entre nous

The older agents had thought they were getting a fresh, pretty face to run errands and a warm body to laugh at their terrible jokes. Instead, they’d gotten you: top of your class at the Academy, annoyingly competent, and possessing a zero-tolerance policy for being anyone’s "coffee runner." You’d lasted all of four days upstairs before you’d pissed off a senior agent by pointing out some various obvious things he was overlooking in one of his active cases. So - despite the fact that you did have a fresh and pretty face - they’d exiled you to the basement. Maybe they hoped you’d quit.

You certainly weren't a quitter. But God, you were bored.

The sound of the heavy door groaning open made you jump, the sound echoing unnervingly loud in the quiet room. You didn't bother looking up immediately, keeping your eyes on the grainy scan you were feeding into the system. You assumed it was the janitor - the only person you ever really saw down here. Or perhaps one of the agents who’d been one of your former classmates coming to gloat about where you’d ended up. That had already happened more than once.

"Knock, knock," a voice said. It was deep, a little breathy, and carried an undercurrent of amusement that didn't match the drab surroundings.

Your fingers paused over the keyboard as you glanced up, heart stuttering.

Standing in the doorway was a man who looked like he’d taken a wrong turn on his way to a tech startup in Silicon Valley. He was young, probably around your age, with a halo of messy dark hair that defied gravity and likely federal grooming standards. He wore a suit, but he wore it like he was still deciding if he liked the fabric - tie slightly loosened, shirt cuffs rolled up to reveal forearms that were surprisingly defined. His eyes were wide and expressive behind his glasses, taking in the entire depressing office in one sweep.

The guy grinned, flashing you a smile that was equal parts dorky and charismatic. Heat blossomed on your cheeks under his gaze. No. Nope. Absolutely not.

"I'm looking for the FBI's best-kept secret," he said, stepping inside as if he owned the place.

You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest - a defensive reflex you’d honed over many years of disappointing men. "The sign on the door says 'Records,'" you replied coolly. "If you're looking for the fancy new vending machine, it's two floors up and to the left of the elevators."

“You and I have very different definitions of a best-kept secret.” He smiled with an easy charm. “Care to show me?”

“I don’t go on walks with strangers.”

He laughed, a genuine, bright sound that felt out of place in the grimy room. "Fair enough. I’m Walter," he said, ignoring your brush-off and walking towards you, extending a hand as he settled on the edge of your desk. "My friends call me Keys. Actually, everyone calls me Keys. Even my mom."

You stared at his hand for a second before taking it briefly. His grip was firm and warm, but you dropped it quickly, heat prickling under your skin like fire ants where he’d touched you.

"Agent...” you started, waiting for his last name to click.

"McKey," he supplied helpfully, looking around your workspace with genuine curiosity. "But seriously, Keys is easier. It’s a thing. Long story. Anyway. Just transferred in from D.C. a few days ago, so I guess that makes us coworkers.”

"Well, nice to meet you, Keys, but I'm busy," you turned back to your scanner, though the work had suddenly lost its urgency. "If you’re lost, I can't help you."

"Oh, I'm not lost," Keys stood, rocking back on his heels with a restless energy. It seemed like he was vibrating at a frequency higher than the rest of the building. Or he’d had far too much caffeine. "Right where I wanna be, actually. The Special Asshole in Charge sent me down here."

You stopped cold. Addams? The man who had signed off on your basement exile with a smirk and a nonchalant wave of his hairy knuckles? "Addams sent you? To get me?”

"He did.”

“But he hates me.”

“That can’t be true.”

“Could be.”

“You seem like you’d be hard to hate.”

“You don’t know me, Keys.”

“Maybe I’d like to.”

“What exactly did he say?”

"Uh, something along the lines of 'Keys, go find that agent in the dungeon and drag her back up into the light.' His words, not mine. Well, mostly his words."

You eyed him warily, guard going up. This had to be a prank. Or worse, they needed a scapegoat for something messy. "Why? You lose a bet?"

Keys laughed again, shaking his head. "No, nothing like that. He wants to see us. Together.”

“Why us?”

“I don’t want to ruin the surprise.”

“I don’t like surprises.”

“You might be in the wrong field of work then, my friend.” Keys’s attitude sobered slightly as you frowned. “Okay, fine. Apparently, we’ve been volunteered for the 'East Coast Unexplained Phenomena Task Force.'"

You blinked, the absurdity of the phrase hitting you. "East Coast... what?"

"Phenomena. You know," Keys wiggled his fingers mischievously and you wondered briefly if he played an instrument, "the spooky stuff. Lights in the sky, things that go bump in the night, crazy cannibal families."

“You’re joking.”

“I would never joke about cannibals. It’s in poor taste.”

He said it with such a straight face that you couldn't tell if he was mocking you or if he was actually onboard with this insanity.

“That’s a horrible jo-“

"Anyway, he says we’re the new dynamic duo. The twenty-first century Mulder and Scully, if you will."

You stared at him, trying to find the punchline. You’d been sidelined for being a smartass, and now you were being promoted to investigate ghost stories? It didn't add up.

“Addams doesn't take me seriously, and never has, Keys. He thinks I'm a nuisance who somehow mysteriously got my hands on a badge."

"Well," Keys shrugged, looking at you with a sudden softness in his eyes that caught you off guard. "Maybe after all your hard work down here, he realizes he made a mistake."

You looked away, unsettled by his easy sincerity. You didn't trust it. Or his smile, or the messy hair, or the way he seemed genuinely happy to be standing in a windowless basement talking to a woman who had already mentally checked out of the conversation.

It wasn’t his fault. Your track record with men was a graveyard of good intentions turned sour - from the high school sweetheart who cheated on you with your best friend, to the ex-fiancé who had tried to mold you with harsh words and forceful hands into a trophy wife because your career ambitions "intimidated" him. You knew how to read them. Keys, however, read like a puzzle you didn't have the energy to solve.

"Addams told me he wants us to get to know each other," Keys continued, oblivious to your internal wall-building. "Said we’ll be spending a lot of time together. And honestly? I could use a partner who knows her way around a case file. I looked at your Academy scores, by the way. Profiling track? Super impressive."

You felt an unwanted flare of pride in your chest, instantly squashed by suspicion. "You looked at my file?"

"Yeah. Did a little digging," he admitted. "I like to know who I'm working with.”

“Learn anything interesting?”

“Seems like you’re sharp. And you're funny - I heard what you did to Agent Johnson’s prized ficus when he tried to assign you to escort duty for the visiting politicians."

A small, unwilling smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth. You had "accidentally" watered it with liquid bleach from under the break room sink. It was a low blow, but he deserved it. "It was an accident."

"Sure it was," Keys winked, & your stomach twisted. "Come on. Let's go see what the boss has in store for us. And," he lowered his voice slightly, leaning in conspiratorially, "if we’re going to be chasing aliens and want to change out of those heels, I have a pair of sneakers in my car you can borrow."

“Kind of you.”

You eyes Keys as you finished organizing the paperwork on your desk. He was eager and seemingly devoid of the arrogant swagger that plagued the agents upstairs. But you knew better than to let your guard down. The nicest guys always left the deepest scars.

Grabbing your blazer from the back of the chair, you slipped it on. "Fine," you said, your voice clipped. "But if this is a setup to make me look stupid, I'm taking you down with me."

Keys beamed, holding the door open for you with a dramatic flourish. "Deal, Scully. After you."

The elevator ride up to the third floor felt like ascending up from hell. Literally. The basement air you’d grown accustomed to was chilly on a good day and arctic at worst. You stood in the corner, staring at the numbers lighting up above the door, with Keys leaning casually against the opposite wall. He was humming a low, discordant tune that you recognized as the theme from The X-Files, and it took every ounce of your willpower not to openly roll your eyes.

When you walked in, Addams didn't even bother to stand up. He was behind his mahogany desk, feet up, staring at a monitor while munching on a donut, sugar crystals on his lips and mustache.

"Agents," Addams grunted, acknowledging Keys with a nod before his eyes slid over you. You saw the flicker of disdain, the quick assessment that summed you up as little more than a decoration he couldn't quite get rid of. "Seems like you finally found your way out of the basement."

"It’s hard to get lost when there's only one way out," you replied, keeping your voice even. You moved to stand by the chair, refusing to sit.

Miller chuckled, a wet, phlegmy sound. "Feisty. Good. Maybe you’ll need that out in the sticks." He tossed a beige folder across the desk. It skidded to a halt right in front of you. "Wilmington, North Carolina. Population 4,003 - and dropping. Locals are screaming about lights in the sky and cattle mutilations. Standard crackpot shit."

You picked up the file, flipping it open. Photos of charred pastures and blurry lights filled the pages. It looked like every other hoax you’d studied in the Academy or seen in the movies. All that was missing were some Polaroids of little green men with bug-eyes.

"Sir, with all due respect,” which is none, “this sounds like local department work. Why is the Bureau getting involved?"

"Because the Mayor’s brother is a Senator," Addams said, wiping his hands on the sides of his slacks. "And because someone upstairs thinks a bullshit 'task force' makes for good PR." He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto yours with a predatory glint. "Here’s the thing, sweetheart. I don't care if you find flying saucers or fucking Bigfoot. I just need you to show up, look around for a day or two, and look pretty for the cameras. This isn’t an actual investigation. It’s some PR to show rural America that the government gives a shit about them.”

“And does it?” Keys asked, leaning against a nearby bookcase.

