Pocket Stories

Chapter Seven: Idle Hands.

Instead of being arrested, a blind and injured Gator Tillman is hidden on a farm by a kid who thinks fugitives are more interesting than homework. What starts as temporary shelter turns into something dangerously close to family.

TW: Graphic descriptions of injuries, past abuse, abandonment cannon-typical with the Fargo series, cursing.

Word count: ~2.9k

(Cross-posted to AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78456726/chapters/205683856)

A/N: Ugh. Why's he so fine??

Contents:

Chapter One: Rock Bottom.

Chapter Two: Mole.

Chapter Three: Outed.

Chapter Four: Seen.

Chapter Five: Fever.

Chapter Six: Shape of You.

Chapter Seven: Idle Hands.

__~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~__

It was winter the first time Gator got sick following the disappearance of his mom.

He remembered that winter like it was yesterday. Just cold, damp, below freezing, but not a single drop of snow.

He’d woken up shivering, sweat dampening his dark hair.

Sheets twisted around his legs, throat raw, head thick and heavy like someone had packed it full of wet cotton. His skin had that strange, prickling heat that didn’t match how cold he felt.

For a few seconds, he hadn’t understood what was wrong.

“Ma?”

Silence answered him, empty and painfully loud all the same.

He tried again, voice cracking.

“...ma?”

Nothing.

That was when he remembered.

Right.

She wasn’t there anymore.

He’d lain there for a while after that, staring up at the ceiling, letting the feeling settle in his chest. He didn't cry, couldn't. Cause how could she just up and leave them like this? Leave him?

Eventually, he dragged himself out of bed.

His legs felt weak. Reminded him of how he felt getting off his uncle's boat last summer when they visited. Unsteady, shaky. The floor was cold under his feet, sending a sharp chill straight up his spine. He had to steady himself on the doorframe just to get his bearings before stepping into the hallway.

The house smelled faintly of coffee and bacon grease. His stomach turned.

Roy was already up, of course. Roy was always an early bird. He didn't understand how he did it. That man never sat down.

Gator made it halfway down the hall before his head swam hard enough that he had to stop again, bracing a hand against the wall.

“Boy.”

The voice came from the kitchen, slow and measured.

He swallowed.

“Yeah?”

“Get in here.”

Gator pushed off the wall and kept moving.

The kitchen was bright compared to the rest of the house, morning light cutting through the window over the sink. Gator squinted, his head pounding. Roy stood at the counter, coffee in one hand, the other braced flat against the wood like it belonged there.

He didn’t turn around right away.

Just kept talking.

“Sun’s up.”

Gator leaned slightly into the doorway.

“I don’t feel good.”

That got Roy’s attention.

He turned, eyes sweeping over him once. Quick. Assessing.

“Yeah, son. You don’t look good either,” Roy said.

Gator waited.

For what, he wasn’t sure.

Maybe for the part where he’d be told to go back to bed. Maybe for a hand against his forehead, the way it used to happen without him asking.

Nothing came.

Roy took a slow sip of his coffee. “Second Thessalonians.”

Gator frowned faintly, “...what?”

“If a man will not work, neither shall he eat.”

The words landed flat.

Gator blinked at him, sluggish mind scrambling to follow the jump from I feel sick to that.

“I’m sick,” he explains weakly, foolishly thinking it would change anything.

Roy shrugged one shoulder.

“Then you’ll work sick.”

Gator’s jaw tightened.

At the time, it had felt—

Unfair didn’t even begin to cover it.

It felt as though something had been rewritten without his permission. The rules had changed overnight, and nobody had bothered explaining them.

He remembered standing there, swaying slightly on his feet, trying to figure out what he’d done wrong to deserve it.

He hadn’t.

That was the part that took the longest to understand.

Roy just… didn’t care. Not about fevers. Not about shaking hands or burning skin or the way Gator’s vision blurred when he stood too fast.

Care wasn’t part of the equation anymore.

“Wood ain’t gonna stack itself,” Roy added, already turning back to the counter. “And you’ve got chores that didn’t get done yesterday.”

Gator didn’t move.

“Go on,” Roy said.

Dismissive, hands wiped clean. Just a list of things that needed doing.

Gator had gone outside that morning with a fever burning under his skin and an axe too heavy for his arms, splitting wood while the cold air cut through the sweat on his neck.

He remembered the way his hands had trembled, and he had to stop every few minutes just to breathe through the dizziness.

How he told himself he'd never forgive Roy for his cruelty but kept going anyway because hadn’t been another option.

Now—

Now, lying in a bed that isn't his, in a house that doesn't belong to him, with bandages wrapped over his eyes and heat still lingering under his skin—

Gator shifts slightly against the pillow, and that small movement pulls a dull ache through his ribs.

His throat still feels rough, his body still slow. Still not right.

...But better than that.

Better than splitting wood with shaking hands and nobody watching to see if he dropped.

His jaw tightens faintly.

Funny.

Back then, he thought it was the worst thing in the world.

He lets out a slow breath.

What he wouldn’t give now to be fighting something small. Something simple. Something that passed... instead of this.

__~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~__

Gator gets better, technically.

The fever breaks first, just fades out slowly until the heat stops clinging to his skin and his body finally settles into something closer to normal. The chills go with it.

The heavy, disorienting fog in his head lifts enough that he can think without it feeling like a task.

But that’s where the improvement ends because what’s left behind isn’t strength.

He feels it the first time he tries to sit up too fast. The room tilts hard. His stomach drops like he missed a step going down stairs, and he has to grab onto the edge of the mattress just to keep himself upright.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, breath catching.

It takes longer than he expects for the feeling to pass, longer than it should.

By the time the dizziness fades, he’s already irritated.

The second time he tries to stand, it’s worse.

His legs hold, but they don't feel right under him. He grips the wall and waits it out.

Despises every second of it.

Everything costs more now. That’s the part he can’t stand. Sitting up takes effort. Standing takes planning and assistance. Walking takes far too much concentration.

Even small movements like reaching for a stupid glass, shifting in bed, turning his head too quickly, pull something out of him he doesn’t have to spare.

Weakness. Uselessness.

The clearer his head gets, the worse that feeling gets. Now he notices it. Before, the fever had swallowed everything, turning the world into something distant and warped enough that none of it felt real.

Now he’s awake for it and far too aware of how frequently that woman checks on him, how she moves around him and knows when he needs something without asking. 

And of the fact that he hasn’t done a single useful thing since he got here.

It starts small.

A clipped answer here.

A muttered response there.

Shorter patience.

Less tolerance.

“You tired of hovering?” he mutters at one point when he hears her pause in the doorway again.

“I’m checking on you.”

“I ain't needin' you up my ass all day.”

"Fine," she huffs.

He can’t see it, and he can't prove it, but he can hear it in the way she moves. Sharp, dismissive.

Yeah. He thinks she flipped him off.

The better he feels, the less excuse he has for that uselessness.

Being sick is one thing. Being helpless is another.

And right now, he can’t tell the difference.

It's the seventh day of constant bedrest when he gets fed up.

Gator sits at the edge of the bed longer than he needs to.

Listening.

Tracking her movement the way he’s learned to.

Cabinet... Sink...

Boots crossing the kitchen heavily.

He exhales slowly through his nose.

“…Hey.”

The word carries out into the hallway.

Her steps pause.

A second later, they shift direction, headed closer.

She appears in the doorway without making a show of it, leaning lightly against the frame. “Yeah?”

He rolls his shoulders once, like he’s trying to shake something loose. “I can help.”

A beat.

“With what?”

“Anything.”

He gestures vaguely, hand cutting through the air before dropping back to his thigh.

“Chores. Fix something. Hell, I can stand there and hold stuff if you need.”

The offer comes out rough, almost pleading.

She watches him for a second. Takes in the way he’s sitting, upright, but tight. The way his fingers keep flexing like he’s trying to work feeling back into them. The slight delay when he turns his head toward her voice.

Then she says, simply,

“No.”

Gator stills.

“…No?”

“Uh-uh.”

His jaw tightens.

“I’m not asking to run a marathon,” he mutters. “I can carry a damn laundry basket.”

“Gator, you can barely walk to the bathroom without getting dizzy.”

“I ain't tryna sprint with it.”

She pushes off the doorframe and steps into the room instead, arms folding loosely across her chest. “You’re still fragile.”

The word lands wrong.

He bristles immediately.

“I’m not fragile,” he snarls.

She pinches the bridge of her nose. A pause. “You're healing. You need to rest.”

Silence stretches between them. Tight.

He exhales sharply through his nose.

“Th least I could do—”

“No.”

The answer cuts clean.

His shoulders go rigid.

“I ain't fragile,” he mutters again, arms crossed.

She watches the reaction come and go and sits at his bedside, tone changing just enough to redirect instead of argue.

“You wanna help that bad?” She asks.

He almost perks up.

"Rest."

Gator lets out a humorless huff, “I’m shit at resting.”

“I know.”

“I don’t sit around while other people do things for me,” he mutters. “Fluff my pillow. All lazy 'n shit.”

She tilts her head slightly.

“Where’d you get the idea that resting makes you lazy?”

He pauses.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Yeah, you kinda did.”

He doesn’t argue this time.

His head turns slightly toward the wall, more instinct than intention, like he needs something solid to face that isn’t her.

“…Feels like shit.”

There it is.

Her expression softens.

“I know,” she says quietly.

She hesitates, just long enough to make it a choice, then reaches for his hand.

He stills the second her fingers close around his.

“I don’t like sitting around either,” she continues, voice steady, easy. “It drives me crazy.”

Her thumb moves slowly across his knuckles, grounding.

“But you’re not doing nothing,” she adds. “You’re healing.”

A small pause.

“Which, for the record, you’ve been doing pretty well.”

His jaw shifts faintly.

She keeps going, "you were in bad shape a few days ago,” she says. “Like… really bad.”

Her thumb brushes over his knuckles again.

“You’re up, talking, sassing back at me,” a faint hint of a smile slips into her voice. “That’s progress.”

He exhales slowly.

Still tense but not as sharp.

“Give your body time,” she says, quieter now. “You’ll get back to it.”

A beat.

“Then you can help.”

__~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~__

By the time afternoon rolls around, the house has gone quiet again.

Gator had made it out of the bedroom eventually.

One hand along the wall, the other trailing over furniture he’s already started mapping in his head. Couch edge. Coffee table corner. The faint give of a rug under his feet. He kept his breath measured so he didn’t tip sideways like an idiot. But he’d made it on his own. That is, if you don't count Champ trailing closely after him.

Now he’s settled into the corner of the couch, one arm draped along the backrest, the other resting loosely against his stomach. Champ is sprawled along his legs like a weighted blanket, warm and solid and entirely unwilling to move.

The TV hums in front of him. Charlie's sister had turned it on.

"You watch documentaries?" She'd asked him.

"Do I look like I watch documentaries?" He crossed his arms.

She huffs a laugh, unoffended. "Geez, sass. Well, suck it up. You do now."

Just before she disappeared into the kitchen, she added:

“Nature channel. It has narration.”

He’d grunted something maybe a little unkind in response.

At the time, he hadn’t really cared what it was.

But now...

“…the pup is left alone on the ice,” a calm, almost too-gentle voice says from the speakers.

He exhales slowly.

“Its mother will not return.”

Gator’s jaw tightens, hands gripping his knees. He can't see what's happening, and it's putting him more on edge.

“The ice beneath it continues to thin—”

“Yeah, I got it,” he mutters under his breath.

Champ’s tail thumps once against his leg.

On the screen, the narrator keeps going, voice steady, detached.

“…without protection or food, the young harp seal faces impossible odds—”

“What the fuck,” he breathes, distraught.

He leans forward abruptly, hand fumbling for the remote on the coffee table. His fingers brush it once, miss, then find it again.

The TV clicks off. Silence follows.

He leans back again, dragging a hand over his face.

“…Stupid show.”

Champ shifts, lifting his head just long enough to huff softly before settling again.

He sits there for a second, shoulders tight, like he got caught off guard by something he doesn’t want to name.

From the hallway, the front door opens.

“I’m home!”

Champ’s nails hit the floor at a sprint, tail already thumping against the wall as he barrels toward the entryway.

Gator exhales slowly, letting the moment pass.

“Timing’s great,” he mutters.

Boots hit the floor.

A backpack drops.

Charlie appears in the living room doorway, already mid-sentence.

“Okay so I have homework and it’s stupid—”

He stops.

“…You just sitting in silence?”

Gator shakes his head, "Was watching TV."

Charlie squints at him, "With the TV off?"

“Was done with it.”

Charlie narrows his eyes slightly.

“…without me?”

Gator huffs, “Jesus, kid. You were at school. Wasn’t exactly a kids’ show anyway.”

“What was it?”

“…Seals.”

Charlie brightens immediately.

“Oh, I like seals.”

Gator makes a noncommittal sound.

“…You wouldn’t have liked this one.”

Charlie squints at him.

“…Why?”

Gator shifts on the couch, already over it.

“Sit down. Do your homework.”

Deflection successful.

Mostly.

The kitchen table becomes the next battlefield.

Papers spread out.

Pencil tapping.

A workbook open to a page that immediately earns a groan.

“This shit's stupid,” Charlie mutters.

“Language,” his sister calls from the sink.

“This homework is bullcrap.”

“You're on thin ice, boy,” She waves the wooden spoon she's rinsing at him.

Charlie huffs and flops into his chair harder than necessary.

“It is dumb,” he insists. “Why do I need to know how many watermelons Cindy has if Jonathon has seven apples? That’s not gonna help me pay bills when I'm a grown up.”

From the living room, Gator snorts.

“Depends on the job you get.”

Charlie swivels in his chair.

“…You gonna help me or make fun of me?”

Gator shifts, pushing himself up from the couch with more effort than he wants to show. He steadies himself for a second before making his way toward the table.

“Can do both,” he says with a small grin.

He lowers himself into the chair across from Charlie, exhaling quietly once he’s seated.

“Read it.”

Charlie glances down at the page.

“Okay… uh… ‘If Cindy has twelve watermelons and gives away five—’”

“Five,” Gator repeats, anchoring it.

“—and Jonathon has seven apples—”

“Why does he have apples?”

“I don’t know!”

“Stick to the problem.”

Charlie sighs.

“—how many watermelons does Cindy have left?”

There’s a pause.

“…Seven,” Gator says.

Charlie blinks.

“…Wait.”

He counts under his breath, finger dragging across the page.

“…Oh.”

A beat.

“…Oh.”

Gator leans back slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Yeah.”

“That was fast.”

“It’s just subtraction.”

“Well excuse me for not being a nerd.”

“You know damn well I ain't no nerd. And Jonathon's just a distraction. Don't pay 'im any mind.”

Charlie squints at him, then flips to the next problem.

“Okay, this one’s worse.”

“Read it.”

They fall into a rhythm. Charlie reads. Gator answers. Then explains when Charlie doesn’t get it.

Slower.

Breaking it down.

“Okay, no—listen,” Gator says, reaching for the pencil. “You gotta think about it like—”

He pauses.

The pencil hovers over the page.

“…What were the numbers again?”

Charlie grins immediately.

“You forgot.”

“I didn’t forget.”

“You forgot.”

“I need you to repeat it.”

“That’s forgetting.”

