no church in the wild

An inferno seared the insides of the girl, she burnt so gloriously with endless emotions she only promised to destroy herself in the process. Flames licking from her tongue with each spoken word, the energy threatening to pour from her and burn any who stepped too close. Destruction too and by. She loved that game, coaxing the folks too close in town with that halo ridden smile her father branded on her face with wolf teeth blackened from charcoal. But with Fletcher, it wasn’t that. She was that burning inferno inside the man as well, that honesty staining his throat and threatening to spill the emotions into the night air. Chuck simply helped him, pouring gasoline on the pile of bones and flesh, and sour things Fletcher pretended to be.

And she handed him the match.

Spilling into the air, the words orange flickering embers joined the swallowing mess of the night sky. Honestly. She’d skate closer, this time slowly, the gravel carrying the sound of her turning wheels and flooding the silence. With a tenderness, she stood close- perhaps this was the same thing her father did to those who came to church seeking guidance. But this man did not seek. And she was not her father.

I see you. She grabbed his bandaged hand, the red welling at the gauze promising destruction to all those that got too close. Chuck wanted to be in that firing range. With her hands made for prayer, broken knuckles healed over too many times, leaving silver cracks where exposed fractured bone once saw. Two hands grasping one, but without the age, they could have been the same hands staring at their future.

I see you, and I understand.

Looking up at him with divinity blue hues, “I only know how to destroy. But at least I don’t destroy myself.” She knew what it was to swallow it all, to smother that flame and choke on the smoke. Only she never had that choice. It was one made for her. “No one’s as good as hurting themselves than this- they can piece themselves back together again and continue their day like they’re whole. Other people are good at that.”

Fletcher would never have self-described himself as wearing his heart on his sleeve. He did, sure, but it was more complicated than that – he wore a beacon of his pain, flashing out in some sort of depressing morse code for anyone who was just as tormented, just as suffocated as he was to read and understand. It wasn’t something he was in control of. If he was, he’d have turned the damn thing off and turned his feelings into a closed loop circuit, or at least that’s what he told himself. Because what was more painful than being known, truly and legitimately? Being alone. And Fletcher had grown up so alone he thought the silence that surrounded him would always be able to drown out the shouts of anguish that fucking emanated off of him like a heat wave.

But here was this girl who could see through it all. Who could get to the very core of him with one look, and he fucking hated it. For the longest time, he thought she had just been alarmingly perceptive, keen on picking at all his scabs just because she could, for her own twisted sense of amusement, but here, now, he was realizing she knew him, in and out, from the shape of every breath he took to the way he held his sadness in his palms like a prayer.

And then there was her hands. One on top of his bruised knuckles, the other flat against his palm, two of hers for one of his, and he felt something in him break, like a dam of truth finally bursting, emotion flooding through him. He was so fucking tired, so fucking beaten down, and her hands around his, it felt like someone, finally, was saying I’ll help you lift the load. He couldn’t stop himself, taking his other hand, his clean hand, his pure, uninjured palm, pressing it to the tangled mess of their intertwined fingers, as though he was hiding them away from the world, and feeling the pressure of her fingers against the aching bruise of his knuckles, squeezing her hand tighter just to feel the way his hand throbbed in protest.

But the moment passed as quickly as it came. Because she could claim they were the same as much as she wanted – he knew the gleeful joy she reveled in whenever he unraveled. He couldn’t muster that sort of sadistic pleasure out of someone else’s pain, even if he tried. Not like now, not the man he was today.

Fletcher ripped his hands away from her, shoved them deep into his pockets, and fixed her with a sharp glare. “We’re nothing alike,” he said, perhaps too emphatically. “You enjoy this too much. If you understood me, really understood, you’d let me twist myself into whatever shape I need to make it through the fucking day. Not make everything worse just to prove a goddamn point.”

With that, he headed back to his cruiser, slamming the door behind him, like he should have done the moment he saw her. Because whether he wanted to admit it aloud or not, she was right, and she’d burrowed her way under his skin, stretching long and languid, making a home for herself between his ribs, and part of him wanted to tear into himself just to root her out, but another part of him, a stronger, louder part of him, said––

No. Let her stay. This is what it means to be known.

FIN.

To be someone when masses surround, and when eyes drift over those pristine monet you paint before them. Lined in gold, placid blues and beige paint- Arthur was someone to be admired before the eyes of others. It was easy to be this man, the one he’d learn in sacred walls with bruises ripe on his skin- one he’d learn from too rich boys in college with not a worry in the world. Each time he picked up the pile of bones he’d come to call his own, he’d find these traits of others he admired. Longed to be.

He wasn’t expecting it all to shatter before him by the grip of a ghost searing into his flesh, and flooding his insides with the taste of that ever burning fire again. Bruises he’d hope would be left from his tight grip because that would show they both were here- together. Wherever here was, Arthur was unsure. Anywhere but the living.

But then, why did the living look at him so? And why could he feel the gentle vibrations of another missed call silent in his pocket as he stood under the encompassing shade of the oak tree.

The strike to his chest like dangerous waves crashing against a graystone cliff face, desperate, fumbling. The man today would be the wine dark sea, ruinous and drowning in his own waters, and Arthur wanted to open himself and allow the man to pour his floods into him. A dangerous thought he’d allow himself to have.  “I’m afraid you’re not in my dreams,” His tone itself was instead like the calm before the storm- dangerously calm. He couldn’t admit he didn’t think this man was real, he couldn’t admit again that he didn’t consider himself to be real. No matter how much the other’s words convince him with each addition- Arthur had to remind himself that he was standing here. Feet in the mud, his hands shoved into his pockets as he fears if they’re not, he’ll reach out to the other. “So we’ll have to make do with a morbid setting if that’ with you.”

It was this point which Arthur realised- he had no plan on what he was going to say to this man now they stood facing each other. He could endlessly list all the things he didn’t want to say to him. But after approaching him, seeing that perhaps he is something solid standing here with dirt on his boots and sweat on his back, Arthur had nothing to say. It was a mistake, a poorly thought out mistake to hold the other’s heart in his hands and not give it back to him. Because he wanted it- he wanted this.

“I’m Arthur, and perhaps if you’d like I can help you find your footing. But I’d like a name, if that’s alright by you, Sheriff?”

Fletcher hadn’t seen it at first, hadn’t caught it in his haste to pull them away and out of sight, but now that they were secluded, all he could focus on, all he could think about was breathing in this man, Arthur. Problem was, he could see the edges. Where the puzzle pieces fit together, where the mask slotted right into place. Completely undetectable to the untrained eye, but to Fletcher, who knew what truth sounded like off this man’s mouth, he could see how perfect this imitation was and he could see it was a lie, no matter how beautiful or precise, a lie nonetheless. Why was this man still pretending when none of this was real? More importantly, why should he continue the farce if none of this mattered?

