Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Spring 1, Year 1

Shane almost doesn’t go in.

He sighs. He can’t hear who Marnie is talking to, but he can tell it is definitely not Jas or herself or the phone, so that means a stranger, or someone from the village. Which is... just great. Really really awesome. 

He stands with the doorknob in his hand for a bit. He’s fresh off of work. He’s tired. He’s not social. He looks like shit. He does not want to do this. He doesn’t want to do pleasantries with acquaintances, he doesn’t want to talk to anybody. He just wants to go in, do the bare minimum with Marnie, and then flop facedown in his bed and rot until dinner.

But he isn’t going back into town either.

Shane works his jaw. It’s forced smalltalk either way. He taps his fingers on the knob, tries to imagine who might be on the other side of the door. Best case scenario: it’s Lewis. No big deal, if that’s the case, he doesn’t even have to try. Shane really doesn’t care what that old man thinks of him. Worst case scenario: Jodi. Or Caroline.

That’s the most likely scenario, in fact. This time of day it’s unlikely to be anyone else.

Embarrassing. But, well, he’s already made a pretty bad impression on the both of them. Regardless of ornery he is or how badly he performs, it’s not like their opinion of him can get any worse. It would only be Marnie he disappoints and, well, he’s kind of getting used to that.

He braces himself, pushes the door open.

Zero for three.

“There you are! Just in time. Mr. Rivers, this is my nephew Shane.”

Shane imagines that this must be how raccoons feel when you shine a flashlight on them.

Mr. Rivers smiles. He’s about thirty, tall, and very clean. Smartly, but casually dressed, wearing an off-pinkish ( Salmon, the Emily voice in his head provides) button-up that looks like it actually gets ironed tucked into dark blue-purple jeans. Belt and shoes that match. Styled, medium short hair with a neat part and a bit of a swoop. He’s leaning comfortably against the counter, a thick bundle of yellow flowers dangling from the hand attached to the elbow he’s supporting himself with.

Looking at him kind of makes Shane hate himself.

“Hi, Shane,” he says, waving with his free hand.

“Um, hey.”

He waves back with his hand still in the pocket of his Joja™ hoodie while he shuts the door behind him. Rivers gives him a quick look-over, a subtle and probably subconscious flick of his eyes over Shane’s whole body that makes Shane hyper-aware of everything that’s currently wrong with him. His shorts and flip-flops. The pizza sauce stain on his work polo. The fraying holes in his hoodie. Fat. Short. Unshowered.

He makes eye contact, smiles again. It feels condescending. Pitying, almost.

But then again, he could be imagining that.

Shane hates him.

“Shane, this is John Rivers’ grandson. You remember John, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah I remember John.”

(Last time he saw Old Man John he was twelve but, yeah. He remembers. Sorta.)

“He was such a sweet man, rest his soul. But anyways, this young man here inherited the property and is all the way out here from Zuzu city to check it out.” She looks at Shane meaningfully, "Isn't that nice?”

Shane’s never sure what to do when people are trying to coax him into being social. It’s always uncomfortable.

“Yeah that’s, cool.”

Silence. Marnie really should know better by now than to put the burden of continuing a conversation on him. He’s too… buh. It never works out.

Marnie gives him a desperate look, then clears her throat.

“I should go get a vase for these,” she says, gesturing with the two flowers in her hand before putting them on the desk, “I’ll be right back.”

She heads into the kitchen before he can say anything, abandoning him with a stranger and making it that much harder for him to slip away to his room without it being a Thing. 

It’s basically a personal hell made just for Shane.

Glass clinks in the kitchen. He stands in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets while Mr. Rivers continues to lean against the counter with a bouquet hanging out of his hand like a bad cliche.

Eventually, he separates one flower from the bundle, holds it out to him. After a delay, he realizes it’s a daffodil.

Shane forgot how ugly they are.

“Uh, no thanks.”

“You sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Not a flower guy?”

“I hate daffodils.” He says, realizing as it's coming out of his mouth how insane it sounds.

“Okay.”

They stare at each other until Shane just can’t stand it anymore.

“So-”

“Jackie.”

“What?”

“My name’s Jackie,” he says, “you don’t have to do all that “Mr. Rivers” stuff.”

