a farmer now

The Devil’s Proxy.

A HUGH EDGAR WARREN III has arrived in Albion. While they may seem STRANGE, they are connected to the WESTERLY FOOTHILLS MILTONS. Their passport was stamped at Falls’ Inn and shows that they are 34, SIX FEET FOUR INCHES, with BROWN HAIR and BLUE EYES. Mrs. Kuiper at the Inn said that they seemed OFF-PUTTINGLY HANDSOME AND A CHARMING CONVERSATIONALIST, though they were seen DRINKING FROM A FLASK as they departed St. Catharine’s Depot. Be wary, and report any sightings to Madame Lange’s Tea Room.

.

When Sallie was twelve, the Young’s horse kicked over a lantern. 

It would have been a small accident quickly stomped out by the creature startling, but it had been a dry October. The flame caught on a patch of grass, then the fence, and so on until half of the family’s wheat field was ablaze, turning the meadow the same blood orange and red as the oak trees. 

It felt the same in Sallie’s chest just then, as if her heart was kindling catching on the flame of Eddie’s condescension, questionable past and something else– something that was too quickly obscured by the bright, burgeoning fire of her rage to question closely. 

“Swindling doesn’t take magic,” she snapped, voice crackling with a quality she didn’t recognize, “just misplaced charm.” 

She had a journal entry in her hand, had intended to investigate its contents and the handwriting she didn’t recognize more closely, but it was forgotten in her white-knuckled grip.

“Cheating people isn’t a gift. Lying takes talent, but you don’t need to be blessed. It’s the opposite, I’d say. It’s a cursed thing you’re doing, even if you smile while doing it. I’ll be struck dead before–” 

The paper in her hand slipped from her fingers, and the latch on the window rattled, filling Sallie’s sudden, chilled silence. 

-

Eddie stiffened, his senses flooded with the fiery venom that Sallie struck at him with like a hissing snake. The longer he remained in her presence, the more he tried to counter her, the angrier she got. Maybe it was time to get out--

A paper fell to the floor. The parchment was beat up, like it had fallen between a drawer and gotten crushed and subsequently smoothed back out for storage here. There was water damage, too--tea, if he had to guess--but the top lines read:

THE COUNCIL HENCEFORTH RULES JOHANNA MILTON GUILTY OF DARK [watermark] ... NISHMENT IS PERMANENT BANISHMENT FROM THE VALLEY

and, at the bottom, in her neat handwriting, JOHANNA MILTON.

“What... the hell?”

Eddie risked a getting closer to the paper, which meant getting closer to Sallie. He knelt down, picked up the paper, and gave it a closer look. Then, with a grin, he held it out to her.

-

“Tea? With the Madame? Only under duress.” A grin quirked at the edge of his mouth as he leaned forward. 

“M’family’s part of the Path of the Stars coven, and they’re all about reading the stars for everything. Your next home. Your next date. Nerts, your next meal or which sock you’re supposed to be putting on first. So the idea of someone else reading the future from any other source? Boy.”

It was enough to have him down the rest of the free pint. 

“I’ll get hauled in for enough lectures to last me a lifetime. No sirree. Easier to stay away, yeah? Even if lectures mean I get fed. Hey. You ever had ge-nu-wine scallion pancakes? No one does them like Uncle Gabe. No one.”

Poor Eddie, he thought, eyes watching the other man’s deft movements behind the bar. From big city to small town, and this particular small town too… 

Maybe it was time to throw a bone. “But local covens ain’t a bad thing either. Always better to be in the know rather than on the outs, yeah?”

He slanted a significant look across, remembering crowded nights at the Club, cigar smoke covering the conversations that were less-than-casual, the occasional glimpse of more pointed means of persuasion under wool suits. 

“‘Sides, local connections get you local perks. Hang on there a moment, let me just…”

He slid off the seat and returned after some faux rummaging with a tall, purple-tinted bottle. 

“Try that, yeah? Locally made gin, on the house.”

