don't you hear them?

John keeps his eyes trained on the road, but his peripherals are busy soaking up every minute movement Alan makes (or doesn't). He appreciates the tension between them if only because it proves that Alan recognizes the gravity of his words, truly a preacher separated from his one-man congregation by a lake of fire... to fear is to respect. "Seems like you got something to say," John grates out, the roughness of his tone rising only barely above the rumbling road noise. "So say it."

max doesn't have to ask how john knows his initials, given that his full name—as far as he's concerned, anyway—is plastered all over dreadmore for everyone to see. he puts up enough posters for most people to know of him, even if they don't know him. "rose petals go a long way, too," he offers, unserious as always. "candles, too. they really set the mood." now he just wants to go home and climb in his tub, but... that would involve cleaning it. oh, well. maybe someday. "that's actually not a bad idea, now that you mention it. maybe i'll go shake down the old folk's home after this." his real purpose is, um.... well he's getting there. "what are you doing here, old timer? need a cup of joe to get through to five o'clock, or what?"

John considers not answering Max's question until his own is addressed, as politeness would dictate, but he knows there's no reasoning with him as far as politeness goes. "Sometimes like to treat myself to a little trip to town when the chores are done, enjoy some fresh-ground coffee instead of Folgers." Speaking of, he's due for a refill... John sets the mug on the edge of the counter, twitches up the brim of his hat to the woman walking around with a carafe. "See what the rest of Antioch is up to. Catch up with local legends." His sarcasm is dry as bone.

Even now Alan exudes that fear, that coiled spring in him like he's ready to run for it, but it's pathetic more than infuriating nowadays. John's boots scrape gravel as he steps back, folds his arms, gives the car and his son a discerning frown...before he starts back to his truck. "Can't have you dying of heat stroke waiting for a tow," he calls over his shoulder, pulling a heavy tow chain out of the bed. "Let me pull you back to town." An order more than an offer.

A cloud of white dust kicks up in his wake as John drags the chain back to the car's front bumper, crouching to clip its heavy double hooks up onto the frame. He gives it a testing rattle, ensuring both connections are secure so he only has to stand back up from the position once. "Throw her in neutral, turn on the hazards and get on up in the truck. We'll take it nice and slow." He expects Alan to know the basics of towing a car, but providing instruction would help them bridge any gap between what Alan knows and what John needs from him.

And now his unwanted company brings up a cut and before he can stop it John's face twitches into a smile - he drags his eyes back up to Max, the corners of them creasing with faint amusement. "Well, if you'll recall, I offered you your cut. You turned it down. Lead a horse to water, but can't make him drink, huh?"

"hey now, my insides are just as good as my outsides." it really depends on who you ask. doctors might disagree. priests certainly would. to him, he's nothing short of peak human condition. it's not his fault that it's so removed from the world they live in that he has to, um... supplement. "pretty sure cougars run away from people, anyway. unless they're bent over. i don't make a habit of bending over when there's cougars around." what is he even talking about, anymore? max snorts. "what, if i joined you and your merry band of men? i've got my own drum to beat on, man." he shakes his head. "you could have at least offered me a shower."

"Y'know, you're right. Next time I'll be sure to draw up a bath, set out some cucumber slices and a monogrammed robe. MM, right there on the chest." He shifts a little in the booth, adjusts his sore legs and knees and brings up an arm to lay across the bench's padded back. "So what's the story here, Max? You just slink around, aimless, looking for old folks to harass?"

it doesn't last, though, as what John has become stalks up and grinds that old, soft inclination into the dirt. "I'd say so," John agreed after a second, and now that he's decided not to make eye contact he turns away to watch the smoke drifting out from under the hood. A quick tilt of his head confirms that the car is leaking coolant all over the gravel. "Car's leaking like a stuck pig. A mechanic drives a shit car all the way out here without a plan?"

john's moment of joy—invisible to him—isn't shared. alan grips the wheel tightly, lips drawn into a thin line. he hopes his father can't see his pulse in his throat. he's always been a little bit afraid of him. that hasn't changed. if anything, it's worse now that he's away. instead of being a controlling parent, john has morphed into more of a nightmare, a creature under the bed. "i had a plan." it's a weak protest, but a protest all the same. "now i'm on a different plan. i'll just call a tow from the shop." normally, he would step out of the vehicle to do that, but he doesn't trust that he won't be knocked upside the head and dragged back into the woods. at least it would have shown some effort.