“You could have picked a better name,” he said, voice sharp and biting, staring this man, Arthur, up and down, more of a scrutinizing gaze than anything else, never letting his eyes linger because Fletcher knew the wanting that came with staying too still around him. “You could have picked anything, any name I’ve ever known, and yet, you picked Arthur.” Arthur. Perfect, refined, vacant Arthur, who wasn’t at all the man Fletcher had met that night, that night that felt more like a dream. He couldn’t muster the energy to care about this man, standing before him, because it wasn’t true. It wasn’t the man with a void for a heart and eyes that Fletcher could drown in.

Maybe this was all real, this Arthur with sweat beading at his brow and his eyes remote and far away, and that night had been a dream, a dream only Fletcher could remember...

But he refused to entertain the idea – through the heat and the hangover and the guilt and the grief, he was adrift, out to sea in his own mind, the nature of his reality as elusive as a cold breeze. Staring at him, at this perfect replica of a man Fletcher thought he knew, it’s almost like he wanted to shake Arthur up, rough his hands through his hair, get his hands under Arthur’s skin and see what lived there. He wanted to pick and prod until he found the edges of the veneer and pealed it all away. He wanted to go back to that basketball court, go back to Arthur’s car, and never leave. “Why are you still pretending?” he spat, venomous.

The ache in Fletcher’s ribs, the bruise on his heart, the wound that had been left to fester, it all was starting to get to be too much. He was in pain, and this was a new agony, a fresh one, one born out of being known and then being spurned, of bearing his soul only to be told We should get you home. A sharp inhale, a stormy glare, a squaring of his shoulders, and then–

“You’re not real, this place isn’t real, so why are you still acting as though you didn’t kiss me back?”

when:a few days after the funeral who: @detectivewright

wade was still a bit gloomy today, and through the rain had stopped this morning the sun had yet to make an appearance. the weight of the last days were pushing down on the town and its residents, and the sheriff department had never been this busy. everyone was putting extra hours in it, determined to get more clues in this gloomy affair. still, once in a while, the cops had to lie down (though the rest of the town would still call them incompetent after this whole fiasco), regroup and just … do some laundry or something. which was the predicament robbie was in at the moment, his home an absolute mess (always, since the night at daphne’s). the whole cleaning ritual would bring him some peace of mind, if one of his hand wasn’t so busy holding the phone, where his abuela’s voice stridently broke the silence of the house.

her calls, which had to be answered at least two times in a month, were usually something robbie was looking to. it usually meant news from his children, of his sisters and sometimes, the man could even be graced by news of abuela’s poodle.

this time, though … this time, his abuela kept talking fast, worry tainting her words. it seemed that the news of josie’s third disappearance had make it to his abuela’s weekly Wade checkup

(she had to look up what was happening in his town, because her nieto was not the most eloquent of men)

and though he knew she must have seen it on the internet, Isabel Rivera insisted she had dreams of it. which, honestly, robbie could do without the whole premonition thing. and weirdly, how it came on the subject, he did not know, but one second she was talking about how she had dreams about miguel flunking his math exam to how she knew robbie had gone through … supernatural … situations. “Te dije, Roberto, tienes un don. Eres un conducto de Dios. Necesitas leer las señales, te ayudarán con tu problema de desaparición de cadáveres.”

a sigh (she hated it when he sighed) escaped his lips and before he could argue with her, the door chimed. saved by the bell. fucking finally. still, if he opened the door a little bit harsher than before, annoyance from this phone call seeping on his features, only fletcher would know. “aye …espera, abuela.” isabel did not wait, as requested by her grandson and her voice could still be heard on the phone as robbie opened the door wider, surprised to see the detective standing on his doorstep. “sorry, did we … were you supposed to pick me up?” wait, was he supposed to work today and he forgot? “wait, am i supposed to be at work?” isabel’s voice kept insisting for robbie to come back and robbie glared at the phone for a solid 10 seconds, before turning his attention to fletcher.

“come in, let me just … handle that.”

a few arguments later, robbie switching from english to spanish every two sentences, the call finally ended. “dios mio, that woman.” there had been a promise to call her back, and perhaps a bit of warmth spreading in his chest when she said her goodbyes, told robbie she loved him and that her children still did as well. on a much better mood, robbie walked back to the porch, where fletch had move to the living room. there wasn’t much to investigate beside robbie’s plain, empty walls. “hey, sorry about that,” robbie could pride himself in his ability to compartmentalize, and right now, he decided to put the last time he saw the other man in a little box inthe back of his mind. you never knew when fletcher would need robbie for work, and whatever awkwardness there might be in their informal relationship, work was always priority. so robbie would beable to walk on his own feelings, if that meant he could do his work well.

“you need me for something?” why else would the man be standing in his living room?

(was it the first time fletch came in here? robbie couldn’t remember. also couldn’t remember the last time they blew off some steam together. which, he’d admit wasn’t really fletcher’s fault, his time was precious, and it hadn’t been long since he’d arrived in town.)

Standing on Robbie’s doorstep, drunk enough to take the edge off, sober enough to hide it – at least, from most people. Who knew what Robbie’s discerning eye would catch? – Fletcher found himself thinking of Jon for the first time since he came to Wade. It had started something like this: Fletcher lashing out, Jon fighting back, Fletcher giving Jon space, crawling back a few days later with his tail between his legs and a bouquet of yellow tulips in the crook of his arm, and they’d drink a bottle of wine and fuck on the kitchen floor and call that healing.

Robbie wasn’t Jon. They were nothing alike. But Fletcher could feel himself warping back into that person, the kind of person who was capable of lying, of manipulating, of cheating, and he had to keep shaking himself, reminding himself that all it had been was a professional disagreement about protocol. They were fine. They were Fletcher and Robbie. They’d always be fine.

Fletcher was greeted by a whirlwind of activity, phone pressed to Robbie’s ear, a tension underlying the deputy’s voice that he wasn’t used to hearing. He tried to pick up what his partner – because that’s what Robbie was, even if Fletcher didn’t know how to cultivate the trust that allowed for that – was saying, but his Spanish was terrible, and trying to keep up was giving him a headache, the world moving too fast for his whisky soaked mind. He could hear the emotion in it, though: frustration, on Robbie’s side, resignation and skepticism too.

And then the call was done and Robbie was staring at him, expectant, waiting for some sort of briefing, a mission, work. All business, buttoned up, focused, ready to jump through whatever hoop Fletcher presented. And again, here he was, thinking about Jon.