“Does what?”

“Does the government give a shit about small town folks?”

Addams laughed. “If it helps you sleep at night, sure. Anyway. Your job is just to make these folks feel heard and seen, then get outta dodge.”

You stiffened, your grip tightening on the file folder until the cardboard bent. "Sir, I’m a fully trained field agent, sir. So is Mr. McKey. I don’t think that -“

"Relax," Addams waved a hand dismissively, his eyes raking over your outfit in a way that made your skin crawl. "No one is saying you’re incompetent, sweetheart. But you’ll make for a pretty photo op. We need someone with a... softer touch. You know, to keep the locals calm while the men do the investigating."

"Wow," Keys said.

The word dropped into the room like a stone in a pond. Addams froze, his mouth half-open. You looked at Keys, surprised to see he wasn't smiling anymore. He was standing straighter, his posture shifting from slacker to something rigid and dangerous. He had taken his hands out of his pockets, his arms folded across his chest.

“Something wrong, Agent McKey?”

"Just… Wow," Keys repeated, his voice dropping an octave, losing the playful lilt. "I’m sorry, sir, are we in the 1950s right now? Did I miss a memo? I could have sworn the Bureau had strict regulations against workplace harassment, but listening to you, it sounds like you’re auditioning for a role in Mad Men.”

Addams’s face flushed a dark, angry crimson. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," Keys said, stepping slightly in front of you, blocking Addams’s line of sight. It was a subtle movement, but it felt like he had drawn a line in the sand. "She scored higher than over half the guys in your bullpen on the entrance exam. She profiled that serial killer in Virginia while you were still trying to find the send button on your email. Telling her to stand there and look pretty isn't just sexist, it's stupid. You're shooting your own team in the foot before we even start.”

You stared at the side of Keys’ face, your heart drumming against your ribs. No one - much less a colleague you’d met less than twenty minutes before - had ever defended you to a higher-up before. Not without expecting something in return. There was no flicker of an ulterior motive in Keys’s eyes. It seemed that he was just defending you, pure and simple.

Addams stood up, chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Watch your mouth, McKey. You might’ve been the golden boy for your old task force, but don’t think for a second that I won’t bury you if the situation calls for it. Got it?”

"Threat duly noted," Keys said smoothly, though his eyes remained hard. "I’ll take that under advisement. Right after I file a formal complaint with HR regarding your conduct toward a subordinate."

The air in the room crackled with tension. Addams looked like he wanted to explode, but he clearly realized he was fighting a losing battle against a very stubborn agent. He took a breath, visibly composing himself, though his eyes still promised future retribution.

"Get out," Addams snapped, pointing a finger at the door. "Both of you. Go get acquainted over lunch. You’re flying out at 0600 tomorrow. I don’t want to hear from either of you until you’re calling me from Bumfuck Nowhere - are we clear?”

“Crystal, sir,” Keys replied. He turned to you, the anger melting from his expression instantly, replaced by a charming, lopsided grin. He gestured to the door, lowering his voice as Addams returned to his donut and computer. “Come on, Scully. Let's go get some food before I say something that actually gets us fired."

Keys ushered you out of the office, his hand hovering near your lower back but not quite touching - a respectful proximity that guided you away from the toxic air. The door clicked shut behind you, and you let out a deep exhale, running your hands through your hair.

"You didn't have to do that," you said as you waited for the elevator, your voice trembling slightly.

"Do what?" Keys asked, feigning innocence as he pressed the down arrow. "Stand up for basic human decency? Yeah, I think I kinda did."

“Didn’t think anyone did that sort of thing anymore,” you glanced at him with a mix of suspicion and thinly-veiled gratitude. “No one’s that nice.”

“You don’t trust people very easily, do you?”

“What makes you say that?”

Keys eyed your face closely. “For starters, you tense up whenever I’m nice to you.”

“No I don’t.”

“Your shoulders are practically touching your ears right now.”

He wasn’t wrong. You forced your body to unclench, relaxing ever so slightly. Change the subject. “He’s going to hate you now, you know.”

“Addams already hates everyone," Keys dismissed with a shrug. "He’s like a toddler n with a badge - just immature and angry at the world. Besides," he looked at you, his gaze softening once more, "he’s wrong. You’re not just a prop. I read your file remember? You’re capable and brilliant. You think I want to go to North Carolina without you?”

The elevator dinged, and you stepped inside, the sudden intimacy of the small space making you acutely aware of him. He smelled like coffee and some expensive, woodsy cologne you couldn't place. It was distracting. Intoxicating, if you were being honest with yourself.

“Still. I can handle myself," you said, more out of habit than true conviction.

“Oh don’t worry, I know you can," Keys replied, leaning back against the rail. "But you shouldn't always have to. That’s what partners are for. Or friends, if that’s something you’d like one day.”

The words partner and friends hung in the air between you, heavy with implications you weren't ready to unpack.

The coffee shop a block away was a nondescript chain that wasn’t anything special, but it was the only place within walking distance that provided a decent boost during long hours. You ordered a cold brew, needing the caffeine to ground you, while Keys somehow convinced the barista to give him a "mocha with five shots of espresso, six pumps of hazelnut, and extra whipped cream, because I’m emotionally fragile." What he was fragile about - you had no idea.

You found a small table in the corner, tucked away from the afternoon rush. You sat across from him, admittedly stiff. You didn't want to be here. You didn't want to like him or enjoy his company. That felt like dangerous territory.

"So," Keys said, tearing open a sugar packet with his teeth. "North Carolina. Aliens. Exciting, right?"

“How sweet does your coffee need to be?”

Keys shrugged with a noncommittal smile. “I like sweet things.”

You’re gonna hate working with me then.

“Anyway, I think this whole task force ridiculous," you changed the subject, stirring your coffee absentmindedly. “I give it a week - tops - before Addams dissolves it entirely. The government doesn’t give a shit about civilians who think they’ve seen visitors from out of this world.”

"You're probably right," Keys agreed easily, taking a sip of his frothy concoction and getting a mustache of whipped cream. "But isn't it kinda fun to pretend? Just for a second? To think that maybe, just maybe, the truth is out there?"

He looked so boyishly hopeful that you felt your defenses cracking, just a hair. "I deal in facts, Keys. Not fairy tales."

"Facts are boring," he countered, leaning in. "The interesting stuff is in the variables. The unknowns." He wiped the whipped cream from his lip with his thumb, the motion oddly hypnotic. "Like you."

Your posture somehow became more ridged, pulling your shoulders back. “I’m an open book. Or file, I guess. But you’ve already seen that, apparently.”

"I did, yeah,” he said, his voice dropping and eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your stomach flip. "It says you’re brilliant, driven, and solitary. It doesn't say why you look like you're waiting for the other shoe to drop every time someone is nice to you, or why you’re so guarded all the time.”

You looked away, staring at a chip in the formica table. The casualness of his observation stung because it was true. You didn't do nice. You didn't do partners who bought sugary mochas and defended your honor in front of sexist bosses. You kept everyone pushed away, and that was safest. But the way Keys was looking at you… It was oddly soothing. Like you could tell him anything - and he wouldn’t judge you.

“I… I had a bad run," you admitted quietly after a few minutes, the words feeling foreign on your tongue. "With... People. Men, mostly. I tend to make the wrong choices. It’s easier to just… Be like this.”

Keys nodded slowly, processing this. “Is it though?”

“I think so.”

“Think you’ll keep me at arms length forever, Scully?”

“Seems like the professional thing to do.”

“Yeah, but it that what you actually want?”

You looked at him, feeling heat rise to your face. He was handsome in a way that wasn't aggressive, with a jawline that was softening but still strong, and eyes that held a depth you hadn't expected. He was charming, yes, but it wasn't the slick charm of a pickup artist or some fuckboy. It was the charm of someone who was genuinely interested in the world around him, and right now, that included you.

It terrified you.

"I'll get back to you on that one,” you said, taking a sip of your coffee to hide the small smile threatening to break through.

“I’ll take it.” Keys grinned, raising his cup in a toast. "To the truth. And to not letting Addams win."

"To not letting Addams win," you echoed, tapping your plastic lid against his.

For the first time in months, the basement felt very far away. And as you watched Keys animatedly describe his theory on why aliens would definitely prefer North Carolina over Area 51, you allowed yourself a dangerous thought: maybe this partnership wouldn't be so bad after all. Just as long as you didn't let him get too close.

"Okay, let’s make this efficient," Keys announced, pulling a pen from his pocket and clicking it open. He poised it over a napkin like it was a critical warrant. "Twenty Questions. Rapid fire. We have a plane to catch tomorrow and I need to know if you’re going to be the type of partner who snores or judges my music taste."

You felt a reluctant smile tug at your lips. "I don't snore. And I promise not to judge your music unless it involves country. Or polka."

"Noted," Keys said, scribbling on the napkin. "Question one. Favorite horror movie? It might be a dealbreaker if you don’t watch scary movies.”

“Aren’t we sort of stepping into our own horror movie if we’re investigating aliens?”

“Aliens are inherently sci-fi coded.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What about the movie Alien?”

“Hm.” Keys took a sip of his coffee. “Walked right into that one I guess. But you didn’t answer the question.”

“Um, the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre,” you replied. "Raw, terrifying. None of that glossy green screen garbage."

Keys glanced up, looking more than a little surprised. "Okay, that’s... Unexpectedly hardcore. No offense, but I kinda pegged you for like, a Universal Monsters fan. Maybe a little Scream?”