-

Path of the Stars. Local coven. Fortune-telling. Eddie made no indication that this information was entirely new to him, although he was taking diligent mental notes of it all. "So are you part of the Path of the Stars, then, Jimbo? I never clocked you as the type to really think ahead.”

With a shake of his head (no, never had scallion pancakes), he looked up as Jimmie fell blissfully quiet for more than a few seconds. The pub was quiet and Eddie could only imagine, even full, it would still seem quiet compared to the club. All that music and dancing, loud gambling and laughter. Eddie didn’t think this was that kind of place. And he wasn’t sure, yet, if that bothered him.

Jimmie disappeared only to return with an ornate bottle with an unfamiliar label. “Yeah?” On the house, he scoffed, as if they’d ever paid for their drinks since opening the club. (And Eddie wasn’t going to start here, either).

He got a fresh glass and popped the purple bottle open. Examined the label and gave it a sniff before pouring small sample to try. “Hm, very nice,” he said, giving the clear liquid a swirl. Finally, he took a sip.

“It’s, uh.” Words left him. He stared down into the glass as his senses were overtaken by the scent of cigar smoke. His father’s favorite cigar. Even with the window open in his study, the smoke was stifling, and Eddie didn’t like it when he was younger, until he became an age where he asked if he could smoke a cigar with his father. And that was after his father returned from Europe, and gifted him a lighter. He had so few memories of his father paying him any attention, and he’d even thought of him while abroad enough to buy him a souvenir.

“What’s in this?”

.

“It’s not that we can’t find it,” Sallie snapped. “We just can’t– can’t get to it.” 

There it was again, that searing stab of annoyance, a jump in her temper tenfold. A person would’ve thought the longer Eddie hung around would have moderated things, but Sallie only grew more reactive. She tensed each time he got to talking about the farm, even if she vowed to be patient just this once. Sometimes it felt like she was acting outside of herself.

“We’ve all gone looking for it on our own, same as you.”

Her feet led her to the other side of the room, over to a large bookcase stacked with folios. She pulled one from a higher shelf out random, feeling restless, and flipped through. Birth certificates, minutes from family meetings, journal entries torn from their original binding. 

“Maybe it doesn’t want to be found by you, have you ever considered that?”

-

His hands clenched into fists and stuffed into his pockets. He should have swallowed it all back, tried to be diplomatic, or even said nothing at all, but he was at his goddamn wit’s end.

“No, I haven’t,” he replied, sardonic. “Why would I up and drop everything to come out here if I thought I wasn’t wanted?”

Jaw clenched, Eddie grappled with having to convince this mouse of a girl that they were family when she had no interest in entertaining the idea. Finally, he let out a long sigh.

“I have a ‘gift’. How can I have a gift if I’m not from Albion?”

-

The farm not being ready yet (which, what was that even, yeah?) sounded like a story to sniff out, but he had a drink in hand and the night was young. Especially when the new barkeep was suggesting an upgrade. 

He took another sip when Eddie did, broad smile beaming. “Attaboy, Eddie. You know the Valley does its own spirits, yeah?” A nod at the shelves behind the other man. “Every one of them bottles comes from a household here, and not one of them exactly the same as the other.”

(Maybe the Sinnerman could make an appearance at the next stock-up. Maybe sooner.)

“And in terms of who’s worth knowing, well, lessee.” Fingers went up. “There’s Ruthie Salenger, didn’tcha already meet her? She was also up at the Kuipers with us several months back. A real looker, and better yet? A real talker. She’ll have sussed out what’s what by now.”

Another finger went down. “Then there’s good old Auntie Sherry – can’t miss her, pint-sized ball of energy with bottle-cap glasses that can stare into your future, and I’m only half-joking about that last bit.”

The stories started flowing when the drinks did, and this, this felt like a warm-up act. A prelude to the crowds that were sure to be coming in, the eager listeners ready to have their socks charmed off. 