“Wanna go bowling?” he asked in lieu of everything else he wanted to say. “Been in Wade this long, and I’ve never been to Spins.” It was the liquor making him bold, not any capacity on his end for acknowledging his own pain. “Feel like there’s...things between us. Unsaid. And that’s okay, I get it, we don’t have to– rehash it all. But. Well. I miss my friend.”

Never mind that he had this half-baked scheme to convince Robbie to come back onto the case. Enough beer, you could twist anyone into any shape you want and have them think it was their idea. Never mind that Fletcher didn’t know what he was fucking doing, and Robbie was the only person here who looked at him like he was someone and that was the only thing keeping him hanging on, by the thinnest of threads.

“We could use a night to blow off some steam, is all I’m saying,” he said finally, hands deep into his pockets, snapping the piece of spearmint gum between his teeth. “And if shitty beer and burnt deep dish pizza don’t do it for you, then we can go somewhere else. I’m not picky. I just–” He shrugged. Robbie knew what he saying. No need to beat a dead horse.

“Hell. I’ll drive even.” The ultimate peace offering. Fletcher probably shouldn’t be behind the wheel right now. But Robbie didn’t need to know that.

between rosalyn and fletcher sudden awkwardness, as if the deputy had marched into some kind of secret meetup, whatever suspicions robbie had about their relationship morphed into something else, as soon as his brain registered rosalyn’s words. glancing down at her research, robbie did not have to hold the file to know what it contained. god, the many hours lost on memorizing it, to find a tiny details they might have missed, that might give them a clue …he had looked at it enough for a lifetime to recognize it everywhere. his feet brought him a step forward and at the same time, fletcher seemed to get the memo and subtly tried, without much success to be honest, to hide the file in his desk. not before dropping it on the floor, one loose sheet coming to robbie’s feet.

“hold up,” robbie brought up a hand, stopping rosalyn’s escape, before bending as well, picking up the rebel sheet. the deputy looked at it, some notes written on it. didn’t need to be a genius to assume this was rosalyn’s handwriting and robbie did not stop the frustrated sigh escaping his lips. he threw the paper on fletcher’s desk, a silent you missed one hanging over the gesture. noting the way the other man’s hand glistened, knuckles angry red. that explained the hole behind him, but robbie couldn’t find any spare concern to give right now.

hands on his hips, he regarded both of them, acting like nothing was wrong. the weight of the day, heavy on his shoulders, the stress of seeing another fucked-up, paranormal shit, summed with this issue …

“you had to know that this was a bad idea.” he looked into fletcher’s eyes, noted the cold of his hues and stoicness of his face and it angered robbie. not long ago, that same man ripped him a new one because he thought his deputy had chosen not to call him upon receiving josie’s autopsy report. that new information regarding the case had to be submitted to him, at all times. robbie hadn’t realized then that this was a one-way kind of request. well, fletcher was the primary on this case, and if he considered robbie just as any other cop who would help on the case, so be it. robbie would gladly delegate his position to any of their colleague. ellie would be a good replacement.

“rosalyn could lose her licence over this, she’s a civilian … you could lose the whole case, fletcher.” scrubbing at his face, he tried to control his words, keep his emotions from colouring them. if both of them did not care enough to share this with him, what on earth was he doing here? why on earth did his own anger matter. “if the mayor gets wind of this, he’ll close the whole fucking case…and don’t say you didn’t tell me to protect me, mios dios, you know i will be suspected by association.” robbie barely looked at rosalyn, remembering the last times they spoke, and wondered at what time did she started analyzing the file. remembered her words, still, after the spring celebration, the small apology in the cafe. she did not owe him anything. did fletcher owe him anything? no. another sigh.

“well, was it worth it at least? did you find anything”

She shot Fletcher a look as he glanced between them, eyes pleading for him not to play detective when it came to her and Robbie’s relationship — not that they had much of one to begin with, but as always she tended to stray away from conversation she deemed unnecessary. That was certainly one of them. “Thank, Fletcher,” the woman mumbled then, moving to exit before a hand was promptly brought up, causing her to pause in her step.

Shit. Despite how much she wanted to look away, her eyes tracked each and every one of the Deputy’s movements, from when he bent down to grab the stray piece of paper (stupid, clumsy Fletcher) to when he dropped it back on his desk. Averting her gaze would prove to be a sign of weakness, a face she was not about to put on now. No — doing so would simply undercut all of her work thus far. 

She couldn’t argue with his words — it had been a stupid idea, one that she knew was idiotic from the beginning. However, although she’d never admit it out loud, Fletcher was her friend. He’d come to her desperate, in dire need of someone to trust in an otherwise distrustful situation. Rosalyn understood how difficult it could be to let someone in, and while this wasn’t necessarily the same thing, she couldn’t help the burning feeling that arose in her stomach the second Fletcher handed her that autopsy report. A sense of duty, perhaps.

“Blunt forced trauma on the back of the skull, caused from the inside out. So if you know of any way someone could take a blow to the head, but not have it happen externally, be my guest.” Rosalyn answered adamantly, crossing her arms. She stared at Robbie for a long moment, jaw clenched.

“Other than that, no. Nothing substantial.” The doctor pursed her lips slightly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get home. Unless there’s something you need from me, deputy?”

“Enough,” Fletcher said sharply. It had been a long day and was going to be an even longer night, and every day that followed would be that much more grueling until they had something, anything, that could appease the rabid dogs of this town. Fighting with his friends wasn’t something he signed up for, and maybe pulling rank was a bit of a cop out for disentangling himself from this whole situation, but he couldn’t handle the way Robbie was looking at him, as though he’d been betrayed, as though he’d done something wrong.

That was the problem with friends. With caring. It just left you hurt.

“Roz, I’ll call you later if I have any questions. Thank you for stopping by.” It was a dismissal, clear as day, and he waited for her to leave, for the door to close behind her, before turning to Robbie.

Robbie, his first friend here in Wade, Robbie, the only person who even remotely felt like he was on Fletcher’s side, Robbie, who pieced him back together when all the different shards of him went flying. Robbie, who turned a blind eye to the drinking and the mood swings and the cruel, cruel things Fletcher could do if bored enough.

Part of him wanted to scream. Most of him wanted to cry. But neither were options right now, faced with a Robbie, demanding explanations the same as the rest of the town: with pitchforks and accusations, rather than any modicum of decency. And perhaps, he should have known better, But right now, he didn’t really care.