Gator points the pencil vaguely at the page.

“I can't see the problem, you dick.”

Charlie laughs and leans closer.

“Okay, okay—thirty-six divided by six.”

“Six.”

“See? You do remember.”

“Barely tolerating you right now.”

Charlie beams.

He shifts even closer, shoulder bumping into Gator’s arm as he reads the next one slower this time.

And something changes because now Gator has to listen, actually listen. Track it in his head.

From the kitchen, she glances over.

Watches the two of them at the table.

Charlie leaning in, animated, explaining something with his hands.

Gator listening. Engaged. Present.

Certainly different from how her younger self ever saw him.

Charlie finishes the last problem with a dramatic sigh.

“Done.”

“Finally.”

Charlie gathers his papers, stuffing them into his folder, what’s left of it, before pausing.

“…Thanks, Mole.”

It’s quieter this time.

Less dramatic.

Gator leans back in his chair, one hand resting loosely on the table.

“…Yeah, kid. Anytime."

__~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~__

A/N: Hey my lovely readers!

I know it’s been a while. I love this story far too much to ever leave it unfinished, and your kindness and support honestly helped me find my way back to it, so thank you for that. I’m really sorry for the delay. I didn’t mean to be gone this long.

Life just kinda hit all at once for a bit. I got pretty sick, lost my job while trying to deal with that, and ended up in a rough mental space for a while. But things are finally starting to look up again.

I hope everyone is doing well and enjoys this next chapter :) I kept it a little shorter this time mostly just to ease myself into writing again. As always, your comments mean the world to me. I love hearing your thoughts and seeing the little details you pick up on. I see you guys.

Warnings: Slight suggestive themes/language. 18+. You and Steve never put a label on whatever this is. That doesn’t stop him from acting like you’re already his.

The room is dim, lamp on somewhere behind him, casting everything in a soft amber glow that doesn’t quite reach the corners.

Cheek pressed to the warm, solid plane of his chest, the faint scratch of it grounding. It's soft and coarse all at once, familiar now in a way you hadn't intended it to be. His skin is still a little warm, a little damp from earlier, the heat of the day and everything that followed still clinging to him. It mixes with the clean, green scent of cut grass and something darker beneath it. His cologne maybe, worn down to something faint.

Your fingers rest loosely on his side, just barely rising and falling with his every breath.

The steady rise and fall under your cheek.

His hand moves lazily over your back, absent circles like he’s not even thinking about it anymore, just something his body does when you’re here. Thumb dragging, pausing, starting again. Slow enough that it almost lulls you under.

The fan hums somewhere in the corner. There’s a low murmur from the TV, something left on and forgotten. Every now and then, a car passes outside, tires whispering against pavement.

But under all of it is his heartbeat.

Steady. Deep. Loud enough where you're pressed against him that it fills the quiet in a way nothing else can.

You choose to focus on that instead of everything else.

Instead of the lingering warmth still curled low in your stomach or the way your skin still feels too sensitive, remembering everything.

Instead of the fact that—

God.

He cleaned you up.

The thought slips in uninvited, and your stomach twists, something tight and unfamiliar tugging in your chest.

Not embarrassment exactly, or regret. Something softer. Worse.

You press your face a little deeper into his chest, like you can hide from it there.

From whatever this is.

Because it’s not anything. It’s not. At least, it’s not supposed to be.

You haven’t talked about it, haven’t needed to. It’s been easy, too easy, to fall into this rhythm. Late nights. Shared space. His hands, your shared breath, the quiet after.

No expectations or labels.

Just… this.

Your fingers curl slightly against his side before you can stop them.

He doesn’t react, just keeps tracing those slow, steady circles along your back, thumb catching the same little mole every time like he’s memorized it.

He probably has.

Steve Harrington doesn’t do anything halfway.

You still can't believe you're in bed with him.

King Steve.

The name comes with a weight to it, even now. Even here. It lingers at the edges of your thoughts, sharp enough to keep you straight when everything else feels too soft.

He’s been around.

You know that. You know who he's been with.

And you—

You swallow, eyes still closed.

You're just another girl in his bed.

The thought should settle something in you. Make this easier. Cleaner. You could leave first thing in the morning without batting an eye.

Except you couldn't.

Because if that were true, he wouldn't touch you like this.

Careful. Unrushed. So very gentle and tender.

As though he wants to be right here.

You hadn’t even realized you’d gone a little cold.

A shift beneath you, subtle, barely there. And then the blanket gets tugged up higher around your shoulders, tucked in without thought like muscle memory.

Your breath stutters, just slightly.

And then, a soft press of lips against your hairline.

Warm. Lingering.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low, rough around the edges in that way it gets when he’s tired. “Y' okay?”

You hum softly, too tired for words.

Just listen.

To his voice. To his heartbeat. The stillness.

“…yeah,” you finally breathe, the word barely there.

His thumb slows.

Not stopping, just… less absent now. Like he’s a little more aware of it. Of you.

His hand drifts up to cradle your head. The pad of his thumb taps softly on your temple.

“What’s goin’ on up there?” his voice rumbles low in his chest.

Your brow furrows faintly.

“Mm?”

“You got that look,” he says, a little quieter now. “Like you’re thinkin’ too hard.”

You almost laugh at that, but it comes out more like a soft exhale.

For a second, you consider saying nothing. Letting the quiet settle back in, letting yourself drift.

But it feels too full now. Too close.

So you reach for the first thing that isn’t this.

Your fingers shift where they rest against him, tracing a small, absent line along his side before going still again. “Just thinking about work.”

He hums, the sound vibrating faintly under your cheek. You feel the way his chest shifts beneath you, like he’s lifting his head just slightly to look down at you.

“Work?” he echoes, not quite incredulous, but close. “You’re thinkin’ about work right now?”

You shrug slightly against him.

“It’s easier than thinking about everything else.”

He huffs quietly, something between a sigh and a soft laugh.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “You’re off the clock.”

His hand shifts, flattening a little more firmly against your back like he’s trying to settle you there, keep you from drifting too far into your own head.

“You should be resting,” he adds, softer.

The words land warmer than they should.

“What’s wrong?” He asks.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you say quickly, the automatic response. Then, softer, “I just… I need to restock a bunch of stuff in the morning. We’re low on, like, everything. Gauze, antiseptic, those little butterfly closures. I thought I had more, but—”

You stop yourself, pressing your lips together faintly.

His hand stills for a second before it resumes, slower now.

“... but what?” he asks, voice low, a hint of something amused tucked into it.

“Mm.” You nod faintly against him. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not startin’,” he murmurs, but you can hear the smile in it.

His fingers shift, pressing a little more firmly into your back, grounding.

“You could, I don’t know… not do that,” he adds after a second. “Just... be here.”

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, your hand drifts slightly, fingertips brushing over his side without much thought, until they catch on something raised.

You pause.

Your fingers press a little more deliberately this time, tracing the faint outline of a bruise. Rounded. Familiar.

He hisses softly under you.

“Hey—easy,” he mutters, his hand tightening just slightly at your back.

You lift your head just enough to look in the dim light, brows pulling together.

“That’s new.”

He exhales a quiet breath, head tipping back against the pillow.

“Yeah. Took a ball to the ribs yesterday.”

You hum softly, fingers still hovering there before you press just lightly again, testing.

He flinches.

You give him a look.

“…seriously?” you murmur.

“What?” he says, a little defensive now, glancing down at you. “Kid’s got an arm, alright? Came outta nowhere.”

“Uh-huh.” Your thumb traces the edge of it, gentler now. “Let me guess. You weren’t paying attention.”

“I was paying attention,” he insists, a little too quick. “I was just—”

You lift a brow at him.

He exhales through his nose, conceding just slightly.

“Okay, maybe I was a little distracted talking to someone.”

A small smile tugs at your mouth before you can stop it.

“Thought so.”

You shift a little closer without thinking, your palm settling more carefully against his side now, warmth pressed over the bruise like it might help.

“…who was it?” you ask.

He hesitates.

“Dawson,” he says finally.

You let out a quiet huff.

“Of course it was.”

He looks down at you again, something curious in it now.

“What?”

“You sent him to me last week,” you remind him. “Busted lip. Said he tripped.”

Steve goes still for half a second.

“…he did trip.”

You tilt your head just enough to give him a look.

Against his chest, you feel the way he huffs out a breath.

“Alright, he might’ve gotten into it with Jenkins,” he admits. “But I broke it up.”

“Mhm.” Your fingers tap lightly against his side. “After or before he got hit?”

He murmurs, "I've got it handled. Boys play a little rough sometimes."

You huff softly, "Just... make sure no one's getting bullied, alright?"

"I am," he says, voice more confident.

His hand drags slower now along your back, thumb catching that same spot again, but there’s less rhythm to it. More thought.

“You’re in nurse mode,” he murmurs after a second.

“Am not.”

“You are,” he insists quietly. “You’re checkin’ me for injuries right now.”

“I am not checking you,” you mutter, though your hand is still very much resting over the bruise.

There’s a beat.

“…you winced.”

He lets out a soft laugh, low and warm under your ear.

“Yeah, ‘cause it hurts.”

“Exactly.”

He shakes his head slightly against the pillow, hand smoothing over your back again, slower now. Sleepier.

“You don’t gotta do that, you know,” he says after a moment. “Take care of everybody all the time.”

Your fingers still for a second.

Something in his tone shifts. Not heavier. Just… quieter.

More aware.

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you let your cheek settle back fully against his chest, listening again to the steady thud beneath your ear. His hand resumes its path, but slower now, more deliberate than before.

“I don’t mind it,” you murmur after a moment, voice softer than you expect. “Taking care of people.”

He hums, low in his chest.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

There’s something in the way he says it. Not dismissive. Not teasing.

Your throat tightens just a little at that, and you shift your cheek against him, eyes still closed.

Silence stretches again, but it doesn’t feel empty.

His hand slows further, the rhythm of it changing. Like he’s thinking.

Then— “What’s your favorite breakfast food?”

You blink, brows pulling together faintly against him.

“…what?”

There’s a small shift above you, like he’s adjusting on the pillow, suddenly a little more awake.

“I don’t know,” he says, a little quieter now, like he’s trying to explain it before you can question it too much. “Like—if you had to pick. Waffles? Eggs? French toast? Something easy, I could—”

He trails off, the words tangling just slightly.

You lift your head just enough to look at him, squinting a little in the low light.

“Are you serious right now?”

He huffs out a soft breath, almost a laugh.

“Just answer the question.”

You study him for a second longer, something suspicious tugging at the edges of your expression.

“…pancakes,” you say finally, slow. Careful.

A beat.

“Why?”

His hand is still on your back, but it’s not absent anymore.

It moves again, slower this time. More intentional.

He doesn’t answer right away.

And when he does, his voice is quieter than before.

“I could make those.”

Your brows knit slightly.

“What?”

“For you,” he adds, like that clarifies anything. “I mean—if you wanted. They’re not hard.”

You shift a little, propping yourself up just enough to look at him properly now, your arm still draped across his side.

“…Steve.”

There’s a question in it now. A warning, almost.

He exhales softly, eyes flicking down to where you’re resting against him before coming back to your face.

Your lips part slightly, but nothing comes out.

And then, softer—like it wasn’t meant to land as heavy as it does—

“If it meant I get this every night.”

For a second, your brain goes exactly where it always has with him.

Easy. Familiar.

Your gaze flicks up to his, something a little more knowing, a little more guarded slipping into your expression.

Your first instinct is to laugh it off.

“Wow,” you murmur lightly, tilting your head. “All that just to get me back in your bed?”

He doesn't laugh.

His hand tightens just slightly where it rests against your back, thumb pressing in like he’s grounding himself before he says it.

"No, I... I mean, this. Us."

You don’t realize how quiet it’s gotten until you speak again.

“You say that to all your coworkers?”

It comes out softer than you meant it to. Lighter, too. Like you’re trying to make it into something it’s not.

Something easy.

His hand pauses.

Just for a second.

“…no.”

Simple. Immediate.

You shift slightly against him, just enough that your chin tips up, your gaze finding his in the low light.

“…just me?”

There’s a small pause. And then he moves.

Careful. Slow. He shifts his weight, rolling just enough that he’s half over you, one arm braced beside your head. The other comes up, knuckles brushing lightly along your cheek, warm and familiar.

You feel your breath catch before you can stop it.

He’s close.

Close enough that you can see the way his eyes soften when he looks at you.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, something almost amused. Gentle. “Just you.”

The words settle between you.

You don’t look away.

You should.

You don’t.

Your fingers tighten slightly where they rest against him, something small and uncertain pulling tight in your chest.

“I didn’t think…” you start, then stop.

Fuck.

You swallow, your gaze flickering briefly to his shoulder before finding its way back up again.

“I didn’t think this was—” you try again, quieter this time. “Anything like that.”

The words feel strange even as you say them, like you’re naming something you’ve been actively avoiding.

His thumb drags lightly along your cheek, back and forth, slow enough that you feel every pass of it.

“I know,” he says after a moment.

Another small pause.

And then, quieter, “I just…” His brows pull together faintly, like he’s searching for the right way to say it. “I like taking care of you.”

That’s it.

No big speech.

No overthinking.

Just the truth, set down gently between you.

Something in your chest shifts at that, just enough to make it harder to breathe the same way you were a second ago.

Your hand slides slightly against him without thinking, fingers curling against soft skin, just needing something to hold onto.

His arm shifts, pulling you in a little closer without breaking eye contact, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like this, whatever this is, has already been settled.

His hand drifts back down to your back, slower now. Familiar.

He holds your gaze before his head dips. He presses his lips to yours, soft and reverent. Lingering just a second longer this time.

You close your eyes. Just for a moment. Let yourself feel it.

The warmth. The weight of him. The steady rhythm of his breathing, so close it almost matches yours. Feel him pull back and settle a back against the pillows again.

When you open them again, your voice is quieter.

“…okay.”

It’s not an answer.

Not really.

But it’s not nothing, either.

He doesn’t push.

Doesn’t ask for more.

There’s a beat.

Another.

And then, softer “…with chocolate chips?”

The words slip out almost shy, like you’re not entirely sure why you’re saying them until you already have.

A small, quiet offering.

His mouth curves just slightly.

“Yeah,” he says easily, like there was never another option. His hand settles more firmly at your back, thumb brushing slow and steady again. “Whatever you want.”

And this time, when you let yourself settle fully against him again, it doesn't feel like something you'll walk away from come morning.

Maybe that's what you wanted all along.

A/N: My first one-shot 🥹 Ugh I am such a sucker for domestic Steve. What're your thoughts? I needed a little break from longer stories to get me out of my little writing rut. I'll be continuing my other stories soon but this is such a breath of fresh air for me. I may start taking writing requests. Let me know what you all think 😊 Happy Easter, and have a wonderful week everyone!

Chapter Six: Shape of You.

Instead of being arrested, a blind and injured Gator Tillman is hidden on a farm by a kid who thinks fugitives are more interesting than homework. What starts as temporary shelter turns into something dangerously close to family.

TW: Graphic descriptions of injuries, past abuse, abandonment cannon-typical with the Fargo series.

Word count: ~6.7k

(Cross-posted to AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78456726/chapters/205695676)

Contents:

Chapter One: Rock Bottom.