“Surprised you haven’t already met her, actually. Her and Uncle Gabe are like a one-couple vaudeville show and welcome wagon all in one. Just… be careful about accepting any pamphlets, yeah? You start taking one and Uncle Gabe will come around with the full library of ‘em, and then one day, bam!”

His hand hit the sturdy bar top for emphasis even as he leaned closer. 

“You’ll find you’ve joined a local coven without even realizing it, and then, boy, then you’re in for it.”

He was halfway to finishing his remaining pint when it occurred to him, “Hey. Hey, you’re living with the Madame herself, is that right?”

-

Eddie caught on to an inkling of a thought about a mysterious liquor, but like most things with Jimmie, it came and went just as fast as conversation topics.

He leaned on the bar counter and switched to the gin cocktail while he listened. Ruthie, yeah, he’d certainly met her, and hadn’t made a very good impression. His expression soured at the mention and he quickly scoffed it off, and Jimmie was already on to the next person of interest.

“Oh, is joining a local coven... a bad thing, would you say?” Eddie had very few people he could trust to ask any questions. His so-called ‘family’ was no help with dear cousin Sallie guarding the place. Jimmie was the closest thing he had to a friend, and even then, he could never be sure.

What Eddie did know is that he’d seen some crazy things. The glowing ‘map box’, the strange third floor of Fall’s Inn, the nighttime funeral for Hartmut Wolgemuth. No one seemed fazed by any of it.

Beneath his shirt, his amulet warmed against his skin.

“Madame Lange, yeah, she’s...” Eddie lifted a brow, shook his head. “Swell, real swell. I stay outta her way and avoid any trouble. Say, you ever done that, that tea thing with her?”

Tabitha hummed to herself, quirking an eyebrow back at the man who’d accompanied her this far. “You can make yourself a martyr for anything Eddie Warren. I wouldn’t settle on rodent infestation.” She stood from her position around the Mama cat and pile of kittens.

She didn’t give him a chance to protest before plopping the speckled kitten in Eddie’s arms, watching closely for any adverse reaction. The kitten was young enough not to be too bothered by the change though, and Tabitha was satisfied, smirking back at him. “I should let you know, it’s bad form to refuse a gift in the valley. Besides, you and Grimalkin seem to be perfectly suited for one another.” Tabitha tilted her chin back to the fuzzball. “You might find him hard to shake, once things are settled.”

-

Eddie already suspected that he’d encounter more wildlife than he’d ever seen in his entire life. And while he was no stranger to rats, he had no idea what kind of havoc a mouse infestation would render to a barn.

Before he could protest any more, Tabitha handed him the kitten. Eddie made a stifled sound and tried to hold on to the kitten like it was a hot coal until he realized it was small enough to fit in just one of his hands, and had plenty of room in two of them. He kept holding it out like he was cupping a handful of water.

“Grimalkin? What kinda name...”

Teeny, tiny claws dug into his hand as the kitten shifted, hardly leaving a scratch but enough to make him flinch.

Eddie gave a doubtful look back at Tabitha, brows raised, as he held the little furball. “Perfectly suited, really.” He sighed. “Well I can’t have any more bad luck than I’ve already got. Fine. But I can’t take him like this, he’s so... helpless. Think a mouse might get him instead.”

Cousin.

Sallie’s jaw set, going crooked like a cow chewing cud. She had thought Eddie hadn’t been long for small town living. He’d last a few days, a week at most. Yet weeks later– months really–here he was, still running his mouth.

Behind firmly pressed lips, her tongue poked at her canine. She glanced over her shoulder, through the doorway, to the Wolgemuths, Horsts, Caplans, and Miltons dotting Euphemia’s overstuffed living room.

Mending. It was the done thing after a funeral. There was a hole in the family so you gathered the rest of your kin, stitches in the fabric of blood relations, and tugged them tight, shoring up the gap. It was bad luck to go your separate ways too soon after the rites, who knew how things might unravel.

She turned back to the window, where Eddie’s reflection was reflected in the frosted glass. Wind whistled between narrow gaps in the panes, quieter than the voice that had come before, but still– he’s a tom cat, it cautioned, a real goon.