He gestures loosely with his free hand, Shane makes note of a leather cuff and a sleek silver ring he hadn’t noticed before.

“Your name is Jackie Rivers?” He says, incredulously. Like some kind of asshole.

Jackie blinks slowly, tilts his head.

“Well, no.” He raises his eyebrow. “Technically, it’s Jonathan Rivers, but everyone called me John, and at some point that became Jack, and then Gramma, Yoba rest her soul, started calling me Jackie.”

“Oh.”

Shane thinks about how if every molecule of fatty food in his system really worked together, he could have a massive heart attack and die, and this conversation would be over.

Wouldn’t that be nice.

“Sorry, I guess I just figured you picked it yourself.”

“And me picking my own name… that would have been a problem?”

“Well no, not generally, but y'know, “Jackie Rivers” it's uh, you know."

“I don’t, actually.”

“It’s kinda goofy, is all.” Stop talking, stop talking, stop- “Like uh, something a cartoon rockstar would be named. l mean, you didn’t pick it, but if you did it would be uh, cringe.”

Jackie stares at him with an unreadable expression.

“Aren’t you a delight.”

On some level, Shane knows that he deserved that. But that's the smart part of his brain, the rest of him, unfortunately, is nasty and stupid, and it responds before he can stop it.

“Least I'm not the douchebag wearing raw denim in a farm supply store.”

Jackie blinks at him slowly, he seems completely baffled. Like he just watched one of the cows stand up on its back legs and start juggling.

Marnie comes back into the room.

“Sorry about that,” she says, putting a tall, slim glass vase half-filled with water on the counter, “we’re in the middle of spring cleaning and it's impossible to find anything. What were you boys talking about?”

She sounds so hopeful too. He can almost hear that hope in her voice get smashed by the icy silence that follows, like a cola can in a trash compactor. Or black ice on a freeway.

“Jeans,” Jackie says, before Shane's organs start eating themselves.

“Jeans?”

“I'm wearing nice jeans,” Jackie explains, holding eye contact so intensely it almost makes him squirm, “Shane recognized them. Good eye, by the way.”

And just like that, Shane realizes that he's lost. There's just- there's just no coming back from that one.

“Yeah,” he says, limply. He clears his throat, “anyways I'm going to uh, head on back. To my room.”

Like he's twelve.

“Oh, of course. You've been at work all day, don't let us keep you,” Marnie smiles, “see you at dinner.”

He grimaces back, politely as he can, and attempts to make his escape.

“Nice to meet you, Shane.”

A bit condescending, a bit smug, but he's tactful about it in a way that Marnie definitely won't pick up on and that really pisses Shane off.

“Yeah, you too.” He tries to say over his shoulder, but he gets all caught up in making sure it sounds sarcastic (but not too sarcastic) and simultaneously suppressing the urge to say “fuck off” that what actually comes out is something like “Ygha, ghunbou.”

Shane shuts himself in his room, presses his forehead against the door, and for a while, he just stands there.

-

Shane is making eggs. And not in the microwave either, he's doing it right. The butter sizzles in the cast-iron pan, browns around the edges of the bubbles that form.

This is the first indication he has that something weird is going on.

Cracking the eggs against the edge of the pan takes a good solid strike, the yolks are firm and dark and stand at attention atop thick, clear whites. These are not store bought eggs, not Joja™ Family Farms™ bullshit. Real, good eggs, from his backyard, his hens, a real family farm with no asterisk and no explanation needed.

Salt and pepper. No scrambling, no stirring, he’s careful not to break the yoke. Sunny side up.

(He hates sunny side up, Jas won't touch anything that isn't scrambled, Marnie likes over-medium. Who is he even cooking for?)

He scoops the two eggs carefully onto the plate, still careful not to break the yoke, puts a little sprig of parsley on the side, and turns around to serve.

An enormous frog, easily twice the size of him, sits at Marnie's kitchen table, fork and knife fisted in his hands. His eyes are closed, but he smiles serenely.

Shane puts the plate in front of him and watches as he eats it, anxiety building in his gut. The frog eats, and eats, and eats and when he's done he puts his silverware off to the side and picks the plate up, licks every single drop of yolk off of it until it's totally spotless.