“I don’t need to consult you before making decisions about Josie, Robbie,” he said wearily. It took effort to string these words together because they weren’t pretty, and they certainly weren’t going to make things better. But that didn’t change the truth in them. “This is my case. Whatever happens, it’s on me. Whatever difficult choices I make to get what I need to solve it, that’s on me too. And I don’t appreciate the moral superiority or the lectures when you know as well as I do what we’re up against.”

He cleared his throat, thumb pressing into the bruised flesh of his knuckles. “I asked for Roz’s help because she’s the smartest person in this hell of a town, and I needed the insight of someone I trust. Your personal feelings aside, you have to understand why I did what I did, and if you don’t,” he added, expression stormy, “I never asked for your opinion. So as a friend, I’m saying take a step back and realize this: you pissed off your girlfriend and your boss for the sake of decorum, and maybe, just maybe, today wasn’t the day to have this fight.”

Finally, Fletcher met Robbie’s gaze, eyes frigid. “And as your boss, I’m saying, unless you have anything more to add – which, I hope you don’t – you’re dismissed for the night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I know what danger is, Sheriff.” The words tangle on her tongue, mouth full of cobwebs dipped in saccharine honey. She was glistening with artificial gloss, that coaxed her smile. Something ripe, she was ready to have teeth sunken into. A cherry, freshly picked with morning dew making the skin look so artificial. Crimson, like the blood that wells on her knuckles, and aches her insides. Danger was what sunk its sharp teeth into her, juice staining chin, dripping to shirts. Danger was something that resided in the pit that burrowed where a heart should be. And she wondered, if Fletcher didn’t like danger this much, what kept him here? “Don’t you?”

Wide hues, full of curiosity search the man before her- tracing the outlines of his being and finding the edges of this mask he wears so proudly. The town’s hero, that’s what he liked to play. With his badge, and his gun, and his white knuckled hands hiding in his pockets where they do no harm. The control of this perfect image he exuded only frayed at the edges where shadows claw at him. 

“What do you want out of it?” She mirrors, because this game they played, she knew it was more than once sided like he wished to believe. Her gaze holds his stature, and her tone that asked with such honesty twisted in her mouth to something sharp. “Don’t you think I can smell the same on yours? Little sheriff ain’t doin’ too well in a new town, dear ol’ dead Josie haunting you? Is Wade drowning you yet? Or have you always been gasping for air?” 

Honesty brimmed in him, threatening to spill over. But how could he admit the truth to someone he barely knew when he could hardly find it in him to face it himself? Still, for one moment, just one moment, there was a flash on his face, a crack in the facade, that let pain spill forth into the dewey night air. For just one moment, he thought to himself, there are worse things than being known.

But then something else set in, the cold, the loneliness, the fear. He couldn’t keep doing this, ripping himself open, splaying his arms, letting his lungs, his heart, his kidneys fall from his mangled chest. Enough was enough, there had to be a line drawn somewhere, a line that stopped him from giving up the warped, broken pieces of himself to just about anyone twisted enough to listen to him, miserable enough to take the grief that stained his fingers like overripe cherries. He couldn’t keep tearing himself to shreds and then sewing himself up again. It was unsustainable.

Weary hands dug around in his pockets for a cigarette, lit the thing between his lips and exhaled, long and slow, pointedly refusing to observe decorum as he blew whatever ghosts were in his lungs out, into her face. “Goad me all you want,” he said, tendrils of smoke curling out of his nostrils, eyes glinting like pools of gold under the street light. “At least I’m trying.” The trying was what was going to kill him in the end, stifling everything in him, forcing all his pain away into a sick, blank nothing. That too was unsustainable.

“What have you ever done?” he asked, gaze hardening, shoulders tightening. “Besides pick things apart and dance in their wreckage. What good is it, the chaos you sew? Does it help people? Or does it hurt them?” Fletcher could hear emotion creeping its way back into his words, hated the way how cloying he sounded, even to his own ears. He was foolish, naive, being bested by a teenager, couldn’t even hold it together long enough to make her listen to him. How was he supposed to do anything else here? “All you’re capable of is causing people pain,” he said, quiet, as though he was staring into a mirror, as though he himself was on the other end of those words, not some poor girl who had the misfortune of getting tangled up with him on a really bad night. “And if that’s all you’re good for, well, what’s the point of you? When we’re all good enough at hurting ourselves, what’s the fucking point of you making it worse?”

the woman watched each of her coworkers head out for the evening, wishing them a good night’s sleep as they walked out double glass doors. she could have gone home, but felt much more productive at her desk completing paperwork from the night of chaos. between her inconclusive findings and the teenage delinquents she had ran into, she was swamped. and while it would have been smart for her to go home and rest she simply couldn’t.

work was her escape. when she wasn’t at work she was home thinking about the tiny human growing inside her. according to the app on her phone, recommended by her practitioner, the baby was the size of a small raspberry. but when she was at work, the fear of raising that little raspberry alone disappeared for just a few hours. ellie knew she could rely on her brother, and she was sure her mother would move out to wade in a heartbeat if she heard that the first depalma grandchild was on the way. and while she had always envisioned daniel to be the first parent among the large group of siblings, she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t at least a tiny bit excited.

ellie knew fletcher had been stowed away in his office for several hours. and just as she was ready to peel herself from her chair and check for any sign of life, he appeared. the woman usually followed every command uttered from the sheriff’s lips, but for some reason that day she didn’t. she could feel his need for her, for anyone who could possibly understand what he was going through. so she allowed a cheeky smile to flash across her porcelain features for a rare moment before shutting off her computer screen and giving him her full attention.

her eyes looked momentarily at her canine for a brief second before replying to fletcher’s comment. murphy had always been her number one priority since she became his handler, and knowing he was fine allowed her to care for others and herself after. “we’re all good here, sir. just finishing some paperwork from tonight’s events.” spinning the chair around to face him fully she added, “my file is impeccable, i’m afraid anyone would have a hard time believing i did such an atrocious act.”

Fletcher pinched the bridge of his nose, sinking deeper into his chair. He could feel the tension building in his temples, and god he wanted another drink, but he tried to spare most of the people here from his more destructive tendencies, Ellie included. Only Robbie had any real sense of what was actually going on under all the gruff and rough and tumble, but thinking about Robbie right now, after their conversation earlier, after seeing the way the deputy had looked at him – that was like biting down on a cavity or pressing his finger into an open wound. He clenched his injured hand, shoulders tensing as a spike of pain went through his knuckles, down his wrist, up his arm, and, in the throbbing aftermath, felt just so slightly better.