“You’re still peddling that, huh? Must be. Euphemia wouldn’t have invited you otherwise. She always was mighty gullible. ”

-

“Yeah, guess I am. Still peddling the truth.”

Maybe there’d been a doubt when Sallie had protested and insisted with such confidence that he was wrong, that there was no Johanna, except that... he knew there was a Johanna, his grandmother, and he wouldn’t have gotten a letter addressed to him from a Grand Uncle if his grandmother Johanna never existed.

“You’re never gonna let up putting the screws on me, huh? What’s it gonna take, Sal?”

He tempered his annoyance as best he could. If there was one thing he knew about liars (himself included), it was that getting easily riled was one of the first signs of guilt. Eddie let out a sigh, glancing at her faint reflection in the window before turning around entirely. Took a step or two closer, but toward the center of the room.

“What about the farm, then? Is it a bunch of baloney to keep me away? Your own ma said none of you could ‘find it.’”

“You’ve got something strange about you,” Ruthie said. Their steps had slowed to what could only generously be called a stroll. A petal fell and caught on the tip of his shoe as they paused. “Don’t you? Something strange, that other people can’t do.” A glance toward Eddie, curious and sidelong. Her nose twitched, as though she could sniff it on the air.

Dropping the stem, spent, she took the rose from his fingers.

“I bake.” Her grin was bemused, nearly sinister. “But you know that.”

It had been gingersnaps, first. Ruthie always brought a tin of them to a new home, each with seven lines across the top where the dough had cracked just enough to show the molasses-sweet center. Sigils baked into the bottom, crested with a special pan. She’d offered one to Eddie, surely.

“And when I do, it can change your thoughts. Make you desire something. Sometimes, make you want it enough to stay alive a bit longer.”

A thorn on the rose very nearly caught her fingertip; she slid her grip.

“It stopped working.”

Why was irrelevant. How remained immaterial. Ruthie frowned into the darkness, deep lines around her mouth.

It stopped working and she had not tried it since. The measuring spoons in her bag remained as clean and polished as the day she placed them there. Her hands grew soft away from the callouses of the baking board. In absentia, Ruthie turned toward distraction.

Holding the rose between them, she tipped it his way.

“Ask it a question.”

-

He wasn’t sure he trusted Ruthie Salenger with his secret, but his grandmother had trusted her enough to keep her around, and “I hear... voices.” Thoughts. Your thoughts, everyone’s thoughts. “Not in a cuckoo way.”

Eddie slowed to a stop, looking ahead as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Since I arrived, it’s all been louder, but less clear.”

It stopped working.

His frown mirrored hers, as did his stance, still facing ahead. The rose appeared in his periphery as she held it out to him, and he turned to look at her. His smile returned.

“All right.” Leaning in, he looked down at the rose. “What does Ruthie think of me?”

I meant to offer my condolences to you.

Tabitha felt hairs at the back of her neck prickle, and just for a moment she looked over at Eddie with a look of unease. If he meant to extend comfort over the loss of her mother…but no, she’d misread that situation. He was making a crack towards Jimmie, and that was mountains easier to confront than the latter.

“Ah yes,” She scoffed a laugh, “A proper rapscallion. Every family needs one, and well…they say you can’t choose your family. I suppose that extends to in-laws as well.” Tabitha offered a small smile, “I appreciate the sentiment, none the less.”

She kept her coat on even as they crossed the threshold into the diner, smile curling tighter at the corner of her mouth. “A tour of sorts. Come on,” Tabitha waved for Eddie to follow her as she ignored the main dining area for the tucked away door that seemed like it could double as the business’s main storeroom.

“I’m on good terms with the owners.” She explained before running a hand along the door frame for a key and twirling it over her fingers before unlocking the room for them to enter. Tabitha walked in first, softly greeting a loudly purring feline and accompanying kittens (that were more rather like small bundles of fuzz) before glancing back to Eddie.