He puts the plate down, looks at Shane, and after a long moment, gives him a thumbs up.

Shane's never felt more proud of himself in his whole life.

-

Shane wakes up completely disoriented.

He sits up slowly, thickly. He tries to check the time, but he still hasn't set the clock on his DVD player so it just blinks 12:00 at him over and over again like it always does. He swallows, and his mouth is sandpaper dry.

He fumbles out of bed, waddles into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water out of the tap. 

The first glass he chugs, the second he drinks more slowly, turning around to lean back against the counter as he does so.

The sky out of the widow is a sort of lighter blue that turns purple-pink near the horizon. Almost morning. Five o’clock? Maybe six. He squints at the clock on the opposite wall for a bit, the old one with the hands and the painted chickens on the face and the wood and gold frame, but gives up after failing to count by fives three times in a row.

In-between sips he notices the vase on the table. Three wild daffodils of various heights stick out of it, their stems held close together by the vase’s narrow mouth.

Shane glares at it for a while, something curling in his gut that he tells himself is irritation and not guilt or shame. Yeah, he was a jerk. But Jackie started it.

Probably.

He thinks.

Fuck daffodils are ugly flowers. He never understood the appeal.

He throws back the rest of the water, swishes it between his teeth a bit before swallowing. Deep down, he knows he should apologize. But he knows himself also, and he knows he isn't going to do that. He's too much of a dick.

Whatever. It's not like that Jackie guy is sticking around. No doubt he's just going to be around however long it takes to sell the property off and then head straight back home to Zuzu and whatever life it is he has out there. 

Bleh.

He puts the glass on the sink, drags himself back to bed.

Chapter Text

Spring 4, Year 1

Everywhere he goes that week, there’s daffodils. The counter at Pierre’s, in the Saloon, the library, prominently in the front windows of Emily and Haley and the Mullner’s houses. In vases, in cups, in whatever. One for each member of the household.

It irks him, if he’s honest. It feels like some kind of brag, like Rivers is showing off. And maybe that’s Shane’s problem but even if that isn’t what he’s doing it's just- it’s weird . It’s a weird thing to do. Like who just does something like that? Wanders into some town and immediately picks flowers for every single person in it?

“Aw, I thought it was sweet.”

“Emily, you say that about everything.”

“That’s not true,” she says, sounding a little offended but not enough that he feels the need to apologize, “I mean it. It really brought the vibrations up in here.”

Her earlier conversation with Gus rolls through his head, all that sh- stuff about yellow bringing in money and grounding you to the earth and oh it should really go on the east end of the bar for best effect and so on, but he doesn’t roll his eyes, and he’s very proud of himself for that.

“Sure it’s- nice , I guess.” He says, glancing sideways at the single flower in the little blue vase on the counter to his left. “But it’s still a weird thing to do right?”

Emily shrugs.

“What, seriously? That didn’t seem odd to you at all?”

“Not really,” she says, which probably shouldn’t surprise him, given who he’s talking to, but it does, “I think it’s smart actually. Going around and making sure all your new neighbors have a good first impression of you. That’s what I’d do if I was moving somewhere new.”

She pauses.

“Not that it’s a requirement, of course,” she says, reassuringly, “what you did is fine also.”

“Thanks, Emily. I appreciate it.”

She pats his hand gently, sarcasm clearly either missed or ignored, and spins around to go check on Pam, red skirt flaring.

Shane pointedly ignores the tall flower to his left. For some reason he feels like he can’t look at it. Like if he makes direct eye contact with the thing for too long it will bite him or something. Which is absurd, of course, he knows that. But he still can’t quite shake the feeling.

New neighbors , he thinks. The phrase sticking in his head and turning over and over, seeming more and more strange the more he thinks about it. 

He hurriedly swallows the last of his beer when Emily comes back, passes her the mug so she can refill it. 

Neighbors. Now that can’t be right. That implies he’s sticking around.

“You don’t think he’s actually moving into that shithole do you?” He asks when she comes back. 

“Who? Jackie?”

“Yeah. I thought he was just here to sell the place.”