“How’s Murph?” he asked, glancing down at her dog, his heart softening. And then, more importantly, “How are you?” Ellie was so good at her job, almost too good, and sometimes, Fletcher forgot that she needed his care, his thoughtfulness, as much as anyone else. Plus, it was easier to focus his attention on her, really latch on to her emotional weight, than it was to let that same energy turn inwards onto his own baggage. “Can’t imagine it was easy, seeing the coffin, realizing what had happened...” Hell, he felt like he’d been kicked in the ribs, and he wasn’t even the one who discovered they were trying to have a wake with no body.

If he was capable of finding the energy to stand, head to the kitchen, root around in the back of the fridge and find the beers there left over from the last Friday happy hour they’d done – weeks before Josie’s body turned up, back when it felt like living in Wade was like floating on a mother fucking cloud. But he didn’t. Instead, he cut himself a break, reached into the pocket of his jacket, and pulled out his measure of last resort: a flask, more empty than full, of whisky. He tipped his head back, taking a swig, before offering it to her. “Tough day,” he said, in lieu of an explanation. “I can’t cut myself a break if I don’t extend the same courtesy to you.”

rhys liked this man, wearing his weaknesses so raw on the surface. it seemed that detective’s work did not need for subtlety, or perhaps it did, and that explained why a seemingly bright detective came to live in a town like wade. so far, the town hadn’t impress rhys much, and really, why did he choose wade of all places? that was a question for the gods. sometimes, though, there was this glimmer, shining through the dark, and rhys saw individuals, different and authentic. standing out against the waves of boringness a small town like wade kept pushing against his shores. interesting, unique, rhys wanted to see what potential they held.

“please, detective,” mirroring the detective, rhys did not hide his glance to the man’s lips. his own stretched under a dangerous smile. “the only thing i’d like to buy you is dinner.” fletcher did not bite, but the remark had effectively provided a glimpse in his armor. now, rhys only had to extend an hand, pull the loose threads to see what was hiding inside. tilting his head again, softening his voice and his features, “i swear it’s not a tactic. i do believe we started on the wrong foot and i do wish to offer more clarity on my actions.”

truth was, this whole dynamic was getting repetitive and boring. how many men, women, cops and lawyers had stood in fletcher’s spot, making the same accusations and affirmations, promises of bringing down a man who they saw a threat to their preconceived notions of right or wrong, of what their town deserved. they always lost, in the end. while the the final course had been more than savory, rhys did think he was becoming tired of playing with his food. truth was, rhys quite wanted to discover why this man was hiding in wade. at least to get him out of this incessant boredom.

“if it pleases you, you could even consider this a work outing. surely, mr. fletcher, you would like to know more about the man buying your town, hm? now’s your chance.”

Fletcher knew he was supposed to say no, knew that he was supposed to brush this man aside, go back to the station, and ignore all the feeling that was surging up within him. He wasn’t supposed to entertain this, this viper, who sought to manipulate and twist, who sought to warp and destroy, whose sole purpose in Wade was to consume and spit out. Rhys Kingsbury was a powerful man, and Fletcher had always despised the way that kind of power corrupted, left people hollowed out, like walking Jack-O-Lanterns.

So, why was he even considering this?

Maybe because it felt nice to be wanted. Maybe because this man was charming, and Fletcher had never been able to resist a handsome face. Maybe because this man was dangerous, and Fletcher had been looking for a cliff to fling himself over his whole life. Maybe because this man was real, and he was here, and if Fletcher reached out, he could touch him and he wouldn’t turn to dust between his fingers. Maybe it was all of it. Maybe it was none of it.

“Where’s there to go in Wade besides Red’s or the Conifer?” he asked, before he could stop himself.

That was the closest to a yes that Rhys was going to get. Because it was a yes, because Fletcher did want this, god he wanted to feel something, anything, for someone to sink their teeth in, to get their hands under his skin, to kiss him until he couldn’t breathe, and the person he wanted it from was a fucking figment of his imagination, and Rhys, he had some of that danger, he had some of that bite, and Fletcher felt electricity run through his spine at the very thought.

“I’m doing this as a professional courtesy,” he added quickly, even though he didn’t even sound convincing to himself. Because he hadn’t been on a date since Jon and because he’d rather the earth open up and swallow him whole than let the man standing across from him know the way his heart was spasming in his chest, the way his throat had gone dry. No. Rhys already had too much power. Fletcher refused, for now at least, to give him power over him. “It’s as you say. We got off on the wrong foot. This– is us fixing that. That’s all.” Again, his eyes flickered downwards, this time to Rhys’ throat, to the length of his neck, to the sharp angle of his jaw.

Fletcher knew what he was getting himself into. And frankly, he didn’t care.

Red ashes smouldering, flickering ember reminders that caught in Arthur’s throat and burnt away his breaths. He didn’t know how much it would hurt. To loose the man’s touch after it seared into his wrist- feeling the packed earth beneath his back, and the poison in his veins turn to stars. Aching for that feeling to return, to have the other’s hands on his wrists again, against his skin. 

You are alive. 

Arthur tells himself. Even though his head spins with whiskey haze, and the ghosts of the night settle into the two men’s shadows. And the cavernous insides of a man contained a creature he feared to let into the world. Heavy, with this marrow born dance. He watches the other, the ache deep in the pit of him for anything other than this numbing chill that settled into his bones once more. He’d watch him move through the night’s air, like if he moved any faster the man that was Arthur would dissipate beneath him like fog that breathed bleak winter mornings. There’d be nothing where a ghost should have been.

And Arthur thought perhaps the same would happen when he felt the other’s fingers brush against his neck. Wind breathing kisses against the exposed skin, the other’s touch was light and yet seared white-hot. But he was still there, his breath still in throat and eyes like they’re staring into the sun as they look back to the man that stood at the edge of the cliff Arthur promised. Looking down into the abyss that swallowed everything, for it was all it knew to do. Consume until nothing was left. And he dived right into it.

Parched, he kissed the man that ached like the starry dark. Greedy, the thing he knows that begs for more kisses back- carving its knife into the fruit before him. Tearing open the sky, he could taste the revenant on the man’s tongue. Cosmos dust, and bubbling rivers, he was alive.

Arthur felt the clawing in the chest- begging to be freed. His hand presses to the other’s chest, where he wants to sink his fingers into his flesh, and dig into his insides. And god, he wants to allow himself to be dead with this man, buried in the dampened earth where forests can grow alive over their bodies, and rivers can carry their spirits. And their bones, left bloodied and ingested, porous as they are dissolve. But this dream won’t end like all the others, he won’t allow it. To have this man nothing more than a fractured boned carcass left with the poison Arthur fed it, rotting with the buzz of flies like static rooms. Crimson dripping, torn. Ravaged. 

He pushes. Hand flat against his chest where he wants to harrow, he parts their lips and is left staring at where his hand holds the warmth of the other’s chest. Where his hand that feels the heartbeat flush against it is still real, no matter how much he wishes it wasn’t.