Chapter Two: Mole.

Chapter Three: Outed.

Chapter Four: Seen.

Chapter Five: Fever.

Chapter Six: Shape of You.

Chapter Seven: Idle Hands.

__~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~__

The house wakes before Gator fully does.

A kettle clicks softly in the kitchen, metal shifting as it warms on the stove.

Floorboards murmur somewhere down the hallway. Old wood adjusting under careful footsteps.

Champ’s collar tag jingles faintly when he shakes himself awake in the living room, followed by the dull thump of his tail hitting furniture.

And underneath it all, steady and low, the washing machine hums from the laundry room, working through a slow cycle.

He wakes to the sound of water running.

For a moment he doesn’t remember what all has happened or where he is, then the ache in his head reminds him.

The bandages across his eyes pull slightly when he shifts. His mouth tastes stale, his throat dry, and every muscle in his body feels like it’s been wrung out and hung up somewhere to dry.

He breathes in slowly.

The air smells faintly like laundry soap and coffee.

He's not sure how much time has passed since the last time he surfaced. Minutes? An hour?

This blindness is fucked.

The mattress dips beside him.

He stiffens instinctively.

“Relax,” She says.

Her voice is softer this morning. Still steady, still practical, but missing the sharp edge of urgency from the night before.

“You’re fine.”

He exhales through his nose.

“Didn’t say I wasn’t.”

“Well, you tensed,” she says.

Is she making fun of me?

“I always tense,” he grumbles.

She doesn’t bother arguing.

Instead she reaches for his wrist, fingers settling lightly over his pulse before he can pull away. The contact is warm but efficient, nothing lingering about it.

He makes a low sound in his throat.

“Still doin’ that?”

“Yes.”

“You planning on stopping eventually?”

“No.”

She counts silently, eyes fixed on the second hand of the small watch around her wrist.

The rhythm under her fingertips is better.

Still faster than normal, but steadier now. No skipping, no fluttering, no panic in it.

Gator exhales through his nose, “Thought maybe you’d let me die in peace.”

“Tempting,” she murmurs.

She lets go of his wrist. He hates the way he misses the fleeting contact.

Fabric rustles beside him.

Something plastic clicks.

He suppresses a shiver. This shit is miserable.

“Open.”

Gator sighs, exasperated. “You’ve gotta be kidding.” 

No more, please.

“Open.”

He does it anyway, jaw tight around the plastic stem while she waits.

The seconds stretch.

The washing machine down the hall thumps once as it shifts into another part of the cycle.

Champ’s nails click across hardwood somewhere outside the room.

The thermometer beeps.

She pulls it free and glances down.

“Still elevated,” She murmurs. “But it’s coming down.”

Gator drags a hand weakly over his face.

“Great.”

“You should be sweating.”

“Fantastic.”

“And probably cold.”

“…Yeah.”

She studies him for another moment.

His hair is damp along the edges of his forehead, dark strands sticking slightly. His skin has that clammy sheen that shows up when the body’s finally winning a fight it’s been losing.

“You’re almost through the worst of it,” she says, optimistic, a lighter lilt to her voice.

He shifts under the blanket.

Every movement looks heavy, like gravity doubled overnight.

“Feels great,” he mutters.

“Didn’t say you’d feel good.”

The corner of his mouth twitches faintly.

He leans back against the pillow again, head tilting slightly toward her voice.

“You got other stuff to do.”

“Correct.”

“Then go do it.”

She doesn’t move right away.

A soft silence settles between them again.

Down the hall, the kettle whistles softly.

She stands.

“I’ve got chores to do,” she says.

He tenses again.

“And Charlie has school.”

He doesn’t respond.

Just lies there, shoulders tight under the blanket.

She pauses near the door.

“You’re not being left.”

His jaw shifts.

Didn’t say I thought I was, the movement suggests.

She continues anyway.

“Champ will be in here.”

As if on cue, the dog’s collar jingles in the hallway.

Heavy paws trot toward the room.

Gator hears it.

The door nudges open and Champ trudges in before jumping onto the bed 

The dog circles once before settling heavily, warm against his hip.

Gator exhales slowly.

"Great.”

“He's very responsible," she says, a smile in her voice.

Why does it piss him off so much?

He crosses his arms, "Dog supervision."

"He's better company than you," she giggles.

“That's insulting.”

“You’ll survive.”

Charlie’s sister moves toward the door again.

“If anything feels worse—head, breathing, nausea—you call for me.”

“Not yelling across the house,” he mumbles.

A brief pause as she stares him down. He feels his hair stand on end.

“Fine. Suffer quietly, then.”

He makes a low grumbling sound but doesn’t argue further.

She pauses once more before leaving.

Looks back at him.

He’s already sunk deeper into the pillow again, one arm resting loosely across his stomach, the other draped near Champ’s head where the dog immediately leans into the contact.

“Rest,” she says.

Then she steps out into the hallway, leaving the door cracked open.

The house fills the silence she leaves behind.

The kettle stops whistling.

Cabinets open.

Charlie’s footsteps begin somewhere down the hall.

And beside him, Champ sighs deeply and settles his chin on Gator’s leg like he intends to stay there a while.

Gator exhales.

Something falls down the hall with an unmistakable thump. Gator tilts his head in the direction.

“Shit—!”

A beat.

“I meant—shoot.”

From the kitchen, she calls calmly, “Language.”

“I fixed it!”

Gator hears the cabinet door slam open.

Then another.

Then the rustle of a backpack being dragged across the floor.

The house feels smaller when Charlie’s awake. Full of movement and noise and constant commentary.

It’s… different from the quiet Gator’s used to.

Gator lies half-propped against the pillow, the blanket pushed low around his waist now that the fever’s broken enough to leave him overheating.

His shirt clings slightly across his shoulders.

Gator absently scratches behind the dog’s ear.

The tag on Champ’s collar jingles softly.

Footsteps approach the doorway in haste before the door is pushed open with a light thud.

"Feeling any better?" Comes Charlie's chipper voice.

"Just peachy."

“Cool.”

Charlie nods, satisfied with that answer.

Then he immediately starts talking again, giving the conversation little room to breathe.

“Today we’ve got math first, which is fine because I’m good at math, but after that we’ve got science and Mrs. Wilson said we might start the volcano projects and I think mine’s gonna explode the biggest because I used extra baking soda but I’m not sure if that’s how it works—”

From the kitchen, Charlie’s sister calls, “Shoes.”

“I’m wearing them!”

“You’re holding them.”

Charlie sighs dramatically and drops onto the edge of the hallway bench to wrestle with his second boot.

Gator listens to the small sounds of it.

Laces dragging.

Leather creaking.

The quiet grunt of effort.

Charlie keeps talking the whole time.

“Anyway if it does explode bigger I’m probably gonna get extra credit and that would be cool because then I wouldn’t have to worry about the next test and—”

He pauses.

Looks back at Gator.

“You’ll still be here when I get back, right?”

The question is casual.

But the way he asks it isn’t.

Gator hears that part.

“…Yeah, kid.”

Charlie nods once.

Satisfied.

“I’ll be back after school.”

“Copy that.”

Charlie finishes tying his boot and stands, slinging the backpack properly onto both shoulders now.

He lingers in the doorway for a moment longer than necessary.

Then he points vaguely between Gator and the hallway.

“Be good,” he says.

The command is aimed at both adults.

From the kitchen, his sister laughs softly. “Go.”

“I’m going!”

Charlie stomps toward the front door.

The sound of the zipper on his jacket fills the hallway.

She follows him out.

Gator hears their voices move farther away.

“Lunch in your bag?”

“Yes.”

“Homework?”

“Yep.”

“You sure?”

“Mhm.”

Then, “And remember.”

Charlie groans immediately. “I know.”

“Say it.”

Charlie sighs heavily.

“I can’t talk about Mole at school, I know.”

“Correct.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

The front door opens.

Cold morning air slips briefly through the house.

Charlie pauses on the threshold.

“Bye!”

“Bye,” Charlie’s sister calls.

Gator lifts a hand vaguely toward the doorway.

“Later, kid.”

The door closes.

The house settles.

It’s almost immediate.

The quiet that follows feels thicker somehow, like all the noise Charlie carried with him has been packed up and taken down the street.

The washing machine hums in the distance.

A cabinet closes softly.

Champ shifts before his head settles heavy in Gator's lap with a sigh.

Gator leans back against the pillow.

The silence presses in for a moment.

Without Charlie’s voice bouncing from room to room, everything feels slower. The sounds that remain are smaller, steadier. The kind of sounds people usually don’t notice until the house is quiet enough to hear them.

From the guest bed, Gator drifts.

Sleep comes in uneven waves now. He floats near the surface of it, dipping under for a few minutes before rising again.

His body still can’t decide what temperature it wants.

One moment he’s shivering, shoulders drawn tight under the blanket. The next he’s pushing the covers down toward his waist, skin damp where sweat gathers along his neck and hairline.

The fever moves through him like weather.

Passing. Returning. Passing again.

Every time Gator stirs, Champ’s tail thumps once against the mattress, slow and reassuring.

Guard dog. Or babysitter, he thinks begrudgingly.

Gator dozes again.

Somewhere down the hall the sink stops running.

Footsteps cross the kitchen.

A chair scrapes lightly against the floor.

He wakes briefly to the sound of boots being set by the door.

His head turns instinctively toward it before he remembers he can’t see the room anyway.

The movement makes his head throb.

He exhales through his nose and sinks back into the pillow.

From the hallway he hears the laundry machine click into its spin cycle.

The sound vibrates faintly through the walls.

Chores.

She’s doing chores.

For some reason that bothers him more than the fever and aches do.

He lies there listening to it: the hum of appliances, the occasional creak of floorboards, the quiet rhythm of someone moving through the house getting things done.

Useful hands. Purposeful ones.

His jaw tightens.

He shifts slightly under the blanket, one hand dragging across his face.

Champ lifts his head immediately, ears twitching.

"What're you lookin' at?" He mutters weakly.

The dog answers by pressing his chin back down on Gator’s thigh, grounding and warm.

...Helpful.

Even the dog serves a better purpose than him.

Gator drifts again.

When he wakes this time, the air against his skin feels cooler.

Sweat has dried along the edge of his collarbone, leaving the fabric of his shirt slightly stiff. The blanket has slid halfway down his side.

For a second he forgets where he is.

The ceiling fan clicks overhead.

The washing machine finishes its cycle with a hollow thud.

The house goes quiet for a second after it stops, like it’s catching its breath.

Gator shifts restlessly under the blanket.

Sleep hasn’t been coming easy. The fever still drags him under in short stretches, but it never stays long. Every time he wakes he feels a little clearer, a little more aware of the way his body aches.

And the way he smells.

Sweat.

Antiseptic.

The sour, metallic trace of dried blood somewhere near his neck.

He drags a hand slowly across his face.

“Christ,” he mutters.

Soft footsteps approach before pausing in the doorway.

She’s been checking on him in quiet intervals while she works. Each time she passes the open door she takes a second to look in.

His hair is damp along the edges of his forehead where sweat gathered overnight. The flush in his skin has faded to something more natural. His jaw isn't held tight anymore in pain.

Her gaze drifts lower.

The collar of his shirt is dark with dried sweat. Antiseptic stains mark the fabric where she’d cleaned his wounds the night before. Near the edge of the bandage on his neck, a faint smear of dried blood has worked its way through the gauze.

And underneath it all, grime. What the sponge bath hadn't managed to lift.

Tunnel dirt, dried sweat, the lingering smell of sickness.

She exhales slowly.

Last night had been survival.

Now it’s care.

Different problem. Same stubborn-ass patient.

She steps fully into the room.

The floor creaks under her weight.

Gator’s head turns toward the sound immediately.

“You pacing or something?” he asks.

His voice is still rough, but stronger than it was an hour ago.

“Thinking.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

She ignores that.

Instead she studies him another second.

Then she says, plainly,

“You need a bath.”

The reaction is instant.

“No.”

He doesn’t even pause to consider it.

Just shuts it down.

She expected that.

“Too bad.”

“I ain’t getting in a damn bath.”

“You’re not getting in anything.”

He frowns faintly.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I’m going to help you wash.”

Silence.

Then—

“The fuck you are. What d'you think this is, a daycare?"

His tone sharpens, irritation sliding into it now that his brain is working again.

She folds her arms.

“You're getting cleaned up."

“Absolutely not.”

“Gator.”

“I ain’t a damn child.”

The words come out clipped.

Tight.

He pushes himself up slightly on his elbows, shoulders tense under the blanket like he might actually try to leave the bed just to prove a point.

The movement makes his head swim immediately.

He grimaces.

“Jesus fucking—” His voice breaks.

She doesn’t move toward him yet.

Just watches.

“You’re covered in sweat,” she says calmly. “There’s dried antiseptic on your neck, blood under the bandage, and fever grime everywhere else.”

“That's my musk.”

"That's gross," her nose crinkles.

He exhales sharply through his nose. “I swear, woman. You start touching me, and I'll—"

"You'll do what exactly?" She asks.

Silence follows.

He'll do nothing, cause he's fucking useless.

"What’re you gonna do to me, Gator Tillman?” she asks, calm enough to make the question sting.

"...I'll do nothing."

"Thought so," she hums.

His ears feel hot.

She waits.

Gives him the second he needs to sulk about it.

Then she says, steady as ever,

“I’ll make it quick.”

No answer.

“I’ll keep the bandages dry.”

He exhales again.

“I’ll help you sit up, wash what needs washing, and then you can go right back to sleeping.”

Still nothing.

So she adds the only piece of control she can offer.

“You can hate every second of it.”

His jaw tightens.

“That part I’m already good at.”

“Yeah, well, it’s still happening.”

He mutters something under his breath that definitely includes the word hell and possibly something stronger.

She pretends not to hear it.

Instead she moves toward the edge of the bed and nudges Champ gently off the mattress.

“C’mon, boy.”

Champ hops down obediently, tail swishing once.

Gator hears the movement.

“…You serious right now?”

“Very.”

He drags both hands over his face and groans.

“Goddamn it.”

She reaches for the blanket.

“Sit up.”

“No.”

“Gator.”

“I said—”

She pauses.

Waits.

The silence stretches just long enough to remind him how little leverage he actually has here.

Finally, with a frustrated sigh, he pushes himself upright against the pillows anyway.

Every muscle in his shoulders protests the movement.

“Happy?”

“Oh, just thrilled.”

He sways slightly once he’s upright.

She steadies him automatically, one hand braced against his shoulder.

He stiffens at the contact.

“I got it,” he mutters.

“Sure you do.”

Her hand stays there anyway.

“Hold still.”

He lets out another quiet string of curses under his breath.

But he doesn’t pull away.

She doesn’t rush him.

No sudden pulling at blankets. No grabbing his arms like he’s some drunk idiot she’s dragging out of a bar. Charlie’s sister pulls away.

She moves around the room slowly, deliberately, the way she had the night before when she checked his injuries.

He hears a cabinet open.

A towel being shaken loose.

Water running briefly in the bathroom sink down the hall.

Preparation.

Then her footsteps return.

“All right,” she says.

Gator exhales through his nose.

Here we go.

“I’m right in front of you,” she continues calmly. “About a step away.”

He nods once.

His shoulders are already tight.