"Those are fine. But I appreciate the grit," you shrugged. "The sequels were trash, though. What about you? What’s your favorite?”

“I like psychological horror. Like Hereditary, or Midsummar.” Keys chewed the inside of his cheek. He leaned in, studying your face with a scrutiny that usually would have made you self-conscious, but coming from him, it just felt curious. “Question two. That eyeliner is lethal. I’m guessing you didn't learn to do winged tips at the Academy?"

You laughed, surprised he’d noticed. “Uh, no. That was acquired through many, many hours of YouTube tutorials and unfortunate teenage phases.”

“Is it a shield or a hobby?”

You pressed your lips together. “Why do you ask?”

“I have sisters. Picked up on a few things.”

Something about the idea of Keys having sisters and being perceptive enough to pick up on why they would enjoy - or feel the need - to wear makeup made you feel odd. Not in a bad way. But underneath your skin itched in a way you couldn’t scratch from his perceptiveness.

“I just take my beauty regimen very seriously, Keys. Don't let the blazer fool you. I have a skincare routine that probably costs more than my rent.”

“Ooh, a girly girl who loves Leatherface," Keys mused, writing furiously. "Fascinating dichotomy. What about music?"

"Classic rock all the way," you said, warming to the topic. "Zeppelin, Floyd, The Doors. My dad raised me on vinyl. You?”

Keys laughed. “You’re way cooler than me, I’m afraid.”

“Am I?”

“I mostly listen to movie soundtracks,” his ears turned pink, and for the first time since you’d begun speaking with him, he looked almost embarrassed. “Helps me focus.”

A genuine smile spread across your face. “I guess I am cooler than you.” You leaned back, relaxing just a fraction. “You into any sports?”

He ran a hand through his thick hair, mussing it up in a way that tempted you to lean across the table and mimic the motion. God, what is wrong with you?

“I, uh, played soccer. In elementary school.”

“Wow, a man of many talents.”

Keys winked at you. “You have no idea, partner. What about you?”

“I didn’t play sports, but don't get me started on hockey. I’m a Capitals fan. And if we’re in the field during playoffs, I will require time to check updates. It’s non-negotiable."

Keys stared at you, his mouth open slightly and eyes somewhat dazed. "Are you sure you're real? I’m starting to think I’m hallucinating you."

"I'm full of surprises," you said, taking a sip of your drink. "Your turn. What’s your deal?"

"My deal?" Keys tapped the pen against his chin. "I’m mostly a glorified IT guy with a gun. I’ve designed about six apps. Big fan of board games.”

“Yeah, I probably could’ve guessed that.”

“Woah, rude,” Keys grinned. "And I have a massive sugar addiction. As you can see." He gestured broadly to his half-empty mocha. “But other than that, if I’m not coding, I love getting to cook something that isn’t ramen or mac n cheese.”

“Were you a theater kid?”

Keys froze. "What? How did you—"

"It’s the dramatic flair," you said, waving a hand at him. "The way you enter a room. The expressive hand gestures. You look like you probably played the lead in Little Shop of Horrors.”

"I was Seymour," Keys admitted, looking slightly embarrassed.

“Ha - I knew it.”

"And I was incredible. I can still do a mean 'Suddenly, Seymour' if the mood strikes."

"Please don't."

"I won't. Unless, as I mentioned, the mood strikes.”

For the first time in months your shoulders dropped, and you let out a genuine laugh. The air between you felt lighter, charged with an easy electricity that you hadn't felt in a long time. It was dangerous, this sort of comfort. You shouldn’t be this relaxed with some guy you’d just met barely an hour ago. But something about Keys drew you in. Made you want to… What? Be his friend? Jump his bones in a supply closet? Have an honest conversation with him?

"Okay, last question before we -“ Keys started, but he was cut off by a shadow falling over the table.

The atmosphere in the coffee shop seemed to instantly chill. You looked up, blood turning to ice in your veins. Standing there, like he owned the whole fucking coffee shop, was Brandon. Your ex. As of two months ago. He looked like he’d walked out of a GQ magazine - tailored suit, perfect tan, hair that was too luscious to be real - holding an iced latte and wearing a smile that didn't reach his cold, blue eyes.

"Well, well," Brandon said, his voice smooth and condescending. "Look what the cat dragged up from the basement."

Your hand tightening around your cup until your knuckles turned white. "Brandon.”

“Nice to see you too, baby.”

“I’m working."

"Working?" He glanced around the cafe with a sneer. "Looks like you're on a break. Or did they decide you’re good enough for coffee runs now?” He laughed, a short, sharp bark of sound that drew the eyes of a nearby table.

"Is there a reason you're here?" You were fighting a losing battle to keep your voice level, though you could feel the familiar heat of shame rising in your cheeks.

"Just getting a little pick-me-up,” he said, eyes drifting to Keys and assessing him with a dismissive once-over. "And who is this? Your new babysitter?”

Keys set his pen down on the napkin, very slowly. He looked up at Brandon, unblinking behind his glasses. "Walter McKey. Her partner. And you are?"

"Brandon. Her ex-fiancé. The one who realized she was too much work and not enough reward." He smirked at you, eyes dragging over your body in a way that made your skin crawl. "You’ve filled out a little bit, sweetheart. But I know how you get when you're hungry. You turn into a fucking brat."

You flinched, the words hitting their target with precision. He knew exactly what to say to make you feel small - to make you feel like the difficult, unlovable bitch he had always claimed you were.

“That’s enough,” Keys said softly. He stood up.

Brandon was taller than Keys, but Keys didn't seem to notice the height difference. He buttoned his jacket casually, the movement smooth and deliberate. “Excuse me?”

"I think you’re done," Keys said, his voice losing all warmth. It wasn't loud; it was low and quiet, but it carried a weight that made the air in the shop feel heavy.

Brandon scoffed, crossing his arms. "I'm just catching up with -“

"No," Keys cut him off, taking a step forward. He wasn't smiling anymore. "You're not catching up. You're being an asshole and intentionally making her uncomfortable. So you’re gonna turn around, take your shitty latte, and leave."

Brandon’s face darkened. "I don't know who you think you are, but -“

"I'm her partner,” Keys said, interrupting him again. He didn't raise his voice, but the intensity in his eyes was terrifying. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze flicking down to the badge clipped on Brandon’s belt, then back up to his face. "Cute badge. But I need you to understand something, Brandon.”

Keys took another step, invading Brandon’s personal space. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that you could barely hear.

"We’re federal agents. Trained to neutralize threats. And right now? You are coming dangerously close to being classified as a threat to a federal officer's well-being." He paused, letting the silence stretch. "So, if I were you, I would walk away. Right now. Before I decide that you being a prick is worth the paperwork it would take to haul you in."

The coffee shop was dead silent as you stared at Keys. He looked dangerous - utterly and completely capable of doing exactly what he said. It wasn't a bluff. It was a promise.

Brandon paled, the arrogance draining out of his normally tanface. He looked at Keys, then at you, and for a second, he looked uncertain. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"Whatever," Brandon muttered, backing away. "Have fun with your little... Assignment."

He turned and practically fled toward the door, not looking back.

You sat there, stunned, the echo of Brandon’s cruelty still ringing in your ears. You felt exposed - like a raw nerve. You had been humiliated, patronized, and reduced to a punchline in front of the first person you’d actually enjoyed talking to in months. Maybe years.

"Hey," Keys said softly.

He sat back down, sliding into his seat opposite you. You braced yourself for a dozen questions about your former relationship. Why were you with him? Why didn’t you leave sooner when he’s clearly a fucking asshole? But to your surprise, he didn't say a single word about Brandon. He just picked up his napkin and the pen once again, seemingly sensing that you weren’t okay with speaking about the man who had just left.

"Okay, where were we?" he asked, his voice gentle but steady, as if nothing had happened. "Right. Cats or dogs?”

You looked at him, vision blurring with sudden, unexpected tears. You quickly blinked them away, refusing to let him see you cry.

"Keys," you whispered.

"Yeah?" He looked up, his eyes full of a quiet understanding that made your chest ache.

"You didn't have to do that."

"I know," he said simply. He pushed his mocha toward you. "Here. You need the sugar more than I do. Drink up.”

You took the cup, your fingers brushing against his. They were warm and steady, sending a buzz through your entire being. For the first time in a long time, you didn't feel like pulling away.

Later that evening, your apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator. You were staring at your open suitcase, trying to mentally rotate the logistics of a three-day trip to North Carolina with a vague "investigate aliens" order.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen lighting up the dim room.

Incoming FaceTime Call: Keys McKey

You felt a flutter in your chest that you immediately tried to stomp out. You swiped answer, and Keys’ face filled the screen. He was in what looked like a living room, background cluttered with old movie posters, wearing a t-shirt that for some reason read "I paused my game for this."

"Hey," he said, his voice crackling through the speaker. "Please tell me you're packing better than I am. I’m currently staring at a pile of laundry and questioning every life choice that led me to owning so many ugly ties.”

You turned the camera to show him your bed. "So far I’ve got three blazers and a pair of hiking boots. I have no idea what the vibe is for alien hunting and calming people down.”

"Can I interest you in a tie with neon green spaceships on it?”

“Already had that on hand, did you?”

“You know it.”

"Should’ve guessed," you said, turning the camera back to your face. You were glad for the low lighting; it hid the flush on your cheeks. "Why are we, uh, FaceTiming, exactly? I thought we covered everything at lunch."