“I don’t think so,” Emily says, brow furrowing, “he didn’t mention a realtor or anything. Him and Robin talked a lot about painting and fixing up the old house while he was in here.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s staying though. It could be he’s just trying to make it actually sellable.”

Emily shrugs.

“Mayor Lewis seems to think he’s staying.”

“Isn’t the Riverland property like five acres? What the heck is he going to do with all that?”

“It is a farm, Shane.” She looks thoughtful, “He mentioned something about melons.”

Shane thinks back to his ironed shirt and office-appropriate hairstyle. There’s just no way. Either Emily is wrong, or she’s right and Rivers is just completely delusional. Borderline insane.

Which would justify Shane’s immediate dislike of him, so maybe that’s not so bad. Balance out his, whatever it is Emily calls it, karma. That’s how karma works, right? 

Not that it matters, of course. He doesn’t believe in all that.

“Well, that’s not gonna last long.”

“You don’t think?”

“I really, really don’t.” He sips his beer. “I’d bet money on it even.”

“Oh I don’t gamble. It changes your aura.”

This time he does not succeed at stopping himself from rolling his eyes, but Emily goes for the bleach bucket under the counter at roughly the same time he does it, so no harm done.

He watches her wipe down the counter while he nurses his beer, tries to imagine a big city boy like Rivers trying to haul straw bales, or harvest parsnips, muck a stable, and a whole list of other difficult and unglamorous farm tasks. He imagines him covered in dirt, sweaty and frustrated, hating it the whole time. Maybe even crying a little.

(Admittedly, Shane isn’t so great at any of those things either. But that’s not the point.)

“Fall,” he says, over the rim of his mug, “I bet you he’s out of here and the place is up for sale by the fall.”

“Positive thoughts, Shane,” Emily says, pointing at him chasteningly, “Don’t jinx people. Positive thoughts.”

-

Over the weekend, Shane sees a lot of wilted, hideous, yellow flowers sticking out of various trash cans around town.

He would be lying if he said he didn’t get a bit of a kick out of it.

Chapter Text

Spring 10, Year 1

The day starts in sauces, which is more than fine. Shane weirdly likes stocking the sauce row, something about it is almost soothing. It starts on one end with the hoisins and marinaras and whatever the fuck “100% pure honey-flavoured “sauce”” is, and then moves on to the mildest of the hot sauces and increases in intensity from there.

Taco sauce for babies, very mild sauce, mild sauce, hot sauce, fire sauce, inferno sauce, searing pain sauce, Take-Me-To-The-Emergency-Room™ sauce.

He goes as slowly as he possibly can, but even his slowest isn't quite slow enough. It's not even close to lunch when he's finished, the last bottle of the warning-label smothered Take-Me-To-The-Emergency-Room™ sauce safely on the self with its equally frightening brothers.

(He's gotta try that shit one of these days. Sam’s insistence that it's why they had to pull his tonsils only makes it more enchanting.)

Head heavy, he goes to Morris, and Morris sends him to stock aisle 8, right hand side.

Shane isn't sure why, but something about the Health & Wellness section just absolutely makes him want to die.

The first few feet are fine enough. Protein bars, protein powder, protein shakes , in that order, by brand. It's the… other stuff. Further down. After you hit the suspiciously self-stable vegan sausages, it's all downhill from there.

Sugar free lollipops, sugar free marshmallows, Maypul Syrup™, sugar-free wine, powdered sugar-free wine, vacuum-sealed marinated mushrooms now with 25% less fat.

It puts him in a trance, almost. But like a bad kind of trance. The kind that makes you fantasize about a hurricane hitting the building. Or going up to the roof and jumping off.

The lack of music just makes it worse. He'd never been in a grocery store without music before the Pelican Town JojaMart™, and he always felt it was oddly tomb-like. Purgatorial. Morris said it was a temporary issue, soon to be fixed any day now. But that was nearly two years ago. 

White fungus soda, green algae flavored kombucha, diet Joja Cola™, diet Joja Cola™ strawberries & “cream”, low-sodium JojaMeal™-

“Excuse me?”

-JojaMeal™ heart healthy for kids, seaweed slurry, JojaDiet- low fat beans, protein enhanced vegan sausage, coconut me- coconut meat?

What the fuck is coconut meat?