“We should get you home.”

Fletcher wasn’t sure when his lips on this man’s mouth turned from being some kind of salvation into being a curse. Just like that, the whole night shattered into pieces, with the feeling of a hand on his chest, putting space between them, with the feeling of the air between them filling with the truth of the world, the fact that they were both real in all of the worst ways and that reality filtering into all of the cracks and fissures between them. Fletcher felt like he was trying to stop sand from escaping between his fingertips in a gust of wind, as though he was chasing something unknowable and intangible, and he felt the space between them become this cavernous, impenetrable thing.

 We should get you home.

You could throw a rock and hit his bedroom window from where they lay here. Home was an excuse, home was a shard of glass in his heart, home was everything he felt – or thought he felt – right here, with this man’s hand on his chest and his mouth crushing Fletchers like grapes to wine, and he thought of everything he’d forsaken for this one stolen kiss: his morals, his dignity, his truth. And now, it seemed, all of it was for nothing.

Or perhaps it wasn’t for nothing. Perhaps Fletcher wanted tragedy more than he wanted love, perhaps he wanted someone to break his heart and kick his teeth in, and this, well, this was that. He’d tried the kind of love that filled you up and left you warm, and he’d broken it. Now, he was ready for something different But that didn’t mean this didn’t fucking hurt.

We should get you home.

He’d never heard words he hated more. He wanted to rip them from the man’s mouth with his teeth, wanted to taste his blood on his lips, wanted to howl at the moon and fucking rage because it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t meant to be this way, if he thought this was how it would end, he never would have gotten in the man’s car in the first place.

(A lie – there were infinite universes out there, and in every single one, Fletcher would have gotten in that car, Fletcher would have kissed him, and Fletcher would have been left, alone, with the taste of a ghost on his lips)

We should get you home.

He pulled himself away, finally, unstuck from the moment. Rolled back onto his back. And then unsteadily jerked himself to his feet. He turned back to the man, words on his lips, but they died in his throat. What was there left to say? He didn’t know. But then–

“I wish you were real,” he sighed, quiet, so quiet the night may have swallowed it altogether.

And then, heavy footfall after heavy footfall, he walked back to his house, slamming the door behind him, locking it, slumping against it, a shaky hand unbuckling his trousers, his eyes fluttering shut, picturing the man on top of him, the moon hanging over one shoulder, the stars twinkling above the other.

Reflective hues, cascading light trailing glistening shadows as Chuck would see herself staring back in the man. The same venom that blackened her blood, and stained her teeth to taste of copper. The burning insides. The waves that crashed and collided, stirred up by the storm that drowns her, trapped inside the vessel of her own being unable to escape. Wine dark waves starved of oxygen. Emotions, too many of them all at once. Beautifully promising destruction, and wreckage. She’d see it in him, and she wanted to coax out every last inch of that storm that silently brewed.

We’re the same.

Red twizzlers, artificially sweet candy coaxed, she’d smile with drugstore lacquered lips glossed and glittery. Too sugary, there was poison in her smile. Staining your mouth, she’d get caught in the back of your throat, and claw where you let her. Choking. 

Her laugh is sharp and shrill where he grabs her wrist and pushes her back, delight on her tongue as her eyes stare at his hands. His hands that hold her with such threat, trembling with ache for the pigmented bandages that hide that promise of frustration baring through knuckles. Chuck would know it well, that satisfying sharp splintering. 

Her eyes dart back to meet his, and she doesn’t allow him to push this distance between them. Not that easily. Under the sodden moon, on a lawn where dead women were meant to be buried and blessed. Chuck coxed those feelings of life from the sheriff. Her barb-wired tongue, dangerous as her name hit the air. There’s something hungry in her. 

“Oh!” The exclamation taunting as she closes the distance between them again, “Brave now are we? Are you actually going to do something for once in your life sheriff?”  Show me you’re dangerous. “What are you going to do? Feed me to the town so I can be found in the stomach of the next dear ol’ Josie?” Rumours, of course but that didn’t make it any less reason for Chuck to bite back with the words as she pushes him. Two hands antagonising the man, she shoves him. “Or what- what are you gonna do sheriff?”

She was hellbent on getting a rise out of him, and maybe, if he wasn’t so fucking exhausted, maybe, if he hadn’t had such a shit day, maybe, if he was a different person, he would be able to go through life without sinking to her bait, but here she was, pushing back into his space, daring him to dive over that edge, to let the anger in and let restraint go, and god, he was this close to squeezing his fist, to twisting and snapping the delicate bones of her wrist, just because he could. But that wrath, that cruelty, it sent him jerking back into the shape he’d twisted himself into, Sheriff Wright, upstanding citizen, shirt buttoned up all the way to his throat, collar so tight it could choke.

He let go of her as though her skin burned him, stepped backwards, putting space between them, because he didn’t want to think about what he’d do if he stayed there, towering over her, didn’t want to think about the parts of him that were warped, messy, broken, bad because of the man who fathered him, because of the man who made him. No. He wasn’t that person. His hands were his own, his hands were his mother’s, she’d always said that, and his hands were shoved deep into his pockets, because he couldn’t think about what they’d do if he let them and his anger loose.

“If you end up dead in the woods,” he snarled, breathless from the task of having to keep himself at bay, “because you’re too senseless to understand what danger is– if you make me solve your murder because you can’t pull your head out of your own ass long enough to realize I’m trying to keep you, all of you, fucking safe–” He inhaled a long, deep breath, turning away from her because he couldn’t look at her for another fucking second or he’d scream or punch something or both. He wasn’t nearly as in control as he’d like to imagine, and he got the sense that she knew that, got the sense that she relished pushing him to this place, and he couldn’t understand, for the life of him, why.

“What do you get out of this, anyways?” Fletcher asked, whirling around to face her, voice crackling with frustration. He should have left, he knew he should have just walked away, but backing down from Chuck was worse than rising to her provocation. He’d rather be hotheaded and short tempered than a coward in her eyes – and just as he caught himself thinking that, he kicked himself. She was eighteen, and he was the Sheriff. What did it fucking matter what she thought of him? “I can smell the fucking liquor on your breath. I can see how much you’re enjoying yourself, so what the hell is it that you want? You want me to get pissed? You want me to arrest you? You want me to hurt you?”