"Professional coordination," Keys said, deadpan, though the crinkle of his eyes gave him away. "I need to know how badly you’re going to outshine me style-wish. Plus, Addams has us on a budget, so if we can share toiletries to save space -“

"I’d cutting you off right there," you interrupted with a small smile. "I have a very specific brand of shampoo, Keys. Do not touch it."

"Noted," he sighed. "I’ll stick to the hotel bar soap like a peasant."

For the next twenty minutes, the call continued like that - easy, flowing, ridiculous. You packed your bag while he packed his, holding up items for inspection. He made you laugh with some well-timed jokes, and roll your eyes when he asked if he needed to bring "extra socks because space is cold - and what if we get abducted?”

It was... Nice. It was domestic in a way that felt wildly inappropriate for a professional working relationship. You hadn't had a casual phone call with a man in years. With Brandon, phone calls were status updates - where were you, who were you with, why weren't you wearing what he liked. Keys just wanted to know if you preferred granola bars or beef jerky as travel snacks. Or tease you about bringing six different blouses for a three day trip - asking if you were the world’s messiest eater and just neglected to mention it.

"Okay, I think I'm set," you said, zipping your suitcase shut. The sound echoed in your empty bedroom. "We need to be up in like, four hours if we want to make the flight."

"Right. Early bird gets the worm.” Keys replied, but he didn't move to hang up. He just looked at you through the screen, his expression softening. That look that he kept giving you that you knew he shouldn’t. "Hey."

"Hey," you echoed, your heart rate picking up.

"I'm glad Addams put us together," he said quietly. "Even if it is for the spooky stuff."

"Oh. Yeah. Me too," you admitted, the truth slipping out before you could stop it.

"Get some sleep, Scully," he said, offering a little salute. "Don't let the bedbugs bite. Or the aliens probe. Or -“

"Goodnight, Keys."

The screen went black, and your room was plunged back into silence.

You settled back on your pillows, staring up at the ceiling, but sleep felt miles away. Your mind was racing, replaying the day - the confrontation with Addams, the coffee shop, the phone call. It was all swirling together, but one thought kept rising to the surface: Keys is different.

It was nearly impossible not to compare him to Brandon, given the fact that your ex had been in your life for so long. Honestly the contrast was almost blinding.

Brandon had been charming, sure - charming enough to blind you to the cracks in the foundation for years. But that charm had always been a veneer, a pretty wrapper around a volatile core. He demanded control, and had hated your intelligence because it threatened him. Every day you were at the Academy, he’d mocked your ambitions because they didn't center on him and his goals. And in private... Behinds closed doors, the charm had entirely evaporated, replaced by a cruelty that chipped away at your self-esteem day by day, and broken your heart and several of your favorite mugs. He had made you feel like a failure. Someone who should be grateful for his attention at all. And eventually, like your body was something he owned, something to be critiqued, not cherished.

Keys, though...

You thought about the way he had looked at you in the coffee shop - not with hunger or possession, but with genuine interest. He had defended you without making it about his own ego. He had noticed your eyeliner and praised your horror movie taste and hadn't made fun of you.

Shifting under the covers, a flush began to spread through your body that had nothing to do with the warmth of the room. Before you should stop yourself, your mind began to wander further and further away from reality. A dangerous, treacherous thought crossed your mind, but you couldn't quite shake it.

What kind of boyfriend would Keys be?

Would he be gentle? The way he had handed you his coffee, the way he had listened when you talked about your interests... If you were to create a profile on him, his actions and demeanor certainly suggested a softness that was rare in your world. Brandon never listened. He’d only ever waited for his turn to speak.

You imagined Keys holding your hand - not to drag you somewhere, but just to hold it. What if he touched your face? Not to criticize your makeup, but to memorize the curve of your jaw. The swell of your lips.

Would he cherish your body? The thought sent a shiver down your spine. Brandon had always made you feel like your body was a project - too much here, hot enough there, never quite right for him. But Keys... Keys looked at you like you were fascinating. You couldn’t imagine him being as cruel or pushy as Brandon had been.

He’s your coworker. Stop having thoughts like that about your goddamn coworker.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to banish the images. This was a bad idea. You were going to be working with him, living out of a suitcase with him. You couldn't afford to get even a tiny crush on your partner. That was how you got hurt and ultimately ended up back in a basement, cursing yourself for your stupidity.

For ten minutes, you stared blankly up at the ceiling fan counting the rotations and willing sleep to claim you. The adrenaline from the day, the lingering high of Keys’ defense, the low hum of his voice - it was all pooling in your stomach, hot and restless. You needed a release. Just a brief one to turn your brain off before you did something stupid - like text him 1:00 AM to ask if he was sleepless and thinking about you too.

What are you, in high school again?

With a groan of frustration, you reached into your nightstand drawer. Your fingers brushed against the cool, silicone curve of your vibrator. It was a necessary instrument for stress relief, like a weighted blanket or a glass of wine. But as you pulled it out, the low hum of the motor starting up seemed deafening in the quiet room.

You laid back against the pillows, kicking the duvet down to the end of the bed. The cool air hit your skin, raising gooseflesh, but you already felt overheated. You closed your eyes, trying to summon a faceless, nameless fantasy - standard routine to get the job done. But the image dissolved the moment the buzzing tip made contact with the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

Your mind, however, betrayed you instantly. It didn't go to the abstract shapes of strangers; it went straight to Keys.

It was involuntary, a flash of his messy hair and that stupid, charming grin. You tried to push it away, to focus only on the physical sensation, but your brain had other plans.

What if it was his hand instead?

The thought was so vivid it made your hips buck off the mattress.

You imagined the weight of him on top of you, not heavy and demanding like Brandon had been, but solid and warm - hovering over you, those expressive eyes darkened with desire. Looking at you like you were the only person on earth to him.

"God," you breathed out, the sound ragged in the quiet room.

You slid the vibrator higher, the pulses rippling through your clit, but it was your own imagination that was really doing the work. You pictured Keys' fingers - long, coder's fingers - tracing the line of your jaw, tilting your chin up so you had to look at him. He wouldn't mock you. He wouldn't tell you to be quieter or to fix your face or that you needed to lose weight.

"You're so beautiful," you heard his voice in your head, a low, rough whisper against your ear.

The fantasy intensified, blurring the line between the plastic in your hand and the phantom touch of a partner. In your mind, Keys wasn't rushing. He would take his time, exploring your body with the same curiosity he applied to everything else. He’d marvel at the softness of your stomach, the curve of your hips, all the things Brandon had critiqued.

“Tell me what you want, baby.”

You moved the vibrator in slow circles, your breath hitching as you imagined Keys kissing his way down your neck. He’d murmur praise between searing kisses, telling you how good you felt, how soft you were, how much he'd been wanting to do this since he saw you in that basement office.

“You’re doing so good for me.”

"Keys," you gasped, the name escaping your lips before you could bite it back.

The shame should have hit you then, but it only fueled the fire. You arched your back, your free hand clutching at the duvet beside you. You imagined him burying his face between your thighs, replacing the mechanical hum with the wet heat of his mouth. He wouldn't be selfish - you just knew it. He wouldn't just take. He’d worship.

"You look so gorgeous like this.”

The pleasure coiled tight between your legs, sharp and demanding. You chased it with abandon, mind running utterly wild with images of him - his hands gripping your thighs, his back muscles flexing as he moved over you, what he’d feel like inside of you, the sound of his moans mixing with yours. It was a chemistry you had never felt with anyone - a spark that ignighted a bonfire within your very bones.

“That’s my good girl.”

"Please," you whimpered into the empty room, toes curling and back arching.

"Let go for me, yeah? Just let go. I’ve got you.”

The orgasm hit you like a wave, crashing over you and pulling you under. You cried out, your body shaking, mind filled with the phantom sensation of Keys talking and holding you through it, anchoring you while you fell apart. For a few seconds, it was perfect. Real.

Then, the vibrations stopped, leaving you panting and covered in a sheen of sweat in the darkness.

You lay there, chest heaving, the toy still clutched in your hand. The reality of what you’d just done washed over you, hot and embarrassing. You’d just used your new partner - the man you had to spend the next three days with - as fuel get yourself off during a solo session.

You dropped the vibrator onto the mattress with a soft thud and covered your face with your hands. "You are so fucked," you whispered to yourself.

But even as the mortification settled in, a tiny, stubborn voice in the back of your mind whispered back.

You cracked a sliver of your right eye open, the dim light of the living room sending a stabbing pain through your skull. Gator was on his knees next to you, phone pressed to his ear. He was pale, face slick with sweat and body trembling violently as though he’d been sick moments before. If the puke on the floor behind him was any indication, that’s exactly what had happened. Unless of course, it was yours.

"Please," he practically sobbed into the phone. "Hurry! I think she's dyin’!"

You couldn’t ascertain whether or not he was actually upset, or if he was just giving an Oscar-worthy performance for the sake of dispatch - but you forced yourself to remain utterly still. You couldn't let him know you were awake. Gator wasn’t stupid. One look at your guilty expression and you were sure he would know you’d done this on purpose.

Letting your head loll to the side, you closed your eyes and kept your breathing shallow. Fear that was almost as painful as the cramping in your stomach coursed through your body as your mind raced. 

