneven ground with a grunt that causes him to look at Ellie with an expression that almost dares her to say something about it (thankfully, she doesn’t, though her amused little grin speaks volumes).
“They’re...trees.” Ellie hops down from Shimmer with far more ease, giving the mare’s neck a quick pat while sweeping her arm wide in a grand gesture, eyebrow arched in skepticism. “Wow, thanks, Joel – never seen one of those before –”
“Yeah, yeah…” He shakes his head, slides the knitted blanket he’d folded over his saddle over his own arm, and carries it with him as he begins his walk toward the treeline. “C’mon – quiet, now. Don’t wanna scare ‘em.”
“Scare…who?” But she follows him anyway, her interest clearly piqued. It’s chilly, still, even with the grass now alight in gold; it slices through the warmth of the sun, making Ellie tug her jacket a little tighter around her. Somewhere high above, a lone bird lets out a cry. They approach the trees slowly, the are around them full small noses; their boots stomping through the dirt, the rustle of the grass as it brushes past their legs, the hum, low and insistent, of the cicadas; a rising pitch as they walk, vibrating in a high, frantic chorus, their last grating hurrah before the bite of late fall would eventually silence them.
They stop before they can reach the treeline – and he surprises her, unfurling the blanket and letting it go flat atop the grass and, with another groan, slowly lowering himself to the ground so he can sit on top of it. “What, are we having a picnic?” she quips, and then snorts when he smirks and reaches into his pocket to pull out two bundles wrapped in wax paper. He tosses one to her, which she catches easily. “Nice.”
She joins him, swinging her rifle strap over her shoulder so she can set it next to her. He swallows the urge to comment on the way she perches on the very edge of the blanket, as though afraid to take up space around him, the heels of her boots digging into the dirt while she unwraps her egg sandwich. Still, he thinks, it’s nice the way they sit together and quietly enjoy their breakfast, the sun rising higher and warming their faces more with every passing moment. She’s watching the sky as it turns bluer, and he’s watching her, waiting for the moment that she finally sees it – and he recognizes it the moment that she does, her jaw pausing mid-chew, mouth still full of eggs, brow knitting itself together tightly as she stares at the leaves of the trees.
It’s early in the season, yet, for the vibrant hues of autumn to take their hold on the valley, though they are brilliant when they do, crimson and gold cloaking the landscape – especially striking from the aspens and cedars, which have a tendency to turn earlier than their surrounding foliage, making the hillsides and river banks look like they’re on fire, their vibrancy always a beacon against the otherwise muted canvas of the early season. From a distance, this line of trees seems to be well on its way into this late fall ascent, yellow and green giving way to vibrant orange in large, uneven patches. Closer, those leaves seem to writhe with an unnatural rhythm, black, segmented forms shifting and twitching amongst the leaves, flickers of a paler orange and flashes of white pulsing and swaying and blinking, fluttering at the edges of delicate wings –
There are thousands of them, easily, dappling in the sunlight that streams from the east, every wing a vibrant shard of stained glass against the green leaves and the bright white bark, the trees dripping with their color – an impossible number of monarch butterflies settled for their evening rest, now springing back to life with the light of dawn. Most of them gather together, hanging in great, quivering clusters like living fruit that threaten to overburden sagging branches. Others tremble gently in solitude, their wings catching the first rays of sun like embers flickering back to life.
“Holy shit.” She’s on her feet in an instant, eyes wide, hand still holding the last bits of her sandwich. For a moment she just stands there, still and rigid, and then her eyes sweep down at him, her face a mask of awed disbelief.
“Yeah. That’s about what I said when we saw ‘em yesterday,” he chuckles. He points to the tree closest to them, which also seems to have the most butterflies gathering on it. “They do this, uh…thing, every year – a migration. Start in the colder areas, and fly all the way down to Mexico so they can hunker down for the winter, millions of ‘em. Think Tommy and me just caught these ones takin’ a breather – don’t fly at night, I think.”
“They’re –” And it’s a wonderful thing, he thinks to himself, that she’s so speechless with wonder. She takes a step forward, then another, but then pauses, glancing back at him as though she isn’t sure what to do.
“Ain’t gonna bite you,” he huffs. “You might scare ‘em into takin’ off, though.”