He fixed her with a biting, wrathful sort of glare. “All of that can be arranged. But not tonight.”

robbie-rivera·:

the following hours were tedious, emotionally charged, especially with the Johnsons. fletcher was incisive, determined to get answers from people and where his tone got sharp, robbie tried to counterbalance with empathy. he left the johnsons, after the detective had taken his own leave, with a small squeeze to caroline’s shoulder. they were all under pressure, and the deputy couldn’t imagine what the family was going through. unable to grieve, unable to say their last goodbyes. the line of bystanders needed to interview was long after that, and the kanes kept assuring them that they didn’t know what happened. robbie could see their anxiety, trembling hands betraying their honesty.

fletcher left at some point, when key witnesses had all been interrogated, their statement securely written in their pads. robbie could see the exhaustion, the heaviness of the event.could remember the night where they read the autopsy report together, where fletcher had wondered why. why now, why him, though that he did not say out loud. a sigh escaped his lips as he removed his jacket and rolled the sleeves of his black shirt (has he had known that all this had would happen, robbie would have brought a change of clothes). time to get to work.

robbie emerged out of statements-taking-hell a few hours later, dragging his feet in the station. nothing. nothing of interest had popped out, and beside closing the funeral home down, the large yellow tape moving with the wind around the property, the department was at a standstill. exhaustion could be noticed on his face, but his movements, if a bit slower than usual, did not betray his state of mind. they were all rattled from what happened, but he had a job to do. still, it seemed that josie was decided to make this whole investigation difficult, and if robbie was absolutely honest with himself, he did feel like he was under prepared for this. he wasn’t some hot shot detective from chicago, far from it.

the deputy did hope that his boss had taken the time to breathe a little, though he was prepared for another full blown outburst at this point. his features were rapidly schooled after the initial surprise of noting the presence of one dr. white through the glass of fletcher’s office, as he made his way. they were … friends, right? right.

his fist rattled against the door gently before he opened it. “hey boss,” his voice paused the moment he saw both their hands in one another and he couldn’t help the rise of one eyebrow. looked like they were …more than friends. especially with the soft look on fletcher’s face (that was not something robbie saw often on the other man’s face). he cleared his throat, felt his own shoulders suddenly heavy. well, good for them. people deserved to find some peace and support in these complicated times, fletcher and rosalyn more than anyone, in his opinion. “statements are all done. perimeter secured and brandt is coordinating with the allen county to alert them of the situation. in case they find something.” robbie’s eyes kept looking between them, mostly because he realized he’d just given updates on a current investigation in front of a civilian.

“dr. white, pleased to see you here. you’re both doing ok?” robbie was ready to be dismissed, to get the hell out of the the office as soon as possible.

The doctor lightly dabbed the red-stained knuckles with a baby wipe, eyes looming over the cuts revealed below for any signs of debris or depth that would require stitches. Part of her wanted badly to pry into his own frustration, to see what lay beneath the sore hand and the shattered wall, but she refrained. Rosalyn knew better than to ask because it would only serve her own agenda — it wouldn’t help Fletcher. And, frankly, the less she inquired, the less he would when the opportunity presented itself on her end. 

Still, she was a bit surprised at the softness in his voice, the gratitude that fell from his lips as she tended to the wound. Pressing her lips together in a tight line, she only met his gaze for a quick moment before grabbing a few tissues from the box on his desk and a few strips of scotch tape, wrapping them around the area and then placing the clear adhesive on the outskirts of the cuts to hold the paper there. “Pick up some gauze on your way home. Change it at least twice a day and make sure to dab it with Neosporin,” Rosalyn responded, voice quiet and polite; her way of saying ‘you’re welcome’.

The door to the office opening caused her to jump, startled by Robbie’s sudden entry and instinctively moving away from Fletcher. Clearing her throat, the dark-haired woman’s eyes instinctively flickered down to the open file. She didn’t know why she hadn’t expected to see the male there, in his own workplace. Perhaps she figured he’d be heading home by now — but, then again, with what he had revealed to her that morning at the diner, his usual hours weren’t one of them. 

“Deputy,” Rosalyn returned the greeting, a bit put off by the way he addressed her despite the fact that it was perfectly acceptable. Dr. White — it was just so formal. “Perfectly fine. I was just —” she crossed her arms protectively over her chest. “Giving the sheriff some of my research.” The doctor gestured to the file, suddenly freezing once she realized how blatant of a statement that was, especially since her red penmanship was splayed out besides Josie Johnson’s me.

“I mean —” Rosalyn struggled to cover her tracks. “I should probably let you get back to work. I’m sure you’re both…busy.” And yet, Robbie was still blocking the doorway.

Fletcher looked from Roz to Robbie and then back again, trying to figure out what it was that was making him feel like the intruder in his own office. Maybe it was the way Roz had leapt away from him or the way Robbie couldn’t quite look either of them in the eye, gaze flickering between the two of them. It wasn’t his business what was going on between the two of them because if either of them wanted him to know, one of them would have told him. Robbie was his first friend in Wade and probably his only friend, at the rate that things were going, and Roz– well, he doubted she’d tell him anything even if there was a gun to her head, but that’s just how she was.

He was happy to tell Robbie exactly what was going on here, but that would require him telling his deputy, not his friend, that he’d given sensitive information about an active investigation to a civilian. And he knew Robbie, knew him well enough to know that he’d carry that knowledge and keep it to himself, and hell, he’d even get himself in trouble for it, but Fletcher would rather shoot himself in the foot than see someone he cares about take the fall for his choices.

As subtly as he could, he slid the file with all of Roz’s notes off his desk and into a drawer, out of sight. But, of course, he was also trying to hide his busted up hand, and his fingers were throbbing and uncoordinated, sending the file flying to the ground. Fletcher bent quickly to pick it up, tucking it into the back of his jeans because, well, he could make Robbie leave if he really wanted to, but he didn’t. “I feel like I missed a birthday,” he said, glancing between his friends. “Or like someone died and no one’s telling me.”

He turned to Robbie, trying to read the man’s face – normally, it was so easy, the quirk of his brow to say he was annoyed, the press of his lips to say he was thinking, the lines around his eyes when he smiled. But now, Fletcher couldn’t tell a damn thing. “Dr White,” he said, not looking at her. “Thanks for coming by. If you want to leave me and the Deputy, we’ll finish up here.”

The hole in the drywall that mounted behind Fletcher wasn’t lost on her, nor was the fresh smell of blood that she’d become accustomed to in the operator room. Eyes lingered down towards a cradled hand, which had become stained with red. It didn’t take a detective to connect the dots, and while Rosalyn had never injured herself in a fit of rage, she absolutely understood how it could possibly come about. Especially now.