“I’m going to help you sit forward,” she says. “Then we’ll deal with the shirt first.”

He mutters something under his breath that definitely isn’t polite.

“Still hate this?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Oh, good. Just checking.”

Her hand settles lightly against his shoulder.

Warm.

Steady.

“Lean forward a little.”

He does it reluctantly.

The movement pulls a quiet sound out of him as sore muscles protest. The fever has left his body wrung out and sluggish. Even sitting upright feels like work.

She pauses the second his breathing hitches.

“Too fast?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“I’m not made of glass.”

She doesn't comment.

She slides her hand between his shoulder blades to steady him.

Then she says, very clearly,

“I’m going to lift your shirt.”

He stiffens immediately.

The reaction is instant. Shoulders tightening, hands curling into the blanket like he might grab onto it just to keep control of something.

“I know,” she says evenly.

He exhales.

“Just do it.”

She does.

The fabric drags slowly over his ribs as she pulls it upward. The cotton sticks in a few places where dried sweat has glued it to his skin.

He winces when it brushes the edge of the bandage along his neck.

“Easy,” she murmurs.

“I’m fine.”

“Grouch.”

“Nag.”

The shirt finally clears his shoulders and she pulls it away.

For a second she just folds it in her hands.

Not staring.

But she can’t not notice.

In the daylight, Gator looks different than he did last night in the kitchen shadows.

But the shape of him is impossible to miss.

Broad shoulders.

Lean muscle across his chest and arms. Even half-starved from illness, the strength in him is obvious.A life lived physically.

Now it’s softened by exhaustion.

Sweat still clings along the hollow of his throat and across his collarbones. A faint tremor moves through his arms as he lowers them again, fatigue settling back into his joints.

She forces herself to stay focused.

Practical.

Just a body that needs care.

Nothing else.

“Cold?” she asks.

He shifts slightly.

“…Little.”

“Fever break will do that.”

She drapes a towel loosely across his shoulders while she talks.

The simple gesture earns a quiet grunt of approval.

“Next part,” she says.

His jaw tightens.

“Yeah.”

“I’m going to help you stand.”

“Fantastic.”

She steps closer.

“Left hand on my shoulder,” she instructs.

He hesitates.

Needing help like this pisses him off.

But after a second his hand lifts and finds her shoulder anyway.

His grip is firm, instinctively careful.

“Other hand on the mattress,” she says. “Push when you’re ready.”

He does.

The world tilts slightly when he stands.

His body sways.

She’s ready for it.

Her hand slides immediately to his back, steadying him before he can pretend he didn’t need it.

“I got it,” he mutters.

“Mm-hm.”

They stand there for a moment while his balance catches up with the rest of him.

"You think you can get your pants down?"

He sighs, "...yeah."

He keeps his grip on her shoulder while using the other hand to try and pull down at his pants, but the cast is in the way. His movements grow sharper, less careful with agitation, grip growing harder on her shoulder.

"Let me," she says softly, gently pulling his casted arm away.

"I swear to God, woman," he grumbles.

She drops to a crouch and lets him rest his hands on her back for support.

She slips his pants and underwear off swiftly, eyes cast anywhere but his privates out of respect.

"One foot at a time," she says, tapping his right leg. He lifts and she shimmies the pant leg off. Then the other, but he stumbles.

She quickly steadies him with a low curse, hand flying up to his hip and pushing him to sit against the bed, eyes traveling up instinctively to make sure he's not hurt. He pants, already exerted.

And without meaning to, she'd seen too much, cheeks burning hot.

He shudders against her, goosebumps collecting under a thin sheen of sweat as cool air hits exposed skin.

She clears her throat, "You good?"

"Yeah."

She helps him to his feet again, slowly.

“Bathroom’s about six steps,” she says. “Door’s open.”

He nods.

“Okay.”

“Ready?”

“No.”

“Good enough.”

They start moving.

Slow.

Measured.

Her hand stays at his elbow while his other arm rests lightly across her shoulders for balance.

His bare feet drag slightly against the floor with each step.

Champ rises the moment they move.

The dog follows closely behind them down the hallway, nails clicking softly against the wood.

The finest escort.

They reach the bathroom.

Steam has already begun to soften the air from the running water in the tub.

Champ circles once at the threshold and settles heavily beside the doorway with a low grunt.

Guard post established.

“Okay,” she says.

They stop.

“You want the door mostly closed or open?”

He snorts faintly.

“Dog’s already supervising.”

“Still your call.”

“…Closed.”

She nudges the door until it’s mostly shut, leaving a small gap near the floor where Champ’s nose immediately appears.

Satisfied.

She turns back to him.

“Water’s warm,” she says. “Not hot.”

“Good.”

“Soap’s plain. No weird scents.”

He nods.

“And I’m going to keep narrating so you know where I am.”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I remember.”

His hands curl briefly against the edge of the counter as he steadies himself.

She steps closer again.

“All right,” she says.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

The tub is already half full by the time she guides him to the edge.

The bathroom has warmed quickly. Steam curls lazily up the tiled wall and fogs the lower half of the mirror above the sink. The air smells faintly of soap and clean water.

The sound of the faucet fills the room—steady, hollow where it strikes the porcelain.

“Water’s about ready,” she says.

Gator nods once, fingers curled loosely around the edge of the counter.

The heat coming off the bath reaches him before the water ever touches his skin. Warm air slides across his legs and up his ribs, carrying the soft mineral smell of the tub.

“…Warm?” he asks.

“Test it yourself.”

She guides his hand down carefully until his fingers brush the surface.

The heat makes him inhale.

Yeah. Not too hot.

Just… right.

His shoulders drop a fraction.

“Okay,” he mutters.

“Step in slow.”

She steadies him again while he lifts one leg over the side of the tub. The porcelain is smooth and slightly slick beneath his bare foot. He grips the edge instinctively, jaw tightening as he shifts his weight.

The first contact with the water pulls a quiet breath from him.

It wraps around his ankle and calf immediately, warmth soaking into skin that’s been chilled by fever sweat all morning.

He lowers himself carefully.

The water rises along his legs.

Knees.

Thighs.

By the time he finally sinks down onto the bottom of the tub, the heat has already begun loosening something in his shoulders.

He exhales slowly, “Jesus.”

Steam drifts upward between them, softening the light in the room.

For a moment neither of them says anything.

Gator leans his head back against the cool tile behind him, letting the water settle around his ribs. His muscles are still tight, still wary, but the heat works on them gradually.

His shoulders lower just a little.

“Comfortable?” she asks.

“Don’t push it.”

“Fine, fine."

She kneels beside the tub and reaches for the soap.

The bottle clicks softly when she flips the cap.

A faint scent drifts up, plain, clean, nothing fancy.

“I’m starting with your shoulders,” she says.

He nods faintly.

“Right arm first.”

She works carefully around the cast, letting the soap slide across his skin before rinsing it with a washcloth dipped in the bathwater.

The cloth glides over muscle still warm from fever.

He shifts once, uncomfortable with the attention.

“Relax,” she says quietly.

“Tryin’.”

She continues, steady and efficient.

Shoulder.

Upper arm.

Forearm.

Each movement deliberate so he knows exactly where she is.

The cloth slides across his collarbone.

And that’s when she sees it.

The rope burn.

It’s healing now, angry pink lines crossing the side of his neck where the skin had been abraded raw. The bruising around it has faded to dull yellow and green.

But there are other marks too.

Older ones.

Faint bruises along his ribs that didn’t come from the tunnels.

Scars she hadn’t noticed in the dim light the night before.

Evidence of a body that’s taken its share of punishment.

Her hand pauses.

Just for a second.

Gator feels the stillness immediately.

“…What?”

She blinks once.

Swallows.

“Nothing.”

The cloth moves again.

The pause disappears like it never happened.

She rinses the soap away from his shoulder and reaches for his other arm.

Careful around the bandages.

Careful around the cast.

Steam beads against the mirror behind her now, tiny droplets gathering along the glass.

The faucet drips quietly.

Outside the bathroom, something shifts.

A soft snuffling sound follows.

Then—

Champ’s nose wedges into the crack beneath the door.

The dog inhales loudly.

Once.

Twice.

The sound is unmistakable.

Gator tilts his head toward it.

“…Is he sniffing the door?”

“Yes.”

Another exaggerated sniff.

Champ huffs loudly as if deeply suspicious of whatever is happening inside.

Gator lets out a faint laugh.

“Guard dog.”

“He's being nosy.”

She nudges the door with her foot until it closes fully.

Champ immediately presses his nose harder against the bottom edge, producing an even louder sniffing noise.

The two of them pause.

Listening.

Gator shakes his head faintly.

“He always do that?”

“He's just curious.”

Another long sniff from the hallway.

Gator exhales slowly and sinks a little deeper into the water.

The warmth has reached his back now, spreading slowly through muscles that have been tight for days.

He doesn’t say it.

But he melts a little.

Just enough that the tension leaves his shoulders.

The cloth moves again across his arm, rinsing away the last of the soap.

She moves on to his chest, scrubbing away at chest muscle and coarse hair. As hard as she tries to stay on track, she finds her cheeks burning again.

"... what kinda soap is this?"

"What?" She asks, torn away from the embarrassing thoughts running amuck in her head.

"The soap. What kind is it?" He repeats, a little agitated.

She pauses in thought, "I dunno. The kind that smells good. Why?"

"...smells nice," he mumbles, almost begrudgingly.

She blinks, "oh."

Then continues scrubbing in small circles. Clean thoughts.

“All right,” she says quietly.

She reaches for the washcloth again and wrings it out once in the bathwater.

Then she presses it into his hand.

“Here,” she says.

Gator frowns faintly.

“What’s this for?”

“Wash your willy.”

He freezes.

“…You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

There’s a pause.

Then he grumbles under his breath and sinks a little lower in the water.

“Christ.”

She turns her back to give him privacy without making a show of it. The cabinet under the sink creaks open as she crouches and begins rummaging through the things inside.

Bottles shift.

Plastic clinks together.

“I swear my dad had some men’s shampoo somewhere…” she mutters quietly to herself.

Another bottle slides aside.

“Ah—there.”

Charlie’s sister straightens again with two small bottles in hand.

Behind her, the water ripples faintly in the tub. Gator clears his throat once, sounding irritated and embarrassed all at the same time.

She doesn’t look.

Just waits until he mutters,

“…Done.”

Then she turns back around.

“All right,” she says. “Next...”

Gator tilts his head slightly toward her voice.

“What now?”

“I’m washing your hair.”

He sighs heavily.

“Of course you are.”

She moves behind him, kneeling beside the tub again.

“Lean back a little,” she says.

He does, reluctantly letting his head rest against the tile behind him.

The heat from the bath has worked its way deeper into his muscles now. His shoulders aren’t as tight as they were earlier. The tension still lives there, but it’s loosening.

She pours a little shampoo into her palm.

The scent is faint—clean, simple.

Then her fingers slide into his hair.

Gator stiffens for half a second.

Then the sensation reaches his scalp.

Warm water.

Slow fingers working through the damp strands.

The tension leaves his shoulders almost immediately.

She massages the shampoo in gently, careful around the bandage near his neck. Her fingertips move in small circles along his scalp, dragging slowly through the thicker parts of his hair where it’s tangled from sleep and sweat.

The movement is steady.

Unhurried.

Gator exhales.

The sound slips out before he can stop it.

His chin tips slightly upward as her fingers work through his hair again, easing the tangles apart.

Water beads along his temples.

Runs down the back of his neck.

His breathing changes.

Slower now.

The tightness in his jaw softens.

She doesn’t comment on it.

Just keeps working the shampoo through his hair, fingers moving carefully from his temples back toward the crown of his head.

The muscles along his shoulders sink another fraction lower.

Like his body finally realized it’s allowed to stop fighting for a minute.

She rinses the shampoo away with a small plastic cup, pouring warm water slowly over his hair so it runs down the back of his head and into the bath.

He makes another quiet sound.

Almost a sigh.

His head tips slightly toward her hand without meaning to.

She pretends not to notice, but she does repeat the motion.

Just a little longer than necessary.

Her fingers comb slowly through his hair again, making sure the last of the soap is gone.

Then she rinses once more.

Water runs down his neck in thin streams, disappearing into the bath.

When she’s satisfied, she finally pulls her hands away.

“There,” she says softly.

A pause.

“That better?”

Gator doesn’t answer right away.

His shoulders stay lowered, chin still tipped slightly upward where it had followed her hands.

Then he clears his throat.

“…Yeah.”

The word comes out quieter than usual.

Almost small.

The bathroom grows quieter once the hair washing is finished.

Steam curls lazily toward the ceiling, softening the light in the room. The mirror above the sink has fogged almost completely now, beads of moisture sliding slowly down the glass.

Gator shifts in the tub.

The water laps quietly against the porcelain as he settles deeper into it, letting the heat soak into muscles that still ache from fever and exhaustion.

For a moment neither of them says anything.

He’s aware of it.

The quiet.

The awkwardness of sitting naked in someone else’s bathtub while they kneel beside it like this is the most normal thing in the world.

He rubs a hand over his face.

“…This is humiliating.”

She snorts softly.

“You think this is my favorite way to spend a Tuesday morning?”

He huffs.

“Probably not.”

“Probably definitely not.”

The corner of his mouth twitches faintly.

He leans his head back against the tile again, letting the warmth seep into his shoulders. His hands drift under the surface of the water, fingers moving absently through the heat.

“Still,” he mutters, “not exactly dignified.”

“Gator.”

“Yeah.”

“You were half-dead in my kitchen yesterday.”

He grumbles under his breath.

“That’s not the point.”

“It kind of is.”

The water ripples slightly when he shifts again.

She sees the tension creeping back into his shoulders and tilts her head.

“You know,” she says lightly, “Charlie handles baths with a lot less attitude.”

“Charlie’s like eight.”

“Exactly.”

“Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m dying in someone else's house.”

That earns a quiet laugh from her.

The warmth in the sound surprises him. It reminds him faintly of the way Charlie laughs, but softer somehow. Less chaotic.

He tilts his head toward the sound.

“What's so funny?" He asks, deadpan.

“You," she giggles. "You're making the grouchiest face right now."

He crosses his arms, "I ain't grouchy."

“Sure, Gator.”

He uncrosses his arms, suddenly self aware. If he leaves them crossed, he will appear more grouchy.

Then he realizes he's frowning. He groans, rubs his face.

The silence that follows isn’t as stiff as before.

Steam continues drifting through the room while the faucet ticks quietly as the metal cools.

Gator moves his arms slowly through the water, testing how his body feels now that the heat has worked its way deeper into his muscles.

Better.

Still tired.

But better.

“…You know,” she says after a moment, “I used to hate you.”

Gator freezes.

“…What?”

“Back in high school.”

He lets out a faint laugh.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He shifts slightly in the tub, water rippling around his ribs.

“Can’t imagine why.”

“Fourth period geometry.”

The memory lands immediately.

He groans.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

“You were in that class?”

“Yes.”

He tilts his head back toward her voice.

“I don’t remember that.”

“I know.”

There’s no bitterness in the words.

Just amusement.

“You were busy.”

“Busy?”

“Being an absolute menace.”

He snorts.

“Sounds about right.”

She leans back slightly against the counter, arms loosely folded.