Your plan hadn't worked. Not at all. You’d wanted him to die quietly in his sleep. Instead, you had both overdosed and all it had done was make you sick. And now, because of his frantic call for help, you were both going to the hospital. They would pump your stomachs. Probably run toxicology reports. They would know what you had done.

You were going to prison.

Movement to nearby indicated that Gator had collapsed beside you, his body weak and shaking. He reached out a trembling hand to check your pulse, his fingers clumsy against your neck.

"Come on, baby," he whimpered, voice cracking. "Don't you die on me. Don't you dare die on me."

He sounded as though he was in worse shape than you. He was sweating profusely, his skin clammy where he touched you. Though he’d had more to drink, he was bigger than you. Honestly the doses probably evened out, all things considered. But that didn’t make anything better. You could hear the sirens in the distance, growing louder, closer. Panic flared in your chest - not a single excuse or plan coming to mind. 

Fuck. Had you been so desperate to escape him that poisoning the both of you was truly the only option? Did you think that you could get away unscathed after poisoning him? In what world would something like that ever work out? Idiot.

The front door burst open, splintering at the hinges as the room suddenly filled with people. Paramedics in uniforms, shouting orders, prying your eyelids open. You fought to keep from flinching. 

"We've got two down here!" one of them yelled. "Male, conscious but altered. Female, unresponsive."

You felt hands on you, rough and efficient. They were checking your pupils, pulse, and breathing. After the amount of physical abuse you’d received from Gator over the last few days, the last thing you wanted was anyone touching you - but you’d grit your teeth and let them do it as much as needed if it got you out of this fucking house and away from Gator Tillman.

"Let's get her on the board," a paramedic said, and suddenly you were being lifted, your body strapped to a hard plastic board. You fought the urge to struggle, or just tell them you were fine and all of this was a huge misunderstanding. You just lay there, limp and compliant, playing the part of the victim.

You could hear Gator groaning as they worked on him. He was arguing with them, trying to push them away.

"I'm fuckin’ fine," he was slurring. "I'm a cop. Leave me alone -“

"Sir, you need to calm down," a paramedic said firmly. "We're taking you in too. Gotta get your stomach pumped otherwise you’ll be in a world a’ hurt.” 

"I'm not goin' anywhere without her," Gator insisted, his voice weak but stubborn.

"You can ride with her in the ambulance, sir," the paramedic sighed. "Let's go."

They carried you out of the house on the stretcher, the cool night air a shock against your skin. You risked opening your eyes a sliver. The flashing lights of the ambulance painted the yard in strobing red and white. It looked like a crime scene. Technically, you supposed, it was. 

They loaded you into the back of the ambulance, metal walls cold and unforgiving. A moment later, they loaded Gator in on the other gurney. He’d been forcibly strapped down by two body builder-esq EMTs, an oxygen mask over his face, but he was still fighting, still trying to sit up. His voice cut through the mental fog that was setting in, as well as the searing pain in your abdomen. 

"Is she okay? Is she gonna be okay?"

"We're doing everything we can, sir," a paramedic said, inserting an IV into your arm. The needle was a sharp, cold prick, but you didn't flinch.

Breathe. In. Out. You have to stay calm. Think.

They would pump your stomach. They would find the pills. They would know you had ingested a massive amount of expired pain killers.

But so had Gator.

You could claim ignorance. That you thought you were taking some sleeping medication but mixed up the bottles in the cabinet after a long day. Maybe they’d buy that you were still grieving and distraught. That you made an honest mistake in search of a good night’s rest. 

It was a flimsy defense. Paper thin. But it was the only one you had.

What exactly were you planning to do anyway? Hope Gator died and that you’d just be able to throw up and get out of town with no consequences? Are you fucking stupid? 

The ambulance lurched forward, sirens screaming. You could hear Gator's ragged breathing intermingled with paramedics' calm, professional voices. You were trapped in a metal box, speeding toward a future that was uncertain at best, and a life sentence at worst. Though whether it would be with Gator or at the state penitentiary was anyone’s guess.  

But as you lay there, pretending to be unconscious, a small, cold thought took root in your mind.

Gator had been the one to call 911. He was far worse for wear and had saved your life. And in doing so, he might have just given you the perfect alibi.

The world came back in fragments. The first thing you registered was the rhythmic, high-pitched beep of a machine. Then, the sterile, antiseptic smell of a hospital. It was a smell you associated with sickness and death, and it sent a jolt of dread through your system. Your throat was raw, burning with the memory of the charcoal and a stomach pump. Your torso was a tender, cramping cavern of pain. You tried to sit up, but your body was weak, trembling with the effort.

A hand gently pressed you back against the pillows. "Whoa, easy there. You're okay. You're safe."

You blinked, your eyes slowly focusing on the woman beside your bed. She was a nurse, maybe in her late forties, with kind eyes and a tired but warm smile. Her name tag read Carol. 

"Where... Where am I?" Your voice came out as a hoarse whisper.

"You're at the Regional Medical Center in Rapid City," Carol said softly, adjusting your IV drip. "You had a pretty rough night, miss. But you're a fighter. Vitals are strong."

You looked around the room. It was private, with a window overlooking the parking lot. Gator was nowhere in sight.

"Where's... Where is he?" You fought back a wave of nausea, all the potential scenarios crashing through your mind. 

"The young man who came in with you?" Carol asked, her expression neutral. "He's in the room next door. He had a similar reaction, but he was conscious when they brought him in. A little... agitated. They had to sedate and restrain him."

Relief washed over you, so potent it almost brought tears to your eyes. He was drugged. He was contained.

"You're lucky though," Carol continued, fluffing your pillow. "If your boyfriend hadn't called 911 when he did, you -“

"He's not my boyfriend.”

Carol paused, looking at you with concern. "Oh. I'm sorry. I just assumed -“ 

"It’s fine. But he’s not - we aren’t together.”

“Might wanna tell him that, darlin’.”

“We were friends. A long time ago. Not anymore though.”

“Mhm.”

Despite the flicker of doubt, you saw kindness in Carol’s eyes. Genuine care you hadn’t seen since… Well, since the last time you’d seen your mom. This woman seemingly wasn’t a Tillman crony. She wasn't a part of the corrupt system that owned your town. She was just a nurse. A good person.

And she was your only chance.

"Can I tell you something?" you whispered, your voice trembling. "Something in confidence?"

Carol pulled her chair closer to the bed, her expression serious. "Of course. You can tell me anything. I'm a mandated reporter, but my priority is your safety."

You took a deep breath, the words catching in your throat. "I-I think he did this on purpose. The guy who came in with me.”

Carol’s eyes widened. "What do you mean?"

"I mean… Uh, I think he tried to kill me," you said, the lie tasting like ash in your mouth.

Should you really be telling all this to a stranger?  What’s she gonna do?

But who knows when you’ll have another chance to talk to someone - uninterrupted.

“He… I also believe he killed my parents. He sabotaged their truck. And when I found out... I told him I was going to leave. And he said he couldn’t let that happen. That he’d never let me go. A-and I think he tried to poison me. As punishment -“

You were crying now, hot tears streaming down your face. The story was a desperate, twisted version of the truth, but it was all you had. Accusing him of your crime.

Carol stared at you, her face pale with shock. She looked at the door, then back at you, her mind clearly racing.

“We need to call the cops.”

“NO-“

The nurse jumped, eyeing you warily. 

"I need you to listen to me," you begged, grabbing her hand, your grip surprisingly strong. "You can't tell the local sheriff. You can't tell anyone from Stark County. They're in on it. They'll cover it up. They'll let him get away with it again."

"Again?" Carol repeated, her voice barely a whisper.

"He's a deputy there," you explained. "His father is the Sheriff. They run the whole town. If they find out I told you... They’ll kill me. They'll make it look like another accident and then not investigate it. I need to get out of here before he finds me. I can’t go back. I can’t-“ 

“Sweetheart, did he… Did he hurt you?”

Hot tears blurred your vision in response as Gators repeated violations and assaults replayed in your mind. Suddenly you were being bent over your family’s old dining room table. Fucked against the kitchen counter. Brutally assaulted in the broom closet of the police station while your cries and pleas fell on indifferent ears.

Both your body and your heart ached at the memories of Gator’s cruelty. Part of you wanted to force yourself to recount everything he’d done in detail - just to let someone, anyone, know what had happened to you. But the words refused to make their way past your dry throat. All you could offer your nurse was a tear tracking down your cheek and a trembling lower lip.

Carol looked at you, her eyes filled with a mixture of horror and pity. She seemed to really see you. And what was more - she believed you. You could see it in her face.

"Okay," she said, her voice now firm. "Okay. For your sake, I won’t tell the local officers. But I do need to tell the doctor. I have to report this."

A small sob escaped you. "Just be careful. Please."

"I will," Carol promised, squeezing your hand. "I'm going to get Dr. Evans. He's the attending physician, and a good man. We'll figure out how to keep you safe, okay?”

She patted your hand gently before exiting, leaving you alone with the beeping machine and the faint, sterile smell. 

You lay back against the pillows, your body trembling with a combination of fear and relief. You had done it. Maybe. At least in Carol’s eyes - you were no longer a suspect. You were the victim. Or maybe a survivor. 

And Gator was the monster.

For the first time since you arrived in South Dakota, you felt a flicker of something you hadn't felt in a long time.

Hope.

It was a dangerous, fragile thing. But it was there. And you were going to hold onto it with everything you had.