“You know, they say every farmer needs a good barn cat.” Tabitha pointed out, carefully picking up the tortoise-shell kitten, “So, think of it as an upcoming housewarming gift.”

-

Intrigued, Eddie watched as Tabitha broke into--well--found a way in to the diner’s back room. A quick glance over his shoulder, and he followed her inside, not sure what to expect.

Definitely not cats.

“Not what I expected when you brought me to a secluded room,” Eddie said with a long exhale. The tiny kitten in her hands was black with brown speckles. He’d never met a cat he liked before Albion--his mother’s prized Persian cat was a nuisance furball all throughout his childhood. He supposed the cats that followed Tabitha and Ruthie around were all right.

“I’m not really a cat person.” The mother cat seemed to be staring at him through a sinister squint. “I mean, I bet I can get by without a barn cat, it’s not like...”

How bad could mice be? Surely they weren’t any more trouble than the city rats.

“Nice sentiment though, Tabitha,” he said, grinning.

-

The glass slapped into his waiting hand and their usual dance was on. He grinned, beamed really, raising it in a toast before taking a long drink and smacking his lips. 

“Ah, that hit the spot. Ain’t nothing like good old Valley ale after all that Big City rubbing alcohol, yeah?” 

Ed slotted in behind the bar like he’d been born there. But the rest of the place (the floor, the seats, the stage)? That was Jimmie’s, and he knew all the steps. 

“And aw shucks, don’t tell me you’ve been missing little old me? You got it lucky, see. Everybody knows everything about you if you grew up here. Stars, I can’t so much as step outside without having to greet all the uncles and aunties, and I’m only related to about half of them. Believe me, you’d be dashing everywhere too if you were me, just to get somewhere.”

Another drink, and huh. There was something crisp at the end of this, like some extra herbs thrown into the mix during the process. 

“Got someone who’s gone and taken ad-van-tage of my old Baba in his dotage while I was away, and now? Now I gotta find some way to get my family place back, can you imagine? Awful business.”

His eyes slid towards the shelving behind Ed, noting the variety of bottles on display. There was time, yeah? Time to get some new additions up there for the new bartender to use. 

“But hey. Hey, didn’t you have that place you inherited? Whatchoo doing down here barkeeping for?” 

-

“Gee whiz, I’d hate to overhear some embarrassing story about you now that I’m here. That’d be the pits,” Eddie said, snorting.

Jimmie was always full of hot air, but Eddie got a sense from him that there was nothing exaggerated about what was going on with his family. “Damn. Sorry, Jimbo. Guess we’re both a bit homeless.”

Eddie hid a frown behind the pint glass with another sip. Yes, this was much better than the moonshine. Made him think of the good old days back in the city before fun was outlawed.

“The farm’s... not ready yet. I’m staying at the teahouse for now. Can’t farm much in the winter anyway, y’know?” That made sense... right?

Eddie took another gulp of ale and, suddenly, the glass was empty. “Think we need something stronger.” He hadn’t heard the boss man come out of his office yet. So he turned to the liquor and selected a couple of bottles. “I can’t remember if you’re a Gin Rickey kinda guy but that’s what I’m in the mood for.”

Two glasses, the shaker, ice. Eddie started pouring, all of it from memory.

“Well, gimme the scoop then, Jim. Who’s worth knowin?”

He stood for what felt like a long time, staring at Sallie, wondering--did she hear what I heard? for about the billionth time in his life. He remembered being young and responding aloud to the things he heard until one day his grandmother explained that he was special and he should only reply when he could see someone speaking. Eventually he could sense the difference between thoughts and voices.

Voices, he thought. Those were voices in the wind.

Eddie turned when he heard the rattle of a fourth window. He went through the doorway to secure it before any more snow (but mostly voices) could get through. Sensing she was still there, within earshot, he looked out the window with a scoff.

“Some storm, eh, cousin?”

.