“You’d already been held back once,” she continues. “So you were older than everyone else. And your dad was sheriff.”

Gator sighs.

“Yeah.”

“So you got away with everything.”

“That’s a strong accusation.”

“Is it?”

A pause.

Then she adds,

“The Mardi Gras babies.”

Gator goes very still.

“Oh my God.”

She laughs quietly.

“You remember.”

“Shit, yeah, I remember.”

He drags a hand across his face, shaking his head.

“Those things were everywhere.”

“They were plastic babies, Gator.”

“I know what they were.”

“You hid them all over the classroom.”

“Not all over.”

“All over.”

“Okay, maybe all over.”

Her smile grows.

“Every day she’d find another one.”

He laughs softly now.

The sound surprises both of them.

“Under desks,” she continues.

“In the pencil sharpener.”

“Inside the globe," he adds.

“Inside the globe,” she confirms.

“And she’d lose her mind.”

“Completely.”

Gator shakes his head again.

“Man, I forgot about that.”

“You’d walk in late every day like nothing happened.”

“Well, yeah.”

“And the rest of us had to sit there pretending we didn’t see you drop another one somewhere. Shit pissed me off to no end.”

He laughs again, quieter this time.

“Wait.”

“What?”

“You were in that class?”

“Yes.”

He tilts his head toward her voice.

“Why don’t I remember you?”

Charlie’s sister shrugs.

“You weren’t exactly paying attention. You were always in Gator land.”

“....yeah."

He sinks a little deeper into the bathwater again.

The warmth laps quietly against the tub as the last of the tension drains from his shoulders.

For the first time since she dragged him into the bathroom, the air between them feels… lighter.

“You know,” he says after a moment, “I thought that prank was funny.”

“It was hilarious.”

“Glad someone appreciated it.”

She leans against the counter, watching the steam curl upward.

“I didn’t say I appreciated it.”

“You’re laughing.”

“That’s because she almost got you expelled over plastic babies.”

“Worth it.”

Their laughter fades slowly.

But the warmth of it lingers.

Steam still curls along the ceiling, the bathroom warm and quiet around them. The bathwater laps gently against the sides of the tub whenever Gator shifts, the faint sound of porcelain and water filling the spaces between words.

For a minute neither of them speaks.

Gator drags his fingers absently through the water.

The warmth has loosened most of the tightness in his shoulders now, and the ache in his muscles has dulled to something manageable. His head tilts slightly toward where her voice had been before, like he’s trying to picture her sitting there.

Then he says, almost casually,

“…I wish I could remember what you look like.”

The words land softly.

She goes still beside the tub.

He realizes what he’s said a second too late.

“Sorry,” he starts automatically. “That sounded—”

“It’s okay," her voice cuts in gently.

He stops.

Steam drifts between them for a second while the faucet ticks quietly as the pipes cool.

“It’s not the same,” she says after a moment, “but…”

She hesitates just long enough to think it through.

There’s a faint rustle of movement.

Then she reaches down and takes his hand, lifts it.

His fingers go still in hers.

“…You sure?” he asks.

There’s hesitation in his voice now.

Not fear, respect.

She laughs softly.

“If I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t have grabbed your hand.”

That earns the smallest smile from him.

She guides his hand upward slowly.

“Just don’t poke my eye out,” she adds.

“Tempting.”

But his voice is softer now.

Careful.

His fingers hover for a second before touching her cheek.

The contact is tentative at first.

Calloused fingertips brushing lightly against warm skin.

He traces the curve of her cheekbone with the pad of his thumb, mapping the shape of it before his hand moves upward.

Her nose.

The bridge.

The small dip where it meets her brow.

His thumb drifts toward the corner of her mouth, pausing there when he feels the shape of her smile.

She inhales quietly when the rough edge of his calluses brushes her skin.

The sensation is strangely electric.

He pauses.

“This okay?”

“Yeah,” she says softly.

He continues, gentler now.

Then upward to the edge of her brow and the soft line of her hairline where a few loose strands have escaped.

He brushes them back without thinking.

She doesn’t pull away.

Doesn’t speak.

Just sits there while he builds the picture slowly in his mind.

Her jaw.

The line of her chin.

Her heartbeat jumps when his thumb returns briefly to the corner of her mouth.

He smiles faintly.

Then he murmurs,

“You must be pretty.”

The compliment is soft.

Almost wondering.

It catches her completely off guard.

She goes still for a moment, breath catching slightly in her chest.

No one’s ever said it quite like that before.

Not so… sincere.

For a second she doesn’t know what to say.

Before she can answer—

A door slams downstairs.

The sound cracks through the quiet like a dropped plate.

Gator’s hand stills in the air.

Her composure snaps back into place almost instantly.

She steps back from the tub smoothly, clearing her throat as she gathers herself.

“That’ll be him,” she says.

Her voice is steady again.

But there’s still warmth in it.

From the bottom of the stairs, Charlie’s voice carries through the house.

“I’m home!”

Champ explodes into motion in the hallway, nails skidding against the floor as the dog rushes to greet him.

Gator’s hand lingers where her face had been a second earlier.

Like he’s still mapping the space she occupied.

Then he lowers it slowly back into the bathwater.

The warmth closes around his fingers again.

Maisie excuses herself for a second, letting him know she'll be back. He waves her off absently.

Their voices drift through the house in easy pieces.

Gator lies still, listening.

He can’t see her.

Not anymore.

But he knows things now.

The shape of her cheek beneath his hand.

The curve of her smile when his thumb brushed the corner of her mouth.

The warmth of her shoulder when she helped him walk.

The steadiness in her voice.

He doesn’t know the color of her eyes.

But he knows the shape of her. The faint imprint of her face beneath his fingertips.

And he commits it to memory.

__~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~__

A/N: Holy shit, you guys,

I have been DYING to write this chapter since I initially started drafting the outline of this fic months ago. I hope you all enjoyed it as much as I did XD I know it's not really steamy yet, and this would've technically been a great opportunity to let it get there (and we all know Gator would jump at the opportunity). But I also want to respect the fact that he's kinda vulnerable still here, and I didn't want the sister's character to feel like someone who'd take advantage of that. The timing didn't feel right just yet, ya know? Thank you so very much for all your support with this fic! I can't wait to flesh out this world and these characters more so you guys can see more of my vision! Enjoy and have a lovely end to your weekend, folks <3

-Pocketstories

Chapter Five: Fever.

Instead of being arrested, a blind and injured Gator Tillman is hidden on a farm by a kid who thinks fugitives are more interesting than homework. What starts as temporary shelter turns into something dangerously close to family.

TW: Graphic descriptions of injuries, past abuse, abandonment cannon-typical with the Fargo series.

Word count: ~5.2k

(Cross-posted to AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78456726/chapters/205691876)

Contents:

Chapter One: Rock Bottom.

Chapter Two: Mole.

Chapter Three: Outed.

Chapter Four: Seen.

Chapter Five: Fever.

Chapter Six: Shape of You.

Chapter Seven: Idle Hands.

__~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~__

The knock is soft enough she almost sleeps through it.

It doesn’t sound like a knock at first, not really. More like something settling in the house. Wood shifting. Pipes occasionally groaning. Champ pacing. One of those harmless night noises old places make when they breathe.

She doesn’t move.

Her mind floats in that thick, heavy place between dreaming and waking.

Then...

Another tap follows.

Careful, intentional.

Her eyes open.

The room is dark except for the faint amber glow of the alarm clock on her nightstand. The numbers blur for a second before her vision clears enough to read them. 2:43 AM. Too late for anything good.

She pushes herself up onto her elbows and listens.

Silence.

For a moment she thinks she dreamt it. She had to, right?

Her body is still warm from sleep, thoughts slow and sticky, heartbeat steady and unbothered. She almost lies back down.

Tap.

That one’s real.

Her head turns toward the door. “...Charlie?”

The knob doesn’t turn right away.

She hears the small shift of weight outside instead. Bare feet on hallway carpet. A quiet inhale like he’s deciding something. Poor kid probably didn't want to wake her. Debating on how necessary it really is.

Then the door opens slowly, inch by inch, hinges barely whispering.

Charlie slips through the gap like he’s sneaking into a room he’s not supposed to be in.

He doesn’t step all the way inside.

Just stands there.

Small. Still. Eyes wide in the dim light.

Her chest tightens immediately.

“What is it?” she asks, voice low, already awake now.

He hesitates.

Just… worried.

“I think,” he says quietly, “Mole needs help.”

The last thread of sleep leaves her body all at once.

She’s sitting upright before she even remembers deciding to move.

“What happened?”

Charlie shakes his head quickly. “He didn’t fall or anything. I just—” He swallows. “I heard him.”

She swings her legs off the bed. “Heard what?”

Charlie’s voice drops smaller.

“…Crying.”

She’s on her feet.

The hallway air feels cooler than her room, the floorboards faintly chilled under her soles as she moves. Charlie stays close at her side, silent but alert.

The house is pitch dark.

There’s the refrigerator humming down the hall. The slow tick of the wall clock. A faint rustle from the living room where Champ shifts in his sleep.

But underneath it, something else.

A sound she wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t been listening for it.

She stops outside the guest room door.

Listens.

There.

Low. Rough. Uneven.

The sound of fabric shifting and heavy breath.

Her stomach churns.

She pushes the door open.

The room smells of sickness.

Gator’s tangled in the sheets, blanket half-kicked down toward his knees like he tried running in his sleep. His shirt is damp, darkened with sweat across the collar and chest. Fabric pulled taut and twisted past his belly. Strands of his hair stick to his forehead, clinging there in uneven pieces.

His head shifts restlessly on the pillow.

A low sound slips out of him.

“…Dad—”

Her chest tightens hard enough to hurt.

His brow pinches like he’s bracing for something that isn’t in the room. His fingers twitch against the mattress, tendons pulling tight, then loosening again. His breathing comes shallow and uneven, catching every few seconds.

“…wait—”

The word barely makes it out.

Charlie’s hand finds the back of her shirt.

Small fingers gripping fabric.

She doesn’t look at him.

“Go get me a cold pack from the freezer,” she says quietly.

He nods once and runs, footsteps pattering down the hallway, quick and light and fading fast.

She sits carefully on the edge of the bed.

The mattress dips under her weight.

Gator doesn’t wake.

Up close, the heat coming off him is unmistakable. It radiates through the air in uneven waves. Even without touching him, she can feel it. Sweat beads along his temples and disappears into his hairline. His lips are slightly parted, breath warm and dry.

“…no—”

His voice cracks on it, desperate.

"Oh, Gator," she murmurs.

She reaches out before she can think better of it and brushes damp hair back from his forehead.

His skin is burning.

Her jaw tightens.

Fever.

"I can... can fix it... please."

Charlie skids back into the doorway a few seconds later, clutching a blue gel pack against his chest like it might run away if he loosens his grip.

“I got it,” he whispers.

She holds her hand out, and Charlie passes it to her immediately, along with a rag.

The plastic is cold enough to sting her palm. She wraps it in the rag and presses it gently against Gator’s forehead.

His head shifts under it, a faint breathy whimper slipping from his throat at the contact, not quite pain. More like confusion.

Charlie inches closer to the bed. “Is he okay?”

She keeps her voice steady. “He’s sick. That’s all.”

Charlie lingers.

She doesn’t look away from Gator when she says, “Go back to bed.”

“But—”

“I’ve got him," She says softly.

Certain.

That’s what makes Charlie stop.

He watches her for one long second, searching her face for doubt.

He doesn’t find any.

“…Okay,” he says.

He turns and pads back down the hall, slower this time.

His door closes with a soft click.

She waits until she hears the faint creak of his mattress before she lets herself exhale.

Gator’s breathing stutters.

His fingers curl against the sheet like he’s trying to grab hold of something that keeps slipping away.

She shifts closer.

“Gator.”

Nothing.

She presses the compress more firmly to his forehead. “Hey. Wake up.”

His head jerks.

Air punches into his lungs like he’s been underwater.

His hands tense instantly, muscles pulling tight, shoulders drawing in as his body snaps toward awareness too fast. His chest heaves once, twice, breath coming sharp and disoriented.

He doesn’t know where he is.

She sees it in the way his head turns.

In the way his jaw sets, or the way his hand fists against the sheets, ready to fight something that isn’t there.

“Easy,” she says immediately, voice low and steady. “You’re okay.”

His breathing stays uneven.

She keeps her tone calm. “You’re in the guest room. You’re safe.”

The words reach him slowly, like they have to cross a long distance before they land.

Her thumb slides lightly through his damp hair, pushing it back from his temple again.

“You’ve got a fever,” she says softly. “Don’t try to sit up.”

The bandages on his neck shift slightly as he swallows.

He doesn’t answer, but she can tell he's thinking, processing.

His brows draw together faintly, tension settling between them as though his mind is trying to piece the world back into something that makes sense.

She studies his face, watching the small movements. The way his breathing gradually starts to slow, the way the tightness in his jaw loosens by a fraction.

“How’re you feeling?” she asks, voice kept gentle.

He doesn’t respond.

Not yet.

His expression stays furrowed, distant. She thinks maybe he’s still halfway somewhere else.

The compress rests cool against his forehead, her palm steady over it.

His breathing is still uneven, catching every few seconds like it can’t settle into something reliable. Sweat clings to his skin despite the chill of the gel pack. The sheet beneath him is twisted tight around one leg, the other half kicked loose, fabric damp where it’s been trapped too long against fever-warmed skin.

His fingers twitch again, searching.

They brush the air once, then find her wrist.

He latches on without meaning to.

His grip isn’t strong. It’s uncertain. Fever-soft.

She stills.

He leans toward the touch, brows furrowed.

“…Mom?”

It comes out hoarse.

Small.

Almost a plea or a reflex. The word slips free the way the hand reaches for something familiar in the dark.

The sound lands in her chest and settles heavy, and for a split second, she doesn’t answer. The room feels suspended, air thick and unmoving.

His fingers tighten faintly around her wrist.

She swallows.

“No, Gator,” she whispers. “...Just me.”

The shift is immediate.

“Oh.”

His hand stills.

“…Sorry.”

He releases her wrist slowly, embarrassed by the mistake.

She shakes her head even though he can’t see it. “You don’t have to apologize.”

His mouth moves as if he might say something else. He doesn’t. The silence stretches between them.

He breathes in shallowly.

Breathes out.

She adjusts the compress again, sliding it slightly lower where his skin feels hottest.

The room settles.

“Hey,” she says quietly after a moment. “I need you to wake up a little more for me.”

His jaw tightens. “’M awake.”

“You’re barely here.”

She slips her hand behind his shoulder and slowly eases him upward. His body resists at first, heavy and uncoordinated. He inhales sharply as the bed shifts under him, one hand instinctively bracing against the mattress.

“Slow,” she murmurs. “You’re good.”

She props a pillow behind him. The mattress creaks softly under redistributed weight. His head bobs once, then steadies, chin dipping toward his chest.

The compress slides and she removes it, pressing it briefly to the back of his neck instead. He exhales at the cooler contact.

“Water,” she says.

She reaches for the glass she’d left earlier on the nightstand. The condensation has faded; the water’s room temperature now. She brings it to his lips.

“Small sips.”

He obeys without argument. His hand comes up halfway like he might take it himself, then falters. She steadies the rim against his mouth.