The minutes of Carol’s absence stretched into an eternity. The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor was your only companion, a steady, monotonous pulse that counted the seconds of your precarious facade of freedom. Carol had been gone for what felt like hours. Each passing moment without her return was a fresh wave of anxiety. Had she not actually believed you? What if she’d gone to Roy Tillman or one of his cronies instead? Were you being suspected?

You wondered vaguely if Gator suspected that you’d done something. Would it be better for him to hate you - or for the toxic obsession he had with you to continue? The bitter side of you figured that if he did, in fact, murder your parents, the least he deserved was a little stomach ache. 

Then, you heard it. A distant - yet unmistakable - shout from down the hall. It was Gator. Even through the thick walls and the sedatives they had given him, you could tell he was raging and furious. 

"Get these fuckin’ things offa me! I need to see her! She's my girlfriend! I have rights!"

Your blood ran cold. He was awake. And depending on what the hospital staff was willing to tell him, it likely was only a matter of time before he found you. 

Squeezing your eyes shut, you forced your body to go limp and head loll to the side. You let your breathing become shallow and even, mimicking the slow rhythm of deep sleep. Gator wasn’t as stupid as you’d once thought, but if you could pass as unconscious, maybe you could buy yourself some time before you faced him. 

The shouting grew louder, closer. You could hear the sound of a struggle, the heavy tread of boots, a calmer, authoritative voice trying to reason with the force of nature that was Gator Tillman. 

"Sir, you need to calm down. You can't go in there. She's resting."

"I don't give a shit if she's restin’!” Gator roared. "I'm not stayin’ here another second without knowin’ she's okay!"

There was a scuffle, the clang of something metal hitting the floor. A curse. Then, the sound of the door being thrown open.

He was in your room.

You didn't move. Not even a flinch. You just lay there, a silent, still form under the thin hospital blanket. The air in the room changed with his presence, growing heavy and charged with his frantic energy. You heard his ragged breathing, the sound of his socked feet shuffling across the linoleum floor.

He stopped by your bed. You could feel his heated gaze on you, eyes boring into your skin.

He wouldn’t… Not in the middle of the hospital… Would he?

"Baby?" Gator’s voice was barely a whisper - stripped of its earlier rage and replaced with a raw, desperate vulnerability. "Oh, fuck. Baby, you gotta wake up."

You felt the mattress dip as he sat down on the edge. The weight of him was suffocating. He reached out, his hand trembling as he brushed a strand of hair away from your forehead. His touch was gentle, a jarring contrast to the violence of his earlier arrival. You wanted to shudder and pull away. He didn’t deserve to touch your skin any more. 

"Please," he begged, his voice cracking. "Please be okay. You can’t die."

He leaned in closer, his face close to yours. You could smell the sterile scent of the hospital clinging to him, mixed with the faint, lingering smell of the beer you’d shared. 

"We were just havin' a beer," he murmured, more to himself than to you. "Watchin' a movie. What the fuck happened, baby?”

Good. Stay in the dark, Gator.

"It's gonna be okay," he continued, stroking your hair. "When you wake up, we're gonna fix this. We're gonna get you better. Start our life for real."

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, and you could feel a hot tear land on your cheek. His tear.

"I got it all planned out," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "We're gonna get married. Right away. Down at the courthouse. I don't care about a big weddin’ or any a that shit. I just want you to be my wife."

Wife?!?

Every cell in your body urged you to lurch upward - scratch, kick, and scream. Refuse to ever marry him. It would be a cold day in hell if you ever let something like that happen. 

Where the fuck are you, Carol?

He shifted, leaning down to press his lips against your cheek. It was a soft, possessive kiss. A brand.

"We're gonna fix up your parents' house, okay? Maybe build a new deck or somethin’. Make it our place. A place for our kids."

The mention of children made your stomach clench. He knew you couldn't have them. And yet he was still planning this fantasy life. What the hell was his problem?

"You're never gonna leave me again. You got that, baby?” His voice dropped to a low growl that sent goosebumps over your skin. "Never. I’m gonna take such good care a’ you. Protect you from shit. Okay?”

He was cradling your face now, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. You were trapped, a silent prisoner in your own body, forced to listen to him lay out the blueprint for your prison. Hearing how upset he was after what he’d done to you just hours ago at the station made your head spin. 

"I love you so much," he whispered, his voice breaking. "You can't die. You ain’t leavin’ me here all alone."

Then, he leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn't a chaste, gentle kiss. It was a deep, possessive kiss, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth, claiming you even in your presumed unconscious state. You fought the instinct to gag, bite, or even tremble. You forced yourself to remain limp, nothing more than a doll for him to play with.

"Hey! Get the hell off her!"

The voice was sharp, commanding. A hospital security guard.

Gator froze, then pulled back, a snarl on his lips. "Get the hell out of here, asshole. We're havin' a moment."

"The lady is unconscious, sir.”

“She’s my girlfriend.”

“I don’t give a shit who she is,” the guard replied, his voice firm. "Step away from the bed."

"I'm not goin' anywhere. Do you know who I am?”

"Sir, I'm not going to ask you again," the guard warned. You heard an electric zapping noise. The guy must’ve had a taser. Jesus. 

"Fine," Gator spat, standing up. "I'll be back soon, baby. Promise."

He allowed the guard to escort him out of the room, but from the sound of it, he was deeply resentful over the fact. The door clicked shut, and the room was silent again.

You lay there for a long moment, finally allowing your body to tremble with suppressed rage and terror. Not only had he touched you and kissed you while you were presumably dead to the world - he’d laid out his entire deranged future for you, and you had been forced to listen to every word.

But as the adrenaline faded, a clarity took its place. You could use this. Continue to twist your narrative that he was the one who poisoned the two of you - and himself - out of obsession and an inability to let you go. He had a motive - and the security guard had seen it. He had seen Gator’s aggression. He had seen him kissing an unconscious woman. You were a victim of assault. And you had a witness. Maybe that would aid in your longterm goal to get him the fuck away from you. 

You opened your eyes, staring at the ceiling. The beeping of the monitor seemed to speed up, matching the frantic pace of your thoughts.

The minutes dragged on, each one a small eternity, until finally, the door opened again. It wasn't Carol, and it wasn't Gator.

Two men in suits stepped into the room. They didn't wear the khaki of the Sheriff's department, nor the gray of the Highway Patrol. These were city detectives. Detectives from Rapid City. Jurisdiction that belonged to no one named Tillman.

"Miss?" The older one asked. He was a heavy-set man with kind eyes and a handlebar mustache. "I'm Detective Miller. This is Detective Jacobs. We need to ask you a few questions about what happened last night. Are you feeling up to it?”

You nodded slowly, sitting up against the pillows. "I can talk."

Detective Miller pulled a chair over to the bed, while Detective Jacobs stood by the door, notebook in hand. They didn't look at you with pity. They looked at you like they were trying to solve a puzzle.

"We've already spoken with the young man you were with," Miller began. "Gator Tillman. He claims to have no idea why or how this happened. Thinks the beer went bad.”

"He would say that," you whispered.

"Does that match your recollection?" Jacobs asked from the door.

You looked at them. They were strangers - but they were technically law enforcement that wasn't related to the man holding you captive.

"No," you said, the word falling heavy in the quiet room. "I don’t think it was an accident."

Detective Miller leaned in, his expression sharpening. "Go on."

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. It was a high-stakes gamble to tell the truth about Gator and lie about your own actions, but it was the only way to save yourself.

"He did it on purpose. He tried to kill me."

Miller exchanged a glance with Jacobs. "That's a very serious accusation, Miss. Do you have any proof?"

"It’s sounds so stupid to say, but he’s obsessed with me," you said, tears welling in your eyes. They weren't hard to summon; the fear was real enough. "Has been since we were kids. When I came back to sort out my parents’ affairs after the funeral, he... Hewouldn't let me leave. He took my keys and phone, and he’s been keeping me at my parents' house like a prisoner."

"Did you report this?" Miller asked, his brow furrowing.

"I couldn't," you cried out. "He's the deputy. His dad’s the sheriff. I tried to escape earlier today, and he caught me."

"And you think he escalated to poisoning?" Jacobs asked.

"I know he did," you insisted. "He’s been… Doing horrible things to me. And there’s evidence that he killed my parents.”

The room went dead silent. Miller stopped writing, and you were pretty sure that Jacobs stopped breathing.

"What did you just say?" Miller asked, his voice low.

"My parents," you repeated, clutching the blanket. "There was an accident, but it wasn’t investigated by the local cops. Obviously. But I talked to the garage my dad always took his truck to, and the mechanic is pretty sure that Gator sabotaged their truck. The break line was cut."

Miller set his notebook down on the table. "Miss, are you telling me that you believe a law enforcement officer murdered two people?"

"I'm don’t  just 'believe' it," you replied, feeling a bit frantic. "I know it. He told me things. Shit he shouldn't have known. And he was so calm about it. He said the universe gave him what he wanted."

"Which was?" Jacobs prompted.

"Me," you whispered. "I think. He said he wasn't sorry they died because it brought me back to him. I think that’s why he drugged me. Or poisoned, I guess.” 

Miller stared at you for a long moment, his eyes searching your face. He was assessing your credibility. He was looking for signs of mental instability that you were well aware you were most likely exhibiting. 

"Why didn't you come to us sooner?" Miller asked gently. "Why’d you let him hurt you? And then wait until you were in the hospital?"