Once the coffee was made and the cup poured, Theo had little other things to do. The bread was rising, the dishes were done, the counter wiped. But it felt strange to do nothing, and so instead he picked up a water jug and filled it up, then started going around the room to give the plants some water. These after-midnight shifts were always a great way to get caught up with a few tasks on his mental to-do list.

At the other’s statement, he couldn’t help but chuckle. It wasn’t the first time he’d been praised for the food or the drinks he prepared, but it never failed to make him feel proud of his talents. “Good,” he merely responded. “A proper cup of coffee shouldn’t be underestimated.”

When Eddie continued, there was a part of Theo that wondered if the question had been deliberate. Did the patron feel lonely? “No, actually – not really.” That might not have been the full truth, but he wasn’t really ready to face that reality.

“I like the peace and quiet. When I was growing up, the house always tended to be loud and filled with people, so I’m happy for these types of scenes,” he said earnestly. He still remembered the myriad of social events and dinner parties where he was forced to make an appearance, when he would’ve much preferred to just stay holed up in his room all night – so this was nice. 

“But a club, you say? That sounds exciting. I suppose coming from that all the way to Albion would be a big change. Maybe be too quiet.”

-

“Ah.” Memories flashed through his own mind, places familiar and unfamiliar. A bustling dinner party filled with drinks and laughter. A soirée with music and dancing. The club in its hay day, flapper girls dancing on tables.

He could almost hear the music as if it was playing in the diner, but with a blink he was reminded of the scent of coffee and the quiet.

“Yeah, ain’t that the truth,” he said. “I’m a long ways from New York, but, y’know, I came here for a change. The people here don’t stay out all night looking for trouble. That’s not something to miss, let me tell you.” Eddie shuddered and tried not to think too hard about some of the messes that had to get cleaned up at the club.

“Maybe I don’t mind the quiet. But I miss the music. Yeah, that’s it. We had all kinds of bands playing at the club.” He sighed. Then he noticed Theo wasn’t putzing around anymore, and he grinned. “Say, Theo, I’m not keeping you from anything, am I?”

“Huh.”

Less word, more sound. Ruthie exchanged one petal for the next, crushing it between her fingers before releasing it – to the air, or the ground.

He asked a question and gave his own answer, her ears prickling at the emphasis. Ruthie loved moments like this – confessionals. She collected morsels of information like they were, well, morsels. The way hungry people appeared at the corner of her kitchen, at the edge of her bakery slab. Hungry. Wanting.

“I imagine you find this quite idyllic,” she said, after his words had melted on the air. Her eyes rolled as she bobbed her head – first to the left, then the right. “The rolling hills. Simple shoes. Trees.”

There was a chance – prickling on the edge of her periphery – that he was right. Perhaps it was her vision that was skewed. Perhaps what felt dangerous, or novel, or magic in adolescence became simply charming countryside in adulthood.

Ruthie swallowed, tasted the burnt edges of apple crumble as they turned down a winding lane.

“Have you discovered your gift yet, Eddie?”

-

“’Quaint’ is more like it,” Eddie countered. He supposed he could see why some would romanticize the rolling hills, endless trees, and the open skies. Nature at its finest. But that wasn’t Eddie’s thing.

The air between them changed, something in her eyes pierced through him. If she’d been like this when she stayed with his grandmother, he’d never noticed. Maybe it was the valley. Maybe it was something else.

“My gift?”

Eddie turned the bouquet around in his hand, averting his gaze from Ruthie for a few moments. He tensed, wondering if she knew. If she knew what no one else did about him. But how? 

“What do you mean?”

He couldn’t find another dahlia, so he took out a rose for her next. “You never answered my question.”

.

Dorothy took the letter, curiosity and caution in conflict on her face. “We know Hugh, blessings on his memory, but this is the first I’m hearing of your Johanna.” 

“That’s ‘cause there isn’t one.” Sallie bit the inside of her cheek, gaze darting away from Eddie and down to the aged kitchen table. It bore the marks of the past– water rings and dents from cutlery. “If it looks like a swan but quacks like a duck, that doesn’t make it one. Just a good imitator.” 