He drinks carefully.

Swallows once.

Twice.

The muscles in his throat work harder than they should.

“That’s enough for now.”

She lowers the glass, swallows a yawn.

His breathing starts to even out in subtle increments, not steady yet. But no longer skidding.

She studies him in the dim lamplight.

“Tell me where you are.”

He hesitates.

“…Your house.”

“Good. What room?”

“Guest room?”

“Who am I?”

A faint twitch of his mouth. “... Not my mom?”

She snorts despite herself. “My name, you dork.”

He exhales through his nose and murmurs her name. She gives a small smile, "There you are."

She rests the compress back across his forehead, lighter now.

“What hurts?”

A beat.

“Head.”

“Just your head?”

“Everything,” he mutters.

She accepts that without commentary.

“Any nausea?”

He thinks about it longer this time. She can see it in the way his brows knit.

“…Little.”

“Dizzy?”

“Yeah.”

“Seeing anything weird?”

Silence hangs there.

He doesn’t answer right away.

“…Just dark,” he says finally.

The words are flat. Honest. Unavoidable.

She nods once, though she knows he can’t see it.

“Okay.”

She keeps her voice steady, even.

“Your fever’s up. That’s what woke you. You were dreaming.”

He swallows.

“… I say anything?”

“Not much.”

He doesn’t press.

For that, she’s grateful.

She rubs at her eyes, the late night weighing heavy on her with exhaustion.

She watches his chest again.

The rise.

The fall.

Something about it bothers her.

Enough to check.

Her eyes narrow slightly as she studies the rhythm. There’s a subtle drag at the top of each inhale, a faint hesitation before the exhale follows. His ribs expand unevenly, left side lifting just a fraction slower than the right.

Could be congestion.

Inflammation, maybe.

Or pain?

Could be nothing.

Still... She hesitates.

“What,” he says quietly on instinct.

She doesn’t answer immediately. She’s thinking, weighing whether it’s necessary. Whether she’s overreacting. Whether she’ll worry him for no reason.

“I wanna check your breathing.”

A beat.

“…You got a stethoscope stashed somewhere?”

“Nope.”

She shifts closer on the mattress.

His breathing changes when she leans closer, aware.

“I’m gonna check the old-fashioned way,” she says.

Then she leans down.

Carefully.

Slow enough that he can track her movement by sound and air and warmth.

Her ear rests lightly against his chest.

Everything stills. The room, the dark.

Standing, he looked imposing. Dangerous, even. But lying down like this, weakened and quiet, the scale of him registers differently. His shoulders still take up most of the pillow. His chest still rises broad under her ear. His forearm resting beside him is thicker than her wrist.

Strength doesn’t disappear just because someone’s hurt.

Her cheek presses against the thin fabric of his shirt. Beneath it, heat radiates steadily from his skin. His heartbeat is immediate. Firm, present, just a little too fast. The sound fills her ear, deep and rhythmic, thud-pause-thud, like something knocking from inside a closed room.

She listens.

Counts breaths.

Waits for the hitch.

There.

A slight catch. Just tight.

Inflamed airway, maybe. He did have those wounds on his neck. Maybe that could be it. His body still recovering from whatever it fought all night.

Nothing urgent, hopefully.

She stays there a second longer than she needs to.

Because listening requires stillness.

Because stillness stretches time.

Under her ear, his chest rises carefully.

She doesn't remember closing her eyes.

Her hair brushes his collarbone.

Her palm is warm against his side.

He is acutely aware of her. The warmth of her cheek against him. The pressure of her ear. The faint tickle of her hair.

“…You hearin’ anything dramatic?” he asks.

Her breath stirs faintly against his skin when she answers.

“...No.”

Another second passes.

Maybe two.

He clears his throat.

Softly, not subtle in the slightest.

She lifts her head abruptly, wipes her eyes.

Cool air rushes in to replace her.

Their faces are closer than either of them anticipated.

“Breathing’s a little tight,” she says instead, voice clinical again. “Probably just irritation from the fever. I don’t hear fluid.”

"Were you sleeping?"

"Don't be stupid."

Silence falls between them.

Minutes pass like this.

Then she talks about neutral things. Small things. The way the dog knocked over the trash earlier that day. How Charlie left his socks in the hallway again. Anything gentle enough to get him to rest easier.

His breathing slows gradually. The sharp edges of it sand down. The tension in his shoulders eases. His hand drifts from his thigh to the mattress beside him and stays there, palm open.

He’s no longer braced, just tired.

His skin still radiates heat, but it’s less violent now, less in need of immediate care at least.

“You’re okay,” she says quietly.

He hums faintly.

A soft sound of acceptance.

His head tips slightly toward her voice.

She shifts beside him, stretching and rubbing at the crick in her neck.

“Don’t leave,” he murmurs, almost boyish.

It’s barely audible.

She doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, she presses the compress more firmly against his temple and says, “Get some rest.”

It takes a few minutes, but his breathing does eventually start to even out some.

His grip loosens entirely. His chin lowers until it rests against his chest, then she eases him gently back against the pillow before he can fold forward.

The mattress shifts softly as she adjusts the blanket over him, this time tucking it properly instead of letting it bunch.

He doesn’t wake.

She watches the rise and fall of his chest.

Counts without meaning to.

Inhale.

Exhale.

A little shallow.

But definitely more consistent.

What a relief.

She breathes a shaky sigh. "I'm out of my element here," she whispers to herself.

She slides the chair from the corner of the room closer to the bed. The legs scrape softly against hardwood before settling.

She sits.

Leans forward slightly.

Her elbow rests on her knee, fingers hovering near his wrist without touching.

The house is deeply quiet now.

The refrigerator hum carries faintly through the walls. A car passes outside somewhere distant. Wind brushes lightly against the siding.

Earlier, he’d been something precarious. A problem. A complication that could unravel everything she’d built to keep Charlie safe.

Now...

Now he looks young.

Younger than he ever did standing upright.

Stripped of volume and posture and attitude.

Her gaze softens.

Responsibility doesn’t arrive loudly.

It settles.

Heavy. Certain.

If he gets worse, she’ll handle it.

If the fever spikes, she’ll break it.

She doesn’t think about consequences. Doesn’t think about what it means long term.

That's not as important tonight.

She keeps watch and lets the night pass.

__~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~__

Morning arrives quietly.

It slips in through the thin gap between curtain and wall, a narrow band of pale gold stretching across the floorboards, climbing slowly over the edge of the mattress. Dust motes drift through it, turning lazily in the still air.

She doesn’t wake all at once.

Her neck aches first.

Then her shoulders.

Then the slow awareness of gravity pulling at her spine.

Her cheek is pressed against her forearm, which is folded on the mattress beside him. At some point in the night she must have leaned forward and never made it back to the chair.

Her eyes open to fabric. Quilt stitching. Faded blue thread. One loose fiber curling up toward her lashes.

She blinks.

Remembers.

Immediately her gaze shifts.

Gator is awake.

His head rests heavy against the pillow, hair mussed in uneven directions from sweat and sleep. The fever flush that burned across his face hours ago has faded to a dull warmth along his cheekbones.

His breathing is slow but not quite steady yet. Every fourth inhale catches slightly before finishing, like his lungs have to remind themselves what they’re doing. Gator's head is turned slightly toward the window, even though he can’t see through it.

From this distance, she can hear things she wouldn’t catch standing beside him.

The faint click in his throat when he swallows.

The quiet rasp of breath passing dry lips.

The soft shift of fabric when his ribs expand.

He doesn’t startle when he realizes she’s awake. Doesn’t tense. Such a contrast from last night.

Just says, voice rough with sleep and dryness,

“Morning.”

It sounds like he borrowed the word from someone else.

She pushes herself upright, joints protesting quietly, and drags a hand back through her hair. “Morning.”

Her voice is softer than usual, not fully woken yet.

For a second she only watches him.

Assessing.

He looks wrung out. Like something washed him up and left him there.

But he seems a bit better at the very least.

“How’s your head?” she asks.

He considers it.

“…Still attached,” he mutters.

She rests her hand on his forehead, gives a small nod.

“Fever broke some,” she says. “Not entirely gone. But it’s backing off.”

He hums faintly.

“…Good,” he rasps.

His tongue drags across dry lips. He grimaces faintly.

“Mouth tastes like carpet,” he mutters.

“Dehydration.”

“Feels like I ate a sock.”

She huffs a laugh and reaches for the glass on the nightstand. “Water.”

He makes a faint dissatisfied sound. “Got anything stronger?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“…Ice?”

“That I can do.”

She stands, stretches once, then steps out to the kitchen. Ice clinks into a cup. Faucet runs briefly. Cabinet closes. Morning house sounds. Ordinary sounds.

When she comes back, she presses the cup gently into his hand.

“Slow. Don't make yourself sick.”

He tips a piece of ice into his mouth and lets it sit there, sighing faintly in relief as the cold spreads across his tongue. His shoulders loosen a notch.

“…Better.”

She sits again, closer to the edge of the mattress this time instead of the chair.

He shifts slightly under the blanket, then mutters,

“Still want my vape.”

“No.”

“Bitter woman.”

“You’ll live.”

Morning has settled into the house by the time the room grows quiet again.

The light has shifted higher on the wall now, warming the pale paint and creeping slowly across the quilt. Outside, somewhere down the street, a car door slams and an engine turns over. The sounds drift in through the thin glass of the window and dissolve into the stillness of the guest room.

Gator finishes the last piece of ice.

It clicks softly against his teeth before he swallows the meltwater. His throat works slowly, like everything inside him is still moving through syrup.

She takes the empty cup from his hand and sets it on the nightstand.

For a moment neither of them says anything.

He lies half-propped against the pillow, shoulders sunk deep into the mattress, the blanket pulled low around his waist. His hair sticks out in uneven directions from sleep and fever, the brown strands catching the morning light in a way that still looks strange on him.

His breathing is better too.

She watches the rise and fall of his chest for a few seconds longer before finally leaning back in the chair beside the bed. The wood creaks softly under her weight.

Silence settles again.

It doesn’t feel uncomfortable.

Just… unfilled.

Gator clears his throat.

The sound is rough, like the fever scraped his voice on the way out.

“You know,” he says slowly, “I was pretty shit at being a cop.”

She glances up.

The statement hangs in the air between them like he dropped it there just to see what would happen.

Her brow creases slightly.

“That’s not true.”

He lets out a dry breath that might have been a laugh if he had the energy for it.

“Pretty sure it is.”

“You weren’t bad at the job itself.”

Her tone is calm.

Matter-of-fact.

He turns his head a fraction toward her voice, confusion tugging faintly at his expression.

“I was corrupt.”

“You were.”

“And that doesn’t qualify as being bad at it?”

“No,” she says.

She shifts forward slightly, resting her forearms on her knees.

“You weren’t bad at the work. You were bad because you let yourself get pulled into the wrong things.”

He frowns, trying to follow the logic.

“There’s a difference.”

Gator tilts his head slightly against the pillow.

“…Sounds like splitting hairs.”

“It isn’t.”

She studies him for a second, weighing how much to say.

“There were times you did the job the way it’s supposed to be done.”

His eyebrows pull together.

He turns his face toward the ceiling like the answer might be written there somewhere.

“When?”

“You don’t remember?”

He snorts faintly.

“I remember a lot of things. Most of them weren’t great.”

“That doesn’t mean they’re the only ones that happened.”

He shifts slightly under the blanket. The movement pulls a quiet sound from his chest as sore muscles protest the adjustment.

“When exactly did you see me on duty?” he asks.

Genuine confusion now.

Her mouth opens slightly.

She’s about to answer—

The door bursts open.

Charlie barrels in like a small tornado.

“Did he make it?”

Both adults turn their heads toward the doorway.

Charlie stands there in mismatched socks and yesterday’s T-shirt, hair sticking up in at least four different directions. His backpack dangles from one shoulder like he put it on halfway and forgot about it. He drops it at the doorway.

He doesn’t wait for permission or an explanation, just rushes straight into the room and climbs onto the edge of the bed beside Gator.

Close enough for Gator to feel the mattress dip lightly near him.

“When can you play?” he demands.

Gator blinks slowly.

His brain is clearly still catching up.

From the chair, she pinches the bridge of her nose.

“It’s going to be a while,” she says.

Charlie swings his legs against the side of the mattress, perfectly comfortable.

Gator turns his head slightly toward the sound of him.

“…'m fine, kid.”

Charlie grins.

The warmth that fills the room is immediate.

Charlie studies him for a moment longer, the way kids do when they’re trying to figure out if an adult is telling the truth.

His eyes narrow slightly.

“You still look kinda pale.”

Gator exhales through his nose.

“That’s because I’m sick, genius.”

Charlie considers that.

“Yeah, but like… sick-sick.”

“I’m fine.”

“You were crying last night.”

Gator pauses just enough to register the information.

“…Was not.”

Charlie shrugs. “That’s what I heard.”

From the chair, she clears her throat softly.

“That’s enough detective work for the morning.”

“…You were snoring too,” he adds.

Gator blinks.

“Snoring.”

“Yeah.”

Charlie nods emphatically. “Like a chainsaw.”

Gator shifts slightly against the pillow, adjusting the blanket around his waist.

“Good to know.”

“It kept me up,” Charlie continues, deeply aggrieved now that he’s remembered the offense. “Like all night.”

“You’ll survive.”

Charlie crosses his arms.

“If this friendship is gonna work,” he declares seriously, “you better figure out how to play games soon.”

Gator snorts.

“Kid, if this friendship is gonna work, you better learn how to suck it up.”

Charlie gasps softly.

Offended.

Gator adds, almost as an afterthought,

“…What d’you wanna play?”

The words hang there, small and unexpected.

Charlie blinks. Then leans forward again immediately, all previous grievances forgotten.

“I dunno yet.”

“Helpful.”

“Well I gotta know what you played when you were a kid first.”

Gator stills.

Just a slight tightening along his jaw.

The question lands somewhere deeper than Charlie realizes.

For a split second the room disappears.

Snow.

Cold air biting his nose.

His mother’s voice somewhere behind him.

Ready or not—

A younger version of himself pressed tight behind a shed, holding his breath so hard his chest hurt. Listening for footsteps. Listening for laughter.

Listening to see if he’d been found.

The memory flickers past like a reflection in glass.

Gone before it can fully settle.

Gator shifts slightly against the pillow.

“Why?”

“So I know what you’re good at.”

“Bold of you to assume I'd be good at anything.”

Charlie shrugs.

“So?”

Gator tilts his head toward him.

“You’re the kid,” he says. “You figure it out.”

Charlie squints suspiciously, but the answer seems acceptable enough.

He thinks about it for a second.

Then, “We could have a snowball fight.”

Gator lets out a short laugh.

“How the hell am I supposed to aim like this?”

Charlie rolls his eyes. “With sound, duh.”

Gator goes quiet.

Actually thinking now.

The room settles into that brief thoughtful stillness again.

“What if,” he says slowly, “you wore a blindfold too.”

Charlie blinks.

“…Why?”

“So we’re even.”

The boy tilts his head.

Processing.

“You’d have to listen for footsteps,” Gator continues. “Voices. Snow hittin’ stuff too.”

Charlie’s face lights up.

“Oh.”

He sits up straighter.