"I was scared," you admitted. It wasn’t entirely a lie. But you hated the question. It felt like he was trying to make your lack of action your fault. “Of him. and his dad.” 

"Roy Tillman?" The officer’s jaw tightening.

"Yeah. The Sheriff," you said. "He brought me back when I ran away earlier today. Told me I was Gator's property."

"And so you think he was trying to stage a murder-suicide?" Jacobs asked.

“Yes, sir. I think he knew I was slipping away, and he couldn’t have that.” 

Miller stood up, his expression grave. "Miss, you understand that we can't just take your word for it. We need evidence."

"The truck and the brake line is still in the garage," you said quickly. 

"We'll need to get a warrant.”

“Then get one.”

“That takes a bit, ma’am. But we’re going to do our best to expedite the process.”

"And Gator?" you asked, trying to stop your voice from shaking. "What’ll happen to him?"

"If what you're saying is true," Miller said, looking at Jacobs, "then it sounds like he’s a danger to you and to the public. But we need to build a case against him before -"

"He's just over in the next room," you whispered. "What if -“

"He's not going anywhere," Miller assured you, raising his hands in a placating manner, as if you were in utter hysterics. It felt patronizing - though you were quickly spiraling towards hysteria at the thought of Gator coming back. "We have a uniformed officer outside his door. And one outside yours. You're safe."

He shoved his notebook into his back pocket as he stood. "We're gonna go talk to him. See what his recollection of the events were. We’ll also need to talk to that garage you said you called.”

“Of course.” 

"We don't know that you're telling the truth yet," Miller said gently. "But you're scared. And that's enough for us to start asking the right questions. I got a daughter of my own… I’d hate to see her mixed up in anything like this. Obsession’s a powerful motivator. It can make people do terrible things."

As the night wore on into the early hours of the morning, your heart rate monitor spiked and fell, a reminder of the panic warring in your chest. You had to keep it together. 

At some point around three am, the shift change happened. You heard the low murmur of voices in the hallway - the relief officer arriving, the retiring one complaining about the cafeteria coffee. It was a thirty-second window of distraction.

Brief, but apparently just long enough. Your door creaked open, shutting instantly before a shadow fell across your bed.

“I know you’re awake, sweetheart.”

Fucking heart monitor. 

Gator.

He had slipped out of his room while the guards were distracted. He looked like hell - pale, sweaty, and dark eyes completely bloodshot - but he was moving with a quiet stealth that terrified you.

"W-what’re you doing here?" you whispered, shrinking back against the pillows. "There's a guard outside."

He loomed over you, expression unreadable in the dim light. He brushed his calloused fingers against your cheek, but there was no gentleness in the touch this time. It was assessing. Cold.

"How’re you feelin’?" he asked, his voice low. "Better now that you got that fuckin’ poison out of your system?"

“What’re you talking about?” Playing dumb was your only defense.

“What’d you use, huh? Rat poison? Bleach? The doctors think it’s Oxy but I dunno where the hell you woulda gotten shit that strong.”

“Why would I have poisoned myself?”

“You tell me.”

“I didn’t -“

“Cut the shit,” Gator snapped, drawing closer to the side of your bed. “Count yourself lucky I didn’t rat you out to Dumb and Dumber earlier. Now. What the fuck did you do to us? This ‘cause of the station? In the closet?”

Your stomach dropped as Gator spoke. He knew.

“I didn’t do anything to you. Maybe we just have food poison-“

He grabbed your chin, cutting off your words and forcing you to look up at him. "You think I'm stupid? You think I don't know what you're capable of when you're backed into a corner?"

"You're paranoid," you choked out, trying to jerk your face away.

“I’d be less paranoid if you just told me the fuckin’ truth. You try to kill me, baby? Think that’s your only way outta this?”

Pressure cracked something inside your chest. “Doesn’t matter. The police believe me. They know what you did to my parents."

"They don't know shit," Gator spat. "They just know what you told them. And right now, all your lies and me not sayin’ anythin’ are the only things keepin’ you out of a prison cell for attempted murder.”

“I didn’t try to kill you Gator. Why would I do that?”

Gator scowled. “You think I’m stupid? Like I don’t see how you look at me?”

He released your chin and grabbed your arm, hauling you up from the bed. You were too weak to fight him as he yanked the wires off your chest and ripped the IV painfully from under your skin. The machinery began to beep frantically, but he ignore it, dragging you towards the small bathroom attached to your room.

"We're gonna have a little chat," Gator growled. "Somewhere nice ‘n private."

"No," you begged, digging your heels into the linoleum, but the grippy socks were no match for his strength. "Gator, please."

"Shut up ‘n move."

He shoved you into the bathroom and kicked the door shut behind him, locking it with a click before backing you up against the cold tiled wall, trapping you with his own warm body. The position felt all too familiar, and a sob wracked your body painfully.

"You're scared," he murmured with a fake softness, looking down at you. "Why’re you so scared, darlin’? I'm the one who almost died.”

"Get away from me," you pressed your weak hands against his chest to push him away, but it was like pushing against an immovable mountain.

"Awe, come on baby. Don’t be like that," Gator’s eyes drifted over your face. "You're shakin’ like a leaf."

He reached down and grabbed the hem of your hospital gown. "Guess you were gonna be doin’ that anyway. You’re just jumpin’ the gun a little.”

"No!" You tried to slap his hand away, but he caught your wrist easily, jerking you around and twisting it behind your back. The pain shot up your arm, making you gasp.

"I've had just about enough of yourfuckin’ talkin’," Gator hissed in your ear. "You tried to kill me. Then frame me, an’ now you're lyin’ to the cops about me.

"I didn't!" you cried out, tears streaming down your face. "I-I love you! I would never -“

"Bullshit," Gator said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You hate me. You've always hated me.”

“No -“

“But I think what you really hate is that you failed. Little Miss Independent just can’t fuckin’ stand that she’s stuck with me."

“I -“

“We can pretend this stint in the hospital didn’t even happen. All you gotta do is behave. Do what I say. I’ll forget all about it.”

You stiffened, a cold wave of panic washing over your slightly feverish body. “You’re not… Why?”

His laugh whooshed against your ears, hot and hollow. “Why? Well, for starters, we can’t have any fun if you’re locked in some prison in the middle of Bumfuck nowhere now, can we?”

He used his knee to force your legs apart, moving in closer so you were pinned against the wall. Your cheek pressed against the cool tile, and worse - you could feel him, hard and insistent against your lower back. Whether the proximity or your fear turned him on, you weren’t entirely sure. 

“Second,” Gator mused, smoothing your hair with his rough hand. “It’s the perfect bargainin’ chip, dontcha think? We’ll agree to chalk this time up to some food poisonin’. Get those dumbass cops off our backs. But you know that I know. And if you step so much as a toe outta line - and I say anythin’ - my daddy’ll throw you in a cell so fast you head’ll spin clean off. How’s that sound?”

Your heart sank. What had you expected to happen with a half-assed murder attempted?Certainly not Gator seeing through it all in only a few hours - much less poke so many holes in it.  Fuck, you’re an idiot. 

"So now," Gator continued, his free hand sliding up under your gown, "We're gonna hafta renegotiate some stuff. No more lyin’. No more runnin’. Got it?”

His fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, making you flinch.

"Please," you begged, your voice trembling. "N-not now - I'm sick. I just got my stomach pumped."

"Probably shoulda thought about that before you tried to poison yourself to cover up the fact that you tried to kill me, sweetheart," Gator countered. His fingers moved higher, tracing the edge of your panties. "Now, seems like you need a little reminder of who's really in charge here."

He didn't wait for a response, much less your permission. He just shoved his hand under the fabric of your underwear, his fingers rough and demanding. You gasped, hating the brutal reminder of his power over you.

But there was something else there too - a dark, terrifying thrill that you loathed yourself for feeling. Don’t think about -

"Goddamn," Gator whispered, smiling against the shell of your ear. "You act like you hate me, but your body’s tellin’ a different story."

"I'm not -“

"I’m not - sure, baby," Gator mocked. He pushed a finger inside you, crooking it skillfully, and you couldn't stop the gasp that escaped your throat. It felt like a betrayal of your morals to even acknowledge that it felt good as it moved in and out of you to a rhythm only Gator and your body could hear.

"See?" he muttered, adding a second finger, stretching you. "You're mine. Every goddamn part a’ you."

He pumped his fingers in and out of you, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it in slow, torturous circles. Your hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more friction and pressure. More… Gator. Fuck. 

You hated him. But apparently not enough, given how your body was responding to him. Was this was Stockholm syndrome felt like?

"You're so fuckin’ tight," Gator grunted, nipping at your neck. "Like a vice. Tryin’ to crush me."

"Stop," you gasped, your hands weakly pushing against the wall. "Please stop."

"Not ‘till you admit it," Gator growled, his fingers moving faster. "Admit you tried to kill us.”

"I didn't!" you cried out, climax building despite your terror. "I didn't do it!"

"Liar," Gator hissed. He curled his fingers inside you, hitting that spot that made your vision go white. So close… “Say it."

"I... I..." You were close. So close. The pleasure was a tidal wave, dragging you under.

"Say it!" Gator demanded, his other hand gripping your hip, bruising you. "Say you tried to poison me!”

“No -“

“Then tell me how much you hate me.”

“I hate - y-you killed my parents -“

“Yeah. I did. And you tried to kill both of us - I’d say we’re pretty fuckin’ even.”

I did.