Even now Alan exudes that fear, that coiled spring in him like he's ready to run for it, but it's pathetic more than infuriating nowadays. John's boots scrape gravel as he steps back, folds his arms, gives the car and his son a discerning frown...before he starts back to his truck. "Can't have you dying of heat stroke waiting for a tow," he calls over his shoulder, pulling a heavy tow chain out of the bed. "Let me pull you back to town." An order more than an offer.

As obnoxious as Max's company is, John somehow knew that, after their last encounter, they were sure to see each other again. Max has the presence of a popular song on the radio (however dated the frame of reference): dogged, persisting, the favorite of some and the dreaded earworm to so many more but, ultimately, harmless. If anything, having someone seated on the other side of the table makes John’s scouting a bit less conspicuous. He takes another drink, licks it out of his mustache. “Meat's good, by the way... little fur here and there, but decent work. You have time to reflect on the experience?"

"not just water," he snorts, shaking his head. "you weren't that thorough. if something was going to eat me, i don't think it would have cared if i was drenched or not." his brows arch, a playful challenge glittering in his eyes. "i mean, would you?" it's not being wet in and of itself that bothers him, although it had been a fair inconvenience for him. theoretically, it would have been just as inconvenient to walk home covered in gore and blood... but how is he supposed to know when he's never done it? wet pants, on the other hand... he knows that problem a little more intimately. he would have appreciated the opportunity for a different experience. by the tail end of john's question, he has other problems to consider. namely, his ears going bright pink. reflect? is he trying to imply something? thankfully, his expression holds. maybe that's one advantage the old man has over him—the hat he wears hides the tips of his ears. too bad that max wouldn't be caught dead in something like that. he'll just have to do what he always does when problems arise—ignore it until it goes away or snowballs. "so you admit i'm good for something, huh? don't suppose you ever thought about giving me a cut. you know, for all my help."

And now his unwanted company brings up a cut and before he can stop it John's face twitches into a smile - he drags his eyes back up to Max, the corners of them creasing with faint amusement. "Well, if you'll recall, I offered you your cut. You turned it down. Lead a horse to water, but can't make him drink, huh?"

"...hi, dad." his voice is meek, much quieter than john's. there's no point in pretending like he's in any position to drive away... not when the engine is smoking like this. it's not even his. he's just trying to work out the kinks. "...the engine's busted, i think."

it doesn't last, though, as what John has become stalks up and grinds that old, soft inclination into the dirt. "I'd say so," John agreed after a second, and now that he's decided not to make eye contact he turns away to watch the smoke drifting out from under the hood. A quick tilt of his head confirms that the car is leaking coolant all over the gravel. "Car's leaking like a stuck pig. A mechanic drives a shit car all the way out here without a plan?"

a master in the art of inviting himself, max sits across from john without even the slightest bit of hesitation. it's not that someone out of the know ( correct or conjecture ) would find him intimidating—although he's old and broad and tall enough for that—but that, instinctively, they know not to get in the way. max has always lacked that same instinct, whether by birth or by a good stomping out. "i've got a bone to pick with you," he says, brow arched. if there's anything serious about the situation, it seems to pass him right by. not even the intensity of the old man's gaze can shake him. "hey, are you even listening to me?" he waves a hand in front of his face like he's in a trance, and not simply paying mind to someone else. "you know how fucking annoying it is to walk a few miles in wet jeans?"

As obnoxious as Max's company is, John somehow knew that, after their last encounter, they were sure to see each other again. Max has the presence of a popular song on the radio (however dated the frame of reference): dogged, persisting, the favorite of some and the dreaded earworm to so many more but, ultimately, harmless. If anything, having someone seated on the other side of the table makes John’s scouting a bit less conspicuous. He takes another drink, licks it out of his mustache. “Meat's good, by the way... little fur here and there, but decent work. You have time to reflect on the experience?"

John decides that tagging along like a lost dog definitely doesn't give the right impression and so he returns to the living room, sits in one of the leather armchairs leaned forward with his elbows set on either knee. "Land's belonged to Weavers for a long time. Me and my wife decided to build this house on it when we got married, start up a family in it." He picks up one of the wine bottles, turns it around in his hardened fingertips though his eyes aren't on the label. "You an outdoorsy guy then?"

John’s dark gaze finally settles back on Maharth, then, and though his blood courses out of his heart like hares from a smoking warren he grows still as ever. “I know what brought you here, Maharth. The same thing that keeps me here.” The only part of him that moves is one of his boots, the squared toe lifting an inch to tap back down on the floorboards. "You hear it too... don't you?"