“That would actually be awesome.”

Gator smirks faintly.

Charlie grins, bouncing on the bed, “We could make forts too.”

“Charlie be gentle," She scolds.

He promptly stills himself, "Anyway, you better heal up soon so I have an excuse to beat you up."

From the chair, she watches the two of them.

Quietly.

Something in her chest loosens in a way she hadn’t realized was still tight.

A few days ago the man in her guest room had been a bleeding stranger dragged in from the cold.

Now he’s lying in bed, pale and exhausted, discussing snowball strategy with her brother like they’ve known each other for years.

Funny how fast things change.

She stands.

“Alright,” she says, stretching slightly. “That’s enough excitement for one morning."

Charlie looks over his shoulder.

“We’re strategizing, woman.”

“So I heard.”

“I’m gonna win.”

She crosses her arms, “That’s nice. You're exhausting him."

Gator raises a hand weakly from the bed. “Seconded.”

Charlie slides off the mattress reluctantly.

“Fine.”

She gestures toward the door. “Come help me with breakfast.”

Charlie drags his feet dramatically across the floor.

“This is child labor.”

“This is eggs, drama queen.”

“That’s worse.”

He pauses halfway out of the room and looks back at Gator.

“Don’t go anywhere.”

Gator snorts.

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it.”

Charlie heads for the door, still muttering to himself about unfair labor practices.

She follows, pausing to glance back.

Gator has already sunk deeper into the pillow.

The lines of strain around his mouth have eased slightly. His breathing remains slow and heavy, but steadier.

“You rest,” she says quietly.

He lifts one hand in vague acknowledgment.

Then the door closes.

The room settles again.

Gator lies there for a moment, staring up into the darkness behind the bandages.

He listens.

Cabinet doors opening in the kitchen.

Charlie complaining loudly about something.

Her voice answering him.

The quiet clink of dishes.

The house breathing around them.

Just quiet enough to get some sleep, and lively enough to remind him he's not alone.

__~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~__

A/N: Hi!!

I am so sorry for the delay. I started my new job and I've just been exhausted!! But I finally found some time this weekend I could work on this story. I hope you all enjoy! I try not to get carried away with self-indulgence, but for the love of God, poor Gator deserves some love lol. Have a good start to your week everyone! <3

Chapter Four: Seen.

Instead of being arrested, a blind and injured Gator Tillman is hidden on a farm by a kid who thinks fugitives are more interesting than homework. What starts as temporary shelter turns into something dangerously close to family.

TW: Graphic descriptions of injuries, past abuse, abandonment cannon-typical with the Fargo series.

Word count: ~6.4k 

(Cross-posted to AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78456726/chapters/205689206)

Contents:

Chapter One: Rock Bottom.

Chapter Two: Mole.

Chapter Three: Outed.

Chapter Four: Seen.

Chapter Five: Fever.

Chapter Six: Shape of You.

Chapter Seven: Idle Hands.

__~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~__

Gator hesitates just inside the doorway.

The house smells good.

Clean. Food. Chicken? Something warm and faintly floral. Laundry detergent, maybe. It’s wrong in a way that makes his chest tighten. His boots scuff softly against the floor, the sound sharp in the quiet, and he freezes like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

His grip tightens reflexively on Charlie’s sleeve.

“Your parents gonna—” He swallows, throat dry. “They gonna be mad?”

Charlie shakes his head immediately, the motion quick and decisive. “Nope.”

Gator frowns beneath the bandages. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Charlie says, like this is obvious. “Don’t worry about that.”

Charlie's sister doesn’t explain.

She just points toward a chair near the kitchen table, already moving past them, leaving Charlie to support Gator. “Sit. Don’t touch anything.”

Charlie leads him to the chair with a huff, "He can't see where you're pointing, Sis."

She falters only a moment, "Uh, right."

Gator obeys anyway.

He lowers himself carefully, every muscle protesting, the chair creaking faintly beneath his weight. The sound makes him flinch. He keeps his hands folded in his lap, fingers curled tight like he’s afraid they might leave grime behind just by existing.

The house sounds different.

No wind scraping metal. No heater hum. Just the soft tick of a clock somewhere deeper inside, the low murmur of the refrigerator, the distant scratch of a dog shifting on the floor.

Too quiet. Too bright.

He feels exposed.

“Okay,” she says briskly, already rolling up the sleeves of her sweater. “We’re gonna treat this like a triage station.”

"Sure. Yeah, whatever that is," Charlie agrees, rolling his sleeves up just like her.

She turns to Charlie. “I need water boiling. Big pot.”

Charlie straightens instantly. “On it.”

“Clean rags,” she continues. “Whatever you can find. Towels. Old shirts. Anything that hasn’t been used on the animals.”

Charlie nods furiously and darts off, feet thudding down the hallway.

“And antiseptic,” she calls after him. “Under the sink or the bathroom cabinet. Read the labels.”

“Got it!”

She turns back to Gator then, eyes sharp but not unkind.

“You’re gonna sit right there,” she says. “You’re not gonna touch your face. You’re not gonna try to help.”

Gator lets out a weak huff. “Wasn’t plannin’ on it.”

“Good,” she replies. “Because if you pass out, neither of us is strong enough to peel you off the floor."

That hits heavier than she probably intends.

He swallows hard. “That bad, huh.”

She doesn’t answer him right away.

Instead, she moves around the kitchen with purpose. Clearing the table, dragging a chair closer, laying out a clean towel like she’s done this before. Or at least watched someone who has.

Charlie reappears with a pot sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “Water’s goin’.”

“Good. Rags?”

“Bathroom,” he says, already turning back.

She catches his shoulder as he passes. “Charlie.”

He stops.

Her voice softens just enough to matter. “When I say you’re done, you go upstairs. Put your headphones on. Don't come out. Do you understand?”

Charlie's dark eyes find his feet, jaw set. “... do I have to?”

“You’re helping,” she continues. “But you are not staying for the hard parts.”

“I can handle it,” he insists.

“I know you think that,” she says gently. “That doesn’t make it true.”

A beat.

“…Okay,” Charlie mutters.

She squeezes his shoulder once and lets him go.

When she turns back to Gator, her expression has shifted. Focused, narrowed, bracing herself for something she doesn’t want to see.

“All right,” she says quietly. “We’re gonna take this one step at a time.”

Gator nods, fingers tightening together in his lap.

He doesn’t know what she’s about to find.

But the way she’s setting the room, won’t let Charlie stay tells him enough.

She doesn’t touch him right away.

Instead, she steps closer and lets him hear her before he feels her.

“Okay,” she says, measured. Steady. “I’m going to check you over a bit. I’ll tell you what I’m doing while I do it. If anything hurts too much, you say so. Understood?”

Gator gives a weak nod.

His jaw is locked tight, muscles standing out beneath the skin. His shoulders are drawn in, posture rigid, as though bracing for a hit rather than care.

She reaches out slowly, deliberately letting him hear the shift of her weight, the soft brush of fabric as she moves closer.

“Gonna need a look at your neck,” she says, voice soft. “Just the skin. I’m not… I’m not going to move your head much.”

Gator’s shoulders go tighter.

“Neck’s fine,” he mutters automatically, as if it’s a thing he can will into being.

“Mhm,” she says, not buying it. “Chin up a little. That’s it.”

Her fingers hover first, a warning, that mercy, then the pads of them brush the side of his throat.

He flinches anyway.

It’s too intimate. And because her touch lands on something that still remembers a rope.

She feels it immediately.

A rough band of raw skin, angry and raised, the faint ridges of abrasion like somebody dragged him hard and didn’t care what it took off. A tiny tremor runs through his jaw, starting in the teeth. Heat radiates there too, everything on him is too warm, but this is different. This is inflamed. Tender.

Her hand stills.

“How long was it there?”

Gator’s swallow is a sharp little jerk beneath her fingers.

“…Long enough.”

She exhales through her nose like she’s trying not to show anything. “Okay. I’m going to clean that too. Not yet. But I will.”

His jaw works.

He gives a small, tired huff that’s almost a laugh. “Add it to the list.”

"Speaking of..."

She slides her hand down slowly, giving him time to track her by sound alone.

“Wrist,” she says softly. “I won’t touch the break. Just around it.”

He nods once, jaw tight.

Her fingers close gently around his hand.

And she stills.

Not because of the swelling.

Because of the grime.

His skin is caked with layers of it. Barn dust ground deep into every crease of his knuckles. Mud dried stiff along the heel of his palm. Something darker crusted under his nails.

She rubs her thumb lightly across one fingertip.

It flakes.

Rust-brown.

Blood.

Old. Dried. Packed in.

He must’ve touched his face at some point. Tried to feel what was wrong. Tried to stop it with his bare hands.

There are thin scrapes along his palm too, raw little abrasions, grit still embedded like he dragged himself across concrete or gravel or wood.

Not walked. Dragged.

Her throat tightens.

How far did you crawl?

She doesn’t ask.

Instead, she turns his wrist carefully in her palm, clinical again, even though something in her chest has gone hot and nauseous.

“Okay,” she says, steady. “Little warm.”

His fingers twitch, embarrassed.

“…Sorry,” he mutters finally. “Didn’t exactly have a sink.”

“You don’t apologize for being hurt,” she says automatically.

She reaches the edge of the cast.

The contrast is jarring.

The hand looks wrecked.

The wrist… older.

The swelling isn’t fresh and angry like everything else. It’s settled. Yellowed bruising at the edges. An injury that’s already been through its worst and just… endured.

This didn’t happen yesterday.

This happened a while ago.

And maybe it'd been tended to at some point, but it'd been through more than it should've in recovery.

She traces lightly along the skin above the cast, checking heat, checking tenderness.

He tenses anyway, breath going tight, knuckles whitening.

She eases her grip immediately. “I’m not touching the break.”

“…I know,” he says. Still braced.

She gives his hand one last careful turn, then sets it back in his lap.

Mentally adds another item to the list.

Clean him up.

All of him.

Before infection gets ideas.

“I’m not going to take the bandages off your eyes yet,” she says, almost to herself. “We’ll do that last.”

His shoulders sag slightly at that, relief slipping through despite himself.

“…Thank you.”

She pauses.

There’s something fragile in his voice now, like trust stretched thin.

“I’m going to keep talking,” she adds softly. “So you know where I am. What I’m doing. All right?”

He dips his chin.

She moves methodically after that, checking what she can without disturbing the worst of it. His skin tone. The tremor in his hands. The way he shivers even in the warmth of the kitchen. Each thing adds to the picture she’s already trying not to see too clearly.

The tremor in her voice slips through once, just barely, when she asks, “Any dizziness?”

He answers anyway. “Yeah.”

“Nausea?”

“…Yeah.”

She swallows, steadying herself. “Okay.”

She finishes the initial check and steps back, giving him space again.

“All right,” she says quietly. “That’s what we can do without… going further.”

He knows what that means.

She doesn’t rush it.

She sets everything down first. Clean cloths laid out, a bowl of steaming water within reach, antiseptic uncapped but untouched. She wipes her hands on a towel that doesn’t need it, then steps back into his space.

“Okay,” she says quietly. “I’m going to take the bandage off now.”

He doesn’t lift his head. Doesn’t fidget. His hands stay folded tight in his lap, fingers locked together so hard the knuckles ache. His breathing is shallow, careful.

“Fair warnin’,” he mutters, jaw tight. “It’s… stuck.”

“I figured,” she replies. Then, softer: “I’ll go slow.”

He gives a faint nod.

Her fingers brush his temple, light as she can manage. Even that makes him flinch, breath hitching sharply. The bandage catches, then drags... skin grabbing and letting go in tiny, brutal increments.

His breath leaves him in a tight hiss he can’t swallow back down. “Jesus—”

Fuck. What he'd give for his vape right now.

“I know,” she says quickly. “I know. I’m sorry. Just—hold on.”

She loosens it a little at a time, unwinding the fabric carefully, inch by inch. Each movement pulls, burns, sends a sharp, sickening throb straight through his skull. His breathing goes shallow, chest stuttering as he fights the instinct to pull away.

He stays still anyway.

The last layer comes free.

For a moment, nothing happens.

She inhales.

Sharp. Involuntary.

And then she stops breathing altogether.

The silence that follows is too loud.

His pulse spikes immediately, heart slamming hard against his ribs. He doesn’t need sight to know what that sound means. He’s heard it before, from other people. The pause that comes when something is worse than expected.

“…Sorry,” he says quietly.

The word slips out on instinct, reflexive and automatic.

She doesn’t answer right away.

Her hand is hovering near his face, not touching, like she’s afraid to.

“I should’ve—” He swallows, throat working. “I should’ve cleaned it better. I didn’t have— I mean, I tried—”

“Gator,” she says.

It’s the first time she’s used his name.

Her voice is steady. Too steady.

He stops talking.

She exhales slowly, deliberately, like she’s forcing air back into her lungs. When she speaks again, it’s careful. Measured.

“You don’t need to apologize.”

"...How did you know?" He breathes.

A pause.

"What?"

"My name?"

There's no response for too long, and for a moment, he thinks she didn't hear.

"We've met before," She says, voice detached.

She reaches out again, slower this time, and gently cleans away what she can around the wounds first, careful not to touch yet, just clearing space. Gator flinches anyway, breath catching sharply, even though there’s barely any pressure.

“Sorry,” he says again, quieter this time.

She stops.

Looks at him.

“You don’t apologize for this,” she says. “Not once. Do you understand me?”

He nods, jaw clenched, but the habit is hard to break. His shoulders stay tight, braced like he’s waiting for the real pain to start.

And it will.

She can see it coming.

This, this stillness, this quiet, is the last merciful moment before it does.

She draws a steadying breath of her own, hands trembling just enough that she presses them briefly into the towel to ground herself.

“All right,” she says softly. “I’m going to clean it. That’s going to hurt. I won’t lie to you.”

He lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Figures.”

“I need you to stay as still as you can,” she continues. “If you need me to stop, you tell me. If you feel like you’re going to pass out—same thing.”

“…Okay.”

His hands slide to the edge of the table, fingers curling hard around the wood. His shoulders are hunched forward, posture tight and braced, like he’s already trying to make himself smaller.

The cloth touches his skin and his toes curl inside his boots.

The pain is immediate and blinding in a way that has nothing to do with sight. White-hot, electric, ripping straight through his skull. The disinfectant burns like fire, like acid poured directly into open nerve endings. His breath leaves him in a sharp, broken sound he doesn’t recognize as his own.

“Ah—” He cuts himself off, teeth clamping down hard enough to make his jaw ache.

“I know,” she says quickly. “I know. Just—stay with me.”

The cloth moves again.

He gasps this time, chest jerking forward, a strangled noise tearing out of him before he can stop it. His grip tightens on the table, wood creaking faintly under the strain.

Fuck—fuck—

The pain spikes, relentless, crawling behind his eyes, down his spine, into his teeth.

It’s too much.

For a split second, he’s not in the kitchen anymore.

He’s back on his knees in the dirt, hands bound, the world tilting as Ole Munch’s grip tightens, hot poker growing closer, the pressure building until—

“Gator.”

Her voice cuts through it, sharp and anchored. A hand gentle but firm on his shoulder. When did that get there?

“You’re alright,” she says firmly. “You’re okay. Breathe.”