“I don’t…want to do that,” she breathes, and she retreats, flopping back down onto the blanket next to him in that lithe way that only young people with non-aching joints can do. Knees pulled to her chest, chin resting on them, she becomes a statue of quiet fascination, her gaze fixed on the mesmerizing display. “When are they gonna start flying again?”
“Soon as it’s warm enough, I guess.” He shrugs. “Won’t take long.” He tilts his face toward the sun, eyes narrowed against the light as though to confirm that it’s still there. The air already holds a new softness, the crispness of dawn giving way to warmth and the promise of a mild fall day. He’s learned to enjoy this, to savor these moments, the last vestiges of warm weather before winter begins to snap at their heels; finds himself outside more on days like this, as though his own presence in nature might be enough to convince the bite of the cold to stay away just a little longer.
“So cool,” she whispers, more to herself than to him, but he smiles anyway, accepts the compliment. They linger together on the blanket as dawn dissolves, as carpeted patches of orange and black on the trees begin to move more, to thrum with energy. Then, the sound; a soft, persistent rustling, like wind through dry leaves. Thousands of fragile wings are whispering in the rising warmth, and as they quietly watch the first brave butterflies begin to detach, a tentative flutter against the breeze.
“Thing is, they don’t live that long –” He’s digging deep for this, trawling the deepest recesses of his memories for anything he can remember; for words written across colorfully-illustrated pages strewn across the carpet of a pink bedroom, a little girl sitting in front of them and reading out loud while he kneels behind her, curly strands of hair weaving between his fingers as he fumbles out a passable braid. “Few weeks, if that. Except these ones.” He nods to the trees, and all of those brilliant orange wings. “There’s a generation every year that migrates, and they can live up to nine months. Don’t ask me how,” he adds quickly, as soon as she opens her mouth to ask, “because I don’t know how. Just know they do.”
“You know a lot about butterflies, huh?” She turns her head to look at him, resting her cheek on her knee, and the warmth of her smile somehow makes the sun feel downright chilly on his face. “All this time – that butterfly in the window, in the QZ? Figured that was…you know.” She didn’t say her name, but it was right there, lingering between them like a ghost. Tess. “Little, uh…feminine touch. Now I’m guessing it was yours?”
His nod comes a beat too slow, and it’s a stiff movement, the smile on his own unshaven face suddenly struggling to keep itself up. “Guess so,” is all he says, and her grin falters in response. The silence stretches between them, thick and heavy. It feels wrong to break it, neither of them knowing quite what to say - so they don’t say anything, they just watch the butterflies as more fluttering wings join these early explorers, the air around the trees now dotted with orange.
“Sorry,” she says finally, but she doesn’t look at him. “I didn’t – I just realized, it was probably for – I mean…just, sorry.”
“Don’t gotta apologize.” His hips are starting to cramp, sitting on the hard ground, even with the cushion of the blanket and the tall reeds of grass pushed down beneath it. She looks surprised when he abruptly holds his hand out to her. “C’mon, then – help an old man up, will you?”
And she does, barely masking a grin, slowly getting to her own feet and then grasping his far more weathered hand with both of her own, pulling him up, up, until he stands on his own two feet. He nods when she lets go, and groans slightly as he presses his hands to the small of his back, arching his spine. Still, they don’t say anything to one another for a long while, content to stand in silence and listen to the cicadas play their melody along with the rustling of wings.
“This…might be the coolest thing anyone’s ever shown me,” she says finally, and when he glances over at her it’s easy to see her discomfort; thumbs hinged through the loops of her jeans, head bowed even when her eyes are still looking upward, hesitant to take her gaze away from the spectacle happening in front of her for even one moment. “I mean that. It’s – it’s really cool, Joel. Thanks.”
“‘Course, kiddo,” he said, because to him, it was really that simple; of course he would share this with her, the only person in Jackson that he would think to drag across the countryside at dawn, because all of this effort was worth seeing her smile. But something about this, about the ease with which he said it seems to bother her; the gentle smile she’d forced falls away, arms folding tight as if suddenly chilled. “Sarah – she always liked butterflies.” He turns away from her, eyes on the fluttering trees. “Personally, I always thought they were a little – I guess, odd. Kind of creepy, when you really look at ‘em up close. But…they make up for it.”
They certainly do. As they watch, more and more of the swarm are coming loose from the tree – and then they erupt, like floating lava. All at once, an entire branch of them breaks free, and they begin falling through the air as a spiral, a chain reaction that unleashes the swarm from the trees in a cascade of orange and black. In just seconds they’re completely enveloped – and she gasps, instinctively takes a step toward him, and it’s second nature for him to wrap his arm around her shoulders, steadying her.