The customer clears his throat, Shane jumps.

“Fuck-”

“Sorry,” he says, “you're clearly in the zone, but I'm looking for your- oh.”

Jackie is clearly unhappy to see him, but Shane is unhappy to see him also, so it evens out.

“Hi Shane,” he says politely, smile tight.

He looks practically unrecognizable, completely different from the last time Shane saw him. No jewelry, unstyled hair. Beige t-shirt with a wide green stripe across the middle, brown canvas work pants and heavy boots. Dirty and sweaty.

He's clutching a furry purple pet bed Shane remembers seeing in the discount section under one arm, the basket in his opposite hand is full of… potatoes?

No, bulbs. Some kind of bulb. Huh.

Jackie makes a subtle face, as if Shane's just said something to him, but he's choosing not to acknowledge it. Which is just genuinely weird, because Shane literally hasn't said a fucking thing. 

They just stare at each other for a minute.

“Why are you talking to me?” Shane asks, finally, wires getting crossed somewhere between “what can I do for you?” and “what were you saying?” and “why are you here?” (which, admittedly, would have also been rude).

Jackie narrows his eyes briefly, jaw going tight, but the expression quickly fades, and is replaced with something more neutral.

“I can't find the pet food,” he says, calmly, “I figured an employee would be able to help me with that.”

Right. An employee. That’s him. He works here.

“Aisle 4, near the front.”

“Thanks.” 

A pause. They make eye contact for the briefest moment, and Jackie again makes a face like he's just- like something was just said. It’s eerie, it makes the hair on the back of Shane’s neck stand up.

Jackie looks confused. 

“See ya.”

Shane doesn't respond. Couldn't, even if he’d wanted to. Jackie walks away before he has the chance.

Something about the entire interaction leaves him feeling… weird. Like something happened that didn't, like Shane over-shared somehow. It felt like waking up hungover and realizing, slowly, that you'd spent the whole night before spilling your life story to someone who absolutely did not care.

Shane shakes himself out of it, looks at the package in his hands. Coconut meat. He turns it over to take a closer look. It's just chunks of coconut. Why the hell would they call it-

It occurs to Shane that that might just be what the white part of the coconut is called.

He is an idiot.

He puts the package on the shelf.

-

“Just be careful of your fingers, okay kiddo?”

The little spirit, green and apple-shaped, nods. The knife in its hands is far too big for Shane's comfort.

A paring knife would probably be better, he thinks, but he doesn't act on that thought, for some reason. 

Maybe it's because he's so focused on making sure this omelette doesn't burn.

Sweat rolls down Shane's back as he watches out of the corner of his eye as the forest spirit slices up parsnips with the focused determination and fumbling shakiness of a human toddler. Careful and serious but still wobbly, still very much fucking it up.

He wants to put his full attention on the disaster waiting to happen, but he can't, he has to make this omelette.

It is very fucking important that he makes this omelette.

He makes so many fucking omelettes. And the little guy to his left cuts so many fucking parsnips. The orders just keep coming, it's like what or who they're feeding is just incapable of satisfaction.

Who the hell eats parsnips raw? he thinks, watching a gaggle of multi-colored forest spirits set a plate. And in the moment he thinks it, the brief moment he's distracted, the omelette in his pan burns, and everything starts to just… collapse.

-

Shane wakes covered in sweat. Deliriously, he untangles himself from the sheets and goes to open the window.

His heart is racing , beating so fast that the insides of his ribs hurt, and he stands there for a moment, in the window, nose pressed into the screen, letting the cool air flow over him until it slows down.

He can’t remember what the nightmare was about, even when he really thinks hard, reaches for it. He suspects that maybe it was something stupid though. Definitely not something worth being this worked up about.

He grabs a warm can of beer off of the bedside table on the way back to bed and chugs it. Not because he’s thirsty, or even because he even wanted it, really, but just out of instinct. Just for no reason at all. He didn’t even really enjoy it.

Which is probably a bad thing, but he doesn’t really have time for that right now. He has to be awake again in three hours. And then he has to go back to work. Again.

He pulls a second beer out of the case by the TV, drinks that too, then flops belly-first back into bed, comforter bunched up awkwardly beneath him, and conks out.