The dark-haired woman closed the office door behind her with haste, knowing that this wasn’t exactly a scene that either of them would want someone walking into, damage or not. “I’ll make sure to wear my wallet chain and my fifteen-pound utility boots next time,” Rosalyn retorted sarcastically, not about to change her default attitude just because he was in a sour mood

Taking his words at face value, despite not believing a word of them, the woman instead answered his question by dropping the manilla folder on his desk. “I looked this over. Made notes,” she lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “I couldn’t find anything that stuck out to me too much, except for one thing…” Rosalyn opened the folder, moving her pointer finger to the section in question. “Signs of blunt force trauma on the back of the skull…but seemingly caused from the inside out.” The doctor shook her head. “I’m not a detective or a forensic specialist, so I don’t know what that means, and there’s definitely more that I made notes of on here, but…obviously this doesn’t scream natural causes to me, either. And I don’t understand why the Mayor is trying to frame it that way.”

Letting out a breath, Rosalyn almost allowed him to do his little song and dance with a t-shirt before finally submitting to an eye roll. “You’re going to put a dusty old shirt from god-knows-where on that? Just — stop,” she stepped around the corner of the desk, taking a small pack of baby wipes out of her pocket. “I don’t give a shit how this happened, just let me keep you from getting a staph infection.”

Fletcher wasn’t used to care. He was used to his bad decisions turning into jagged scars that no one asked about because he was a cop – he was supposed to have wounds that didn’t heal right, and he was supposed to grit his teeth and bear it. He watched Roz as she approached him, and, slow, hesitant, he extended his right hand and unfurled his fist for her to look at. “Thank you,” he said awkwardly because that was what you were supposed to say, and he meant it, but the words were uncomfortable and stiff with disuse coming off his lips. Maybe, one day, he’d send her a singing telegram. Thank you for being a friend. He smiled, just a hint, at the thought of how much she’d hate it.

Fletcher cleared his throat. The file, right.

“I was going to see if we could get you fifteen minutes alone with her body,” he said dryly. “Now...we’ll be lucky if we ever see her again.” God, he wanted a cigarette. Something that would burn through him, make him feel something. Even the throbbing of his hand had faded to the background, never as crystal clear as the moment of impact. “I’ll look these over,” he said appreciatively, nodding towards her notes. He couldn’t think about what Josie’s head wound meant, not now at least. There was too much white noise taking up every inch of his brain, and he needed some quiet to read this over, process it, and think. He hadn’t even fully processed that Josie was missing yet, how was he supposed to process the ways in which a person could get a fatal head wound with no external blow?

Fletcher took a deep, steadying breath before lifting his eyes from his hand in hers to her face. Exhaustion had robbed him of the capacity to guard his thoughts, and he needed to say this because he needed her to know, needed to give one of the few people in his life here, in Wade, who actually helped make it all easier the credit she was due. “I know what I asked of you, Roz,” he said sincerely. “And I know it wasn’t easy or pleasant or even particularly fair on my part. But you did it anyways, and...” He shrugged. Neither of them were particularly fond of big declarations of emotion. Already, he was teetering on the line of too much, too soft, too vulnerable. And yet... “Thank you,” he repeated again, this time, with feeling.

The whispering mass scattered long ago, disband to congregate at parks, and bars, and diners all to question- what happened that faithful morning within the walls of a home built for the dead to rest. Confused chatter carried on the wind, with housewives desperate for their chance of fame, to be a part of something so curious. With their preened hair, falling on their shoulders adorned in their most beautiful black dress- perfect for the occasion. They were bound to be noticed. It might have been intended to grieve Josie, but that was far from the truth for the crowds that gathered and dissipated. It was about who could grieve more, who was hurt the most by dear old Josie’s death. 

But to hear that the funeral was called off- nothing was more delicious to Chuck’s ears as she stood on the fake front lawn, cigarette in hand. And that only lead to a spiraling of possibilities coursing through her head. Her ears itching at the tales told. 

What happened to Josie?

Now under the cover of nightfall, Chuck skates the streets by the funeral home. She even resembled something graceful the way she glided by, under the streetlights swamped by moths who’s wings seem to glisten so close to the burning lights. She’d watch them, and wonder if that’s what Josie saw, lying in the silk coffin, gleaming threads soft to the touch.

She hadn’t been there long before footsteps sound into the night, mixing with the grazing of her wheels against the gravel. Loud, she was always loud coursing through town. A warning to those, like the smile she bared with sharp teeth. A rose bush left to overgrow, thorns threatening those who step too close. Tonight, that was Sheriff Wright, adorned in uniform he walks towards her. “I thought you might be the ghost of Josie coming to demand her burial.” She’d not done anything yet, besides drinking from the small bottle that nestled into her backpack. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t along side her plans for the night.

“Begging now are we?” There’s a sharpness to his tone, and it tastes so sweet for her to hear. Skating up to him, she’s all too close to the man with that smile that swallowed the moon. Too close, she tugs on the strap that holds the gun belt to his chest with the venom dripping from her teeth. “Only since you asked so nicely I might just scream it for you if you want to escort me home.”

Fletcher didn’t think he was being hyperbolic when he said that he thought Charlotte Milder was obsessed with him. It was like, the first time he’d hauled her into the station for god knows what – underage drinking was the most logical assumption – she’d dug her claws in, and she wasn’t letting go, no matter what he did to shake her off. Some days, he thought to himself, why bother? She’s harmless enough. But nights like tonight, he knew and he saw it with an alarming clarity: she was a fucking devil. There was nothing benign about her, this fucking orb of chaos held together, reigned back by skin and bone and a smile that could kill. And Fletcher wanted to be as far away from her as fucking possible, but she seemed determined to stop him from doing just that, one of her small, thin hands yanking at the holster on his chest, pulling him close.

“I can’t believe I have to tell you this, but this isn’t a game,” he said sharply, anger licking at his heels, making his face hot. Or maybe that was the whisky. 

His right hand, the one with bandaged knuckles, gauze stained red, rose to her wrist, and busted or not, he still had the strength to break her grip on him, to yank her off and push her aside. Perhaps, inadvisable, given that he wasn’t trying to have Local Sheriff Injures Eighteen-Year-Old Girl as a headline, but he didn’t particularly care. Something in him reacted with spite, with white hot rage, with barred teeth and barbed words whenever she was around, and she needed to know he wasn’t always this fucking restrained, that there was something mean, something violent, something vengeful in him that he wrestled with every day of his goddamn life.

“I asked you to leave,” he said, once there was some distance between the two of them, once he felt like he could breathe again. “And frankly, I thought I was pretty polite about it. But who knows? Maybe you misheard me. So I’m asking you again: go home, Charlotte.” Her full name felt wrong on his tongue, but what else was he supposed to call her? Her last name felt somehow worse. “If you make me ask a third time, I won’t be so fucking pleasant.”