Everything about this is overwhelming to the senses; the air is full of orange and black, his good ear is hearing nothing but the rustling of wings that drowns out the rest of the world, and he can feel them, their delicate touch a constant whisper across his skin. Ellie’s shoulders tense against him, and for a breathless moment he’s blinded – by flashes of color, and a love so fierce that it all borders on unbearable – and he wishes that it was all easier, that this girl standing next to him, leaning into him can just know that the tangle of love and grief, for him, is sometimes indistinguishable, but that it’s also not her burden –
– and then it ends, the cloud lifts, the vibrant azure of the sky and the bright sun begin to shine through once again, and they’re left to stand together on that blanket, stunned and smiling and overwhelmed. They watch as the swarm ascends, and soon there are only flecks of orange left – including a single monarch that clings to Joel’s hair, wings bending slowly, blinking down at Ellie as she snorts back a laugh.
“Here –” she says, and he bends without question so she can reach, her fingers sweeping lightly at the butterfly until it finally flutters away, a zigzag of warm color against the clear sky that joins the few dozen other stragglers still circling through the trees. He watches it fly away, and he doesn't say it out loud, but he thinks it: Hi, baby girl. Behind them, their horses stir restlessly, and Shimmer whinnies softly, both horses pawning nervously at the earth, dark eyes following the cloud as it slowly winds its way south, low against the ground.
Silence settles between them, a comfortable hush. They just watch as the swarm leaves them behind, and he tries not to read into the fact that she still hasn’t drawn away from him; that she goes right back to leaning against his side, accepting his arm when it instinctively winds itself back around her shoulder. But she’s still the first to eventually break away, because she always is; sighing and telling him, “I guess we should get back,” and he agrees with what he hopes isn’t noticeable disappointment.
They pack up quickly, her rifle slung against her back, the blanket once again folded against his saddle. Their return ride lacks the chatter of earlier, but he doesn’t mind the stillness. She rides close beside him, and each time he glances her way, their smiles meet – unguarded, genuine. A warmth unfurls in his chest, and for a little while he lets himself think that maybe that chasm is healing; that he can almost reach the other side of it if he reaches out his fingers.
"I was thinking," she finally says, just as the familiar silhouette of Jackson appears on the horizon, its walls bathed in the warm glow of the morning.
“Dangerous territory,” he acknowledges, and she flips him her middle finger.
“So,” she continues, “we’ve been to Miller Cabin. And it sucked – no offense to your ancestors, or whatever.”
“I’ll be sure to pass along your glowin' review.”
“However,” she talks over him, “I think we’re ignoring the obvious, way more hilarious place to visit that’s just a liiiitttllee more north –”
“Don’t say it –” he groans, but she wiggles slightly in her saddle, and practically sings the next words:
“Miller Butte!” she crows. “I mean, come on, dude. The fact that you thought you could hide it from me – it’s right there on the map, we have to go! It’s named after you and everything!”
“It’s a mountain peak, and it ain’t off any patrol routes,” he grouses, but he’s still smiling, because she looks entirely too pleased with herself. “Last thing I need, you fallin’ off a cliff.”
“Tommy says it’s full of goats,” she says, wagging her eyebrows. “So it probably doesn’t smell great, which is – so fucking funny –”
“That’s a campin’ trip,” he interjects, “not a day trip.”
She shrugs, and he thinks it’s a little unfair, how the ease of her acceptance causes that heavy fluttering feeling in his chest, that weight that coils in his gut. It's a warmth he doesn't entirely deserve, an easy trust he hasn't fully earned. “Okay,” she says, “so we’ll camp. Not like we don’t have, like…months of practice. What d’you think?”
He considers this for a while, lets her twist a little, and finally, he sighs. “Fine,” he says, and she nearly squeals with triumph, “you’re on.” Her voice fills the space between them, chatter about exactly how much she’s going to enjoy something this hilarious, and he lets Jackson and the surrounding hills fill his gaze, feels the sun on his face, warming his hands – wonders, not for the first time, how long this little slice of paradise that he’s carved out for himself is destined to last –
– Reasons with himself yet again that it doesn’t matter, that he’s just going to enjoy it while it does.