"so," he starts, irritating in his own smug confidence; "it's not the actual act that motivates you. just the message." it's not that he holds any superiority over the concept—although, duh—but it would have been unlike him not to point out contradiction where he sees it. the old man's devotion seems to run a little deeper than his own. he wonders, at times, if he would have been susceptible to other messages, but it all seems so unlikely. the reason they, he and the underneath, work so well together is that they want the same thing. john, by contrast, just seems to follow along with whatever this it he speaks of wants. max makes a noise in the back of his throat, partway between indignation and surprise. leave? him? now? here he's been hoping john would invite him over for dinner. his attitude pretty much makes that impossible, of course... "just... out in the woods?" he asks, brows arched. it all seems so strange, but then... what about this wouldn't? all those rumors would have said he'd be killed by now. "you're not even gonna walk me back? here i thought you were all about the lost."

"Needed a rinse-off. Walk slow enough, you might be dry when you get home."

Leaving Ari to carry out the instruction John moved to the other end of the oblong room, dried dirt scattering in his wake, to where a less-recognizable body sat slumped in a chair, lengths of rough cord binding it there. "Guess Mr. Paulson didn't make it," was his next observation, slipping a knife from his pocket and beginning to cut the corpse loose. "Give me a hand, would you? Figured we'd put some of him in Luci's garden."

using a body to make luci happy was possibly one of the best uses for it, especially since she'd use it to grow better supplies. ari didn't complain as he went to grab the shoulders of the former mr. paulson, but he wouldn't have complained anyway. john weaver was one of the few people who didn't catch his snark, and besides, dealing with miss richards had left him in a pleasant mood. "seems like the more time passes, the more people keep coming around the commune."

"Skinnier than he used to be, but not any skinnier than the last time I saw him." At least he seemed skinnier than when he was with John - and Gim carefully didn't think of it as when Alan was home, because he didn't think Alan would appreciate it. John might not appreciate his care, either, but neither of them were privy to his thoughts, so what did it matter? "Not starving skinny. I wouldn't let that happen and you know it, and besides - he and Gen are talking again, so she checks in on him." One way or another, Alan was going to end up with food and access to basic care, no matter how stubborn Weavers tended to be.

A heavy ache seeped into John's stomach, that same one that always found him when he and Gim discussed such things, and suddenly to keep standing seemed like an impossible task for his half-gnawed bones. "Suppose I should thank you both, then, for making sure he don't end up a ditch. Kid got his mother's wanderlust but none of her reason." John swung his dark gaze back up to carefully watch Gim's face, then, brow creased with stubborn, if not weary, resolve. "He's the one who left, Gim. I'm not gonna take this guilt when all this mess was his choice."

He counts off on his fingers, one by one. "One: complex outside the limits where members are isolated. Two: high security and secrecy among members to the point of mythology. Three: it's a small town, and honestly—gossip works. Sometimes." It's easy, and while he has his misgivings, there's an eerieness that lets him keep a firearm within a holster whenever he's not on call. "Not my fucking business, though. I'll let shit slide until I can't."

"Ooh, kicking the hornet's nest, ain't you? Gotta be careful, may step on something that won't let you go." John lets the comment linger a bit in the space between them before he smiles, smiles, with a flash of teeth and a small, husky chuckle. It's a rare expression on him, but he wears it well. "C'mon, don't you think you're being a little hard on them? Nothing wrong with people who don't wanna be messed with. Figured you'd kind of be into that yourself."

Better than him. He could have laughed, he should have laughed, but ethan knew better than to show that in front of John. Less he wanted anger his father anymore. He stayed. The words echoed in his mind over and over again. no choice. He supposed in this situation he didn't. Maybe he was far too gone, or too stupid to realize what a fucking joke his life is. But in the moment, he accepted it, accepted that he was the only choice. you poor unfortunate soul. He felt his fist tightening, hard enough that it was almost white, but he nodded in agreement with his father. "Then that is what I'll do, redirect that anger."

He reached out then, rested his large, soil-stained hand gently so that his thumb aligned with his son's strong cheekbone and each of his fingers lay nestled in the messy, dark waves at the back of his head. "I'm glad to have you here with me, son," John said and his voice was warm like blood. "You and I, we're the same. Stubborn. Immovable. I need you to be strong." He looked deep into Ethan's face, those dark, intense eyes that looked so much like his own. "Can I depend on you, Ethan?"