He sucks in air like he’s been underwater too long, lungs burning, chest heaving. Sweat breaks out across his back, slick and cold.

“Sorry,” he pants automatically. “I’m—sorry—I’m tryin’—”

“Stop apologizing,” she snaps, urgent. “You’re doing exactly what you need to do.”

She pauses then, just long enough to matter.

“Do you need a break?”

He shakes his head immediately. Too fast. “No. Just—just do it.”

She hesitates, then resumes.

Slower this time.

More careful.

It still hurts. God, it hurts. The burning settles into something deeper now. An all-consuming throb that pulses in time with his heartbeat. His breath stutters, small, involuntary sounds slipping free no matter how hard he tries to swallow them down.

A whimper escapes him.

The realization hits harder than the pain.

His throat tightens. His jaw trembles.

He hates this. Hates the sounds his body is making. Hates how exposed it feels, sitting there shaking while someone watches him come undone.

She doesn’t comment.

Doesn’t rush.

She just keeps working, methodical and gentle in a way that somehow makes it worse.

Each slow, careful pass feels worse than the last, not because she’s pressing harder, but because there’s nowhere left for the pain to go. It stacks on itself, wave after wave, until it’s hard to tell where one ends and the next begins.

His breathing breaks rhythm.

Short. Fast. Then hitching.

She notices immediately.

“Okay,” she says. “Pause.”

She pulls her hand back, stepping away just enough to give him space.

He stays hunched there, panting quietly, forehead slick with sweat. His hands tremble now, fingers spasming against the edge of the table like they don’t quite belong to him anymore.

“…Don’t stop,” he mutters hoarsely. “Just—just do it.”

She hesitates.

Then she shakes her head. “You’re going to pass out.”

“Fine,” he snaps weakly. “Then I pass out.”

“That’s not an option.”

She stares him down for a long second, then makes a decision.

“Okay,” she says firmly. “We’re moving you.”

“What—”

She’s already stepping in, steadying him as his legs wobble when he tries to stand. The room tilts violently, nausea roaring up his throat. His weight drops into her like sand. No help, no catch. She can feel his chest heave under his jacket when she braces him. His back is damp through the fabric, and heat immediately soaks her forearm.

“Easy,” she says, arm firm around his back. “Couch. Now.”

The cushions stain the moment she lowers him down, blood, antiseptic, sweat, but she doesn’t even flinch. She guides him back until he’s half-reclined, head supported, one hand braced against his chest to keep him from tipping forward.

“Stay with me,” she says. “Breathe.”

He tries.

Something clicks in the hallway, soft nails on wood.

Then a weighty presence pads into the kitchen like it owns the place.

Gator smells him before he hears him fully.

Dog. Warm. Damp fur. That unmistakable stale-breath funk that hits the back of your throat.

His stomach turns from the sudden normal of it.

The dog stops near the couch.

Sniffs.

A slow, thorough inspection like Gator’s a thrifted piece of furniture somebody dragged in and forgot to warn the house about.

“Champ,” the sister says, low and firm. “Leave him.”

Champ does not leave him.

Instead, the dog circles once and drops with a heavy thump at the base of the couch, head on his paws, close enough that Gator can feel the warmth of him through the air.

"You ready?" She asks, approaching with the rag again.

Gator tenses, bracing himself and tries to take a deeper breath, shoulders rising and falling in quick succession.

"...Yeah," He says finally.

The next touch hits worse.

Something about the change in position, less bracing, more vulnerable, lets the pain flood him fully. The antiseptic burns hotter now, sharper, like it’s cutting instead of cleaning.

A sound tears out of him.

Loud. Raw. Uncontrolled.

He clamps his jaw shut too late, the noise already loose, already echoing in the quiet house. His back arches slightly off the couch, fingers digging into the cushions, breath shuddering violently.

“Oh—oh my god—” he gasps. “Fuck—fuck—”

“I know,” she says, voice strained but steady. “I know. You’re doing good. Just—stay with me.”

The pain crests.

For a split second, it’s worse than anything else. Worse than the tunnel, worse than the cold, worse even than the moment Ole Munch took his sight.

That’s when it happens.

The room slips sideways just enough that the edges stop lining up. The pain is still there, but it blurs, smears into something distant, as if it’s happening to someone else entirely. The burn dulls into pressure. The pressure into noise. The noise into nothing.

Sound stretches thin.

Her voice keeps reaching him, but it doesn’t land right. It comes apart mid-sentence, syllables lagging behind themselves, an echo down a long tunnel.

He’s not here anymore.

He’s somewhere white and ringing and empty. No up, no down, no body. Just a hollow space where sensation flickers without meaning. His body is still screaming, he knows that abstractly, but it’s far away now. Like he’s watching it through thick glass. Like it belongs to someone else.

“…Gator?” she says. “Hey. Look at me.”

The name barely registers.

His head tips to the side, loose, unguarded. His breathing goes shallow and uneven, chest stuttering like it can’t quite remember the pattern. His hands slacken on the couch, fingers twitching faintly, unmoored.

Her chest tightens.

“Okay,” she says quickly, sharper now. “We’re stopping. We’re stopping.”

The words don’t reach him yet.

He feels pressure at his wrist. Light, insistent. Fingers wrapping around him. Counting. Anchoring. Something real.

She leans closer, voice dropping, steadying. “Talk to me. Anything.”

For a moment, there’s nothing.

Then, something warm presses into the edge of his awareness.

A wet nose. Rough jowls.

A slow, insistent sniff at his cheek, careful like the dog can tell he’s breakable.

And the smell hits him full in the face, dog breath, sour and humid and unmistakably alive.

It’s so real it cracks the glass.

His brow twitches.

“…Jesus,” he murmurs, voice far away. “Your dog’s breath could peel paint.”

Charlie's sister stills so hard the room goes quiet.

Sound sharpens. The room tilts back into place, ugly and painful and real. The ache slams back into him all at once, breath hitching hard as his body remembers where it is.

"…Smelled him,” he manages again, rough. “Thought I was… somewhere else.”

She sets the cloth aside and straightens slowly, deliberately, giving him room. No hands on him now. No questions. Just space and the soft, ordinary sounds of the house settling around them, the tick of the clock, the refrigerator humming, Champ resting his head heavy on Gator's thigh with a low soft whine.

“Take a minute,” she says quietly.

Gator swallows, breath still uneven. His chest rises and falls like it’s relearning the rhythm. He keeps his head tipped back against the couch, face slack with exhaustion and the dull aftershock of pain.

His hands shake a little.

He curls his fingers into the cushion again, grounding himself in the texture, the firmness. Here. Now. Couch. Fabric. 

You’re not in the tunnel. It’s not snow. Not—

“Hey,” she says, softer. “Stay with me.”

“I am,” he mutters. His voice is rough, but present. “Just… took the long way back.”

She nods with a hum like that makes sense.

They sit like that for a few seconds. Maybe longer. She doesn’t fill the silence. Doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t tell him he did great. She just waits until his breathing slows enough to stop stuttering.

When she finally speaks again, it’s almost casual.

“You know,” she says, “I couldn’t place you at first.”

He frowns faintly. “...Place me.”

“Your voice,” she explains. “It was bugging me. Felt familiar.”

He huffs weakly. “People say that a lot.”

She snorts despite herself. “Yeah, I bet.”

She shifts closer just within range. “We went to school together.”

That gets his attention.

“…We did?”

“Mm-hmm.” She tilts her head, considering him. “Couple grades apart. You ran with a rough crowd.”

A beat.

“Oh,” he says. Then, dryly: “Yeah?”

She watches his face for a reaction, then adds, deadpan, “You were kind of an ass.”

A real sound escapes him this time. A short, pained laugh that turns into a wince halfway through. “Yeah,” he admits. “I am an ass.”

He swallows, throat working. “Dunno what the kid sees in me.”

She glances toward the hallway, where Charlie disappeared earlier. Her expression softens in a way it hadn’t before.

“He doesn’t see what most people do,” she says. “For better or worse.”

Gator exhales slowly. “Lucky kid.”

“Stubborn kid,” she corrects. “But… yeah.”

The edge between them dulls. The dynamic shifts, subtle but real. Two adults, sitting in the aftermath of something awful, recognizing each other in the margins.

She reaches for a clean towel and drapes it gently over his shoulders, practical.

“We’ll keep going in a minute,” she says. “When you’re ready.”

He dips his chin.

“…Thanks,” he murmurs.

"Yeah."

She lets the quiet stretch a moment longer.

Then she straightens slightly, practical again, bracing herself before saying something she wishes she could soften.

“Okay,” she says. “I need to be really clear with you.”

Gator hums faintly in acknowledgment, eyes closed.

“I’m not a doctor,” she continues. “I can clean wounds. I can slow infection. I can keep you stable tonight.” She pauses, choosing her words carefully. “I cannot fix what was done to you. I don't... I don't think you'll be able to see again.”

His jaw tightens.

“Had a feeling,” he mutters.

“And I can’t promise you won’t need a hospital,” she adds. “What I can do is make sure you don’t get worse before we figure out next steps.”

Next steps. He doesn’t ask what those are.

She reaches for fresh gauze and antiseptic again, movements slower now, more controlled. “I’m going to finish cleaning and redressing your face. It’ll still hurt, but it shouldn’t be as bad as before.”

He exhales through his nose. “Low bar.”

“That’s what we’re working with.”

She warns him before every touch again, even though he’s already bracing.

“Right side first.”

Her fingers are gentler now, the cloth barely skimming skin, working around the worst of the swelling. The burn is still there, deep and insistent, but dulled, less sharp. Gator hisses quietly once, then grits his teeth and breathes through it.

“You’re doing better,” she murmurs.

“Or I’m too tired to fight,” he replies.

“Both can be true.”

She cleans methodically, pausing when his breathing tightens, waiting for it to even out before continuing. When she presses fresh gauze into place, she does it with steady hands, anchoring rather than hovering.

“I’m not going to wrap this too tight,” she explains. “You need airflow. Pressure’s bad here.”

He nods faintly.

She works in silence for a bit, the room filled only with small sounds. The tear of tape, the rustle of gauze, his uneven breathing slowly settling again.

When she’s done, she steps back and exhales, rubbing her hands together like she’s grounding herself.

She’s almost finished when she speaks again.

Her hands are careful as she rewraps the bandages, fresh gauze this time, clean and cool against skin that’s still tender. She keeps the pressure even, not too tight, fingers steady as she works around the worst of it.

"You mentioned not knowing what Charlie sees in you," She says, voice soft.

Gator hums.

"It's not what he sees. It's that you can't see him."

Her voice drops.

“...Charlie was in a fire,” she says.

Gator falls still.

Just… listens.

“Just a couple years ago,” she continues. “Electrical fault in our old place. Happened fast.” She tapes the edge of the gauze, smooths it down with her thumb. “He got out. But not before it got him.”

Gator swallows.

“Burns,” she says quietly. “Some you can see. Some you can’t.”

She adjusts the bandage once more, then lets her hands rest briefly at his temples.

“It changed how people look at him,” she adds. “Kids especially. They stare. They ask. Or they pretend he’s not there at all.”

Her jaw tightens, just a fraction.

“He hasn’t had friends since.”

Gator exhales slowly. The pieces slot into place with a soft, terrible clarity, the way Charlie talks too much. The way he fills silence. The way he latched on without fear.

“… Thought it was my winning personality,” Gator says quietly.

She steps back half a pace, but her tone hardens, protective.

“So I’m going to be very clear with you,” she says. “If you hurt him, if you lie to him, scare him, make him feel small—”

She meets his gaze even though she knows he can’t see it.

“I will hurt you.”

There’s no immediate threat in it.

Just fact.

“I am not afraid of you or your good-for-nothing father,” she finishes. "Understand?"

The room holds still around them.

Gator doesn’t joke.

Doesn’t scoff.

Doesn’t bristle.

He nods, slow and deliberate. “I won’t hurt him.”

She waits.

“I promise,” he adds, voice steady despite everything. “I’ll play nice.”

She studies him for a second longer, the way he says it.

Then she tapes the final edge of the bandage and steps back.

“Good,” she says quietly.

She doesn’t move right away after finishing the bandage.

Just stands there a second.

Looking at him.

At the way dirt has dried into his skin like a second layer. The grime ground into the lines of his hands. Sweat and barn dust and old blood stiffening the collar of his shirt.

He smells like a stable.

Like iron.

Like something that’s been surviving instead of living.

“…Okay,” she says finally, quieter now. “One more thing.”

Gator groans softly. “If you say ‘stitches,’ I’m leavin’.”

“No stitches,” she says. “Relax.”

He slumps further into the cushions, already too tired to argue.

She disappears down the hall and comes back with a pack of baby wipes and a clean towel.

The crinkle of the plastic makes him frown.

“…What’s that.”

“Improvising,” she says.

A sharp snap as she pulls one free.

The smell hits him immediately.

Clean. Powdery. Artificial.

He wrinkles his nose hard. “Smells like a diaper changin’ station.”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Better than dirt, sweat, and blood.”

He considers that.

“…Yeah. Fair enough.”

He doesn’t fight her when she kneels in front of him.

That’s how tired he is.

Normally he’d have some smart-ass comment. Some deflection.

Now he just lets his hands fall open in his lap.

She starts with those.

She takes one gently, wiping slow and firm across his palm.

The cloth drags.

Grit comes away immediately.

She has to use two wipes just for one hand.

Mud softens under the moisture, turning slick. Dried blood flakes loose from under his nails. She scrubs carefully along each finger, working the grime out of the creases like he’s a kid who played too hard outside.

He feels it more than he expects.

Not pain. Just… pressure. Warmth.

Someone being careful with him.

“…Didn’t realize they were that bad,” he mutters.

“Oh, they’re bad,” she says simply.

He huffs. “Rude.”

She snorts softly.

She tips his hand, cleaning the back next, thumb brushing over old scrapes and fresh ones alike. When she presses too hard near a raw spot he twitches, and she immediately eases up.

“Sorry.”

“S’fine.”

The next wipe comes away brown.

Then pink.

Then finally mostly white.

She dries his hand with the towel and sets it back in his lap like something fragile.

Then the other.

Same process.

Same quiet.

The house feels small around them. Safe. Just the soft rustle of fabric and the faint sound of Champ snoring somewhere nearby.

When she finishes his hands, she hesitates.

“…I’m gonna help you out of the shirt,” she says, voice flat. Practical. “It’s nasty.”

His chin dips out of habit like he could look down at himself.

“…Yeah. Feels nasty.”

“Arms up.”

He obeys without comment.

The fabric slides upward, catching briefly at his ribs, gooseflesh rising on his arms the second the shirt clears.

And—she pauses just long enough to register what’s there.

Gator’s torso is broad despite the way he’s wasting. Lean muscle stretched tight beneath skin that’s bruised in places, marked with a few old scars and newer ones. His shoulders slope wide and solid, collarbones sharp with recent weight loss but still unmistakably strong. Dark hair dusts his chest and trails down his stomach, thicker at the center.

It’s the body of someone built for physicality. For force. For endurance.

And right now, it’s trembling.

Sweat beads along his sternum, his skin warm, too warm, under her fingers as she carefully clears the shirt over his head, avoiding the bandages. His breathing stutters when cool air hits bare skin.