Sallie knew the family record inside and out. “We’re Miltons, not Warrens. Daughters of Dorothy and Frank, children to Martha and Arnold.” And so on, until one reached the point where the earth was unbroken, the rivers without a dam. 

“You’re–” Not nobody, he belonged to somebody. He just didn’t belong to them, and the farm certainly wasn’t owed to him either. Sallie was being unkind and she knew it, but she couldn’t help but bristle. Her temper ebbed when Eddie exercised his manners, but every time he resurrected the subject of the farm she found her nerves winding up again. It was like the topic didn’t want to be discussed. 

“You’re–” she started again, feeling a sharp word building in her throat. 

“You’re our guest.” 

With identical surprise, Rosie and Sallie looked to their mother, who had finished the sentence. 

“Mama!” The girls cried, delight in Rosie’s voice, shock in Sallie’s. 

“We’ll put you up until you can find a place to settle yourself,” Dorothy continued, smile warm and a distraction from her slipping Eddie’s letter into her apron pocket. “Sallie, show Mr. Warren to the guest room, would you?”

-

That one doesn’t like me. ‘Quacked like a duck,’ phooey. 

It wasn’t that Eddie thrived on conflict, no. He rather liked things neat and tidy, he liked knowing what was what, and who was who. Albion was all new to him, and while it had certain idiosyncrasies he couldn’t explain, it all seemed rather peaceful, burgeoning on boring.

“Thank you for your kindness, Mrs. Milton,” he said as he picked up his suitcase. They were only a few paces down the hall and out of earshot when he looked over at Sallie.

⸻ December 1923. 20 minutes to Happy Hour. Pegamon Pub.

Thud went the third crate (count ‘em: one-two-three). Clink went the bottles within. He dusted his hands off and blew on them, rubbing to return some semblance of circulation. 

“Last crate of the seasonal ale in,” he called out, you know, just in case he wasn’t getting full credit for his efforts. “Mighty cold out there, yeah?”

The old pub was a bit shabbier and draftier than what he was used to, but it’d warm up soon enough, either by drink or by the number of patrons filing in. 

“Hey. Got one of the Gatlin boys already eyeing us up, looking ready to flee the missus as soon as we open. Think we oughta…” 

For a moment he stopped, trailing off at the strange overlap of worlds. 

“Well, nerts,” he said, grinning and helping himself to a barstool, “Ed Ed Eddie, working the bar again. Once a Chipmunk always a Chipmunk, ain’t that right?”

Unless the Chipmunk turned rat, yeah. Time and a place for every happening and person, Mama always said. He could kiss a star right now for aligning. 

“We never did catch up after the stay at the Kuipers’, did we?”

@devilallthethyme​

-

Nothing about Eddie ever screamed perfectionist or even someone who liked to be prepared, but when it came to tending a bar, he had his particulars about how he liked things. He came in early (but not too early) to inspect the bar--the ale taps, the bottles of liquor (to his surprise, there were some labels he didn’t recognize), the glassware. Back at the Chipmunk Club, he could have served drinks with his eyes closed. He knew every bottle, every tap, every glass. But this setup was different, and so were the drinks.

As Eddie checked the liquor bottles to see if any were threatening going empty before the nights’ end, he could hear someone talking in the back room. To whom, he didn’t know. The voice got closer, until suddenly Jimmie came around the bar and stopped.

“Yup,” he said. “I’m a one trick pony.”

Boss man, Pegamon, was doing the books or something in his closet of an office, so Eddie took two chilled pint glasses and filled them each with ales. He slid one to Jimmie, and took one for himself.

“Can’t say we’ve had time to catch up, no. You’re always running off somewhere every time we run into each other.” Eddie smiled, but it wasn’t too kind. Something unspoken between them made Eddie keep Jimmie at arm’s length. What were the odds they’d both end up in the same remote Valley?

“So how ya been, Jimmie?”