The blatant admission shot through your veins like lava. You knew he’d been lying to you several days before when you’d tried to interrogate him about his involvement - but a part of you still hoped that he wasn’t truly the cause of all your grief. Despite all the other evidence to the contrary. He’d ruined your life. And he didn’t even give a shit.

“W-why -“

“Because I could.”

He crooked his fingers one final time, and his arm slid around your waist as you convulsed. It felt like adding insult to injury as your body clamping down around him as waves of pleasure ripped through you. It was intense, shattering, and utterly devastating. A sob tore from your throat. Gator held you up as you slumped back against him, your legs trembling so badly you could hardly stand. He didn't stop moving his fingers, drawing out every last drop of your climax, wringing you out.

"Good girl," he whispered, kissing your temple. "Wasn't so hard, was it?”

He slowly pulled his fingers out of you, the sound obscene in the small space. He brought his hand up to his face, inspecting the glistening fluid on his skin.

"Told you," he said, smirking. "You're all mine."

He reached over and turned on the sink, rinsing off his hands - not even bothering with soap - while you slid down the wall to the floor, curling into a ball and burying your face in your knees.

"Get up," Gator commanded, drying his hands on a rough paper towel. "We're gonna get a good night’s sleep. And tomorrow, you're gonna tell those cops that you made a mistake. You were confused. That you took the pills yourself because you were grievin’ or whatever. I don’t give a shit how you sell it, but by this time tomorrow we’re both gonna be back home in our own bed. Got it?”

“I’ll tell them you killed my parents.”

“An’ I’ll tell them you’re a liar who tried to kill me and yourself. We can go in circles all night baby, I know the law.”

You looked up at him, your eyes red and swollen. "I already told them… They won't believe me."

"They will," Gator said confidently. "Because as the end of the day, I tried to save your life when the EMTs got there. You look insane - I look like the hero.” 

He reached down and hauled you to your feet. You were weak, your body still humming with the aftershocks of the orgasm. He straightened your gown, smoothing down the fabric with a fake tenderness that made you want to scream.

"And if you ever try something like that again," Gator whispered, opening the bathroom door, "I won't be so nice next time."

He marched you back into the hospital room and sat you down on the edge of your bed. You sat there - numb, broken, and choking on the convoluted web of your current life as the cause of all of it walked towards the door.

C = Cum - Bosco finds the messiness of sex both fun and slightly annoying - depending on the day. He enjoys marking his partner - watching his release on your skin satisfies a possessive streak. But like then he knows he’ll have to clean it up afterwards, which is less enjoyable because he’d rather go straight into wrapping around you like a boa constrictor & falling asleep.

D = Dirty Secret - Despite his confident public persona, Bosco has overthought/practiced various sexual scenarios in private to ensure he'll never appear inexperienced or inadequate with anyone. I think he secretly fears being discovered as someone who needs to prepare rather than naturally excelling at absolutely everything. If he dies, erase his internet browsing history ASAP.

E = Experience - Bosco’s got moderate experience - enough sexual encounters to know what he's doing/what he’s good at, but not so many that he's entirely jaded in that aspect of his life (even if he is a bit more cynical in others). His partners tend to be a bit surprised at his skill, unaware how much preparation goes into his performance in bed.

F = Favourite Position - Depends on the person. If it’s a quick/one-&-done hookup, anything goes. If it’s a longer evening or a more committed sort of relationship, Bosco prefers positions where he can maintain eye contact and observe your reactions. His favorite is having his partner ride him while he sits or reclines - it gives him control (& you the illusion of it) while allowing him to watch every expression. He probably also enjoys positions where he can whisper dirty shit in your ear, using his deeper voice to heighten your experience. Because we all know he’s probably not capable of shutting the hell up ever.

G = Goofy - Bosco strikes me as someone who is more mischievous than “goofy” when it comes to sex. And even then I’d bet he takes sex kinda seriously at first, treating it like another performance. But as he becomes more comfortable, his dry wit emerges more frequently. I think he’d also like saying stuff that either makes you laugh (& therefore takes some of the seriousness out of the moment/pressure off of him to perform) or squirm/blush - depending on his mood.

H = Hair - The hair on his head is crazy, I’d have to assume the curtains match the drapes. He’s not like unclean or anything, I just don’t think he’s a jungle tamer sort of guy (& he doesn’t care if you are or aren’t either).

I = Intimacy - True intimacy both terrifies and fascinates Bosco. He creates emotional barriers even during physical intimacy & uses his confident persona as protection. For some reason I feel like he’s got a fair amount of abandonment issues (given how close he keeps the people he cares about) When these barriers do eventually or occasionally drop - he becomes surprisingly tender and vulnerable. These glimpses of his authentic self are rare but prove that he’s got a depth that contradicts his seemingly surface-level charm.

J = Jack Off - Often because he’s a young man & that’s the vibe that young men bring to the function.

K = Kink - I’m inclined to believe that Bosco's primary kink is more psychological rather than physical - like he's drawn to power dynamics and the illusion of control. He enjoys consensual dominance, probably involving sensory deprivation (blindfolds, fuzzy pink handcuffs, etc etc) that heighten other senses. Maybe also some temperature play (I think ice would be fun, but if he trusted himself enough with like hot wax I think he’d be into that too). He also has a fascination with orgasm control/edging, both giving and receiving. The idea of someone willingly surrendering control to him (of all people!!) satisfies him immensely.

L = Location - While he appreciates the comfort of his or your bedroom, he finds something thrilling about semi-public places where discovery adds risk to the encounter (backstage areas before a show, locked dressing rooms, etc) appeal to his sense of adventure. He also enjoys locations with mirrors, finding the visual aspect of sex compelling - watching reactions from different angles really gets him going.

M = Motivation - Bosco is for surreeeee turned on by intelligence & wit - someone who can match his verbal sparring/banter/humor. Matches his freak if you will . I also feel like vulnerability would weirdly intrigue him (even if he doesn’t fully understand why he likes that)- specifically in people who appear confident in public but reveal softer sides in private. The moment someone trusts him enough to drop their defenses, he feels a strong mix of desire & protectiveness. Like in the right context I feel like he could even occasionally be kinda turned on by tears (not of like, true anguish or pain tho). Additionally, he's motivated by praise and appreciation - having his skills (magical or sexual) acknowledged affects him more deeply than he’d probably admit out loud.

N = NO - He’s not gonna engage in anything that permanently marks or harms. Despite his interest in control dynamics, he’ll be clear boundaries/safewords. He also avoids public humiliation (while semi-public risk excites him, actual embarrassment of his partner is a hard limit). He won't participate in non-consensual scenarios of any kind. Also despite his performative nature, he won't fake enthusiasm or responses during intimate moments - & he wants to make sure you don’t either.

O = Oral - I think since he’s a pro yapper that over the years he’s gotten pretty good at oral. In his younger years he probably would’ve been way more into receiving than giving, but as he’s matured he sees the benefits of giving (both for you & himself). He views eating you out almost like a competition with himself - always trying to be better than last time. Make you moan louder, or squeeze your thighs around his head harder.

P = Pace - It depends. He tries to be attuned to his partner's responses and adjust accordingly - but I feel like he’s prone to going hard & fast unless asked to slow down.

Q = Quickie - The guy def loves a quickie - especially backstage before a show. A broom closet or abandoned dressing room HATES to see him coming !!!

R = Risk - Bosco is for sure calculated in his risk-taking. He enjoys experimentation but approaches new experiences with research and preparation. He'll try most things at least twice. The idea of being discovered in compromising situations excites him, creating a tension he finds super arousing. He's particularly drawn to psychological risks - power exchanges, trust exercises, scenarios that test emotional boundaries.

S = Stamina - I’m sure when he was younger he was a bit of a one pump chump, but nowadays he has decent stamina because he’ll be damned if he blows it after a few thrusts. If he gets a short rest in between, he’s capable of multiple rounds.

T = Toy - He’d be the type of partner initially who’s like “what the hell do you need toys for? I’m right here??” & unless you really insisted that’d probably be the end of it. But he’d try anything for you, so if you pushed him & told him you wanted to bring them into your sex life, he’d fold like a house of cards. It would take some getting used to, but he’d eventually come to see them as teammates & not as a threat.

U = Unfair - Oh the guy is an EXCEPTIONAL tease, probably using some of the same misdirection techniques he employs in magic to build anticipation. He'll hint at pleasures to come, create false expectations, then deliver something even more satisfying. He particularly enjoys verbal teasing - describing in detail what he plans to do, making you blush, & then forcing you to wait. For him, the buildup is as important as the release, and he takes particular pride in watching desire grow until you’re practically begging.

V = Volume - I don’t think he’s like, shouting or growling during sex (something tells me he’s used to having roomies - & I doubt he wants Charlie or June to hear him because they’d never let him hear the end of it), but I’m sure there’s some heavy breathing/mild grunting. I feel like he’d be more focused on trying to get you to make noises that he is on making them himself.

W = Wild Card - Majorly into shower sex even though it can be kind of precarious. He also won’t say no to a bubble bath with you. Anything to get you suds up & pliant.

X = X-Ray - Bosco is proportionally endowed - neither exceptionally/painfully large nor disappointingly small, but perfectly suited to his taller frame.

Y = Yearning - He’s not someone I’d classify as a top tier/silent yearner. If he wants you - trust & believe that you’ll be made VERY aware pretty quickly. Though if we’re talking about like how often he wants sex - however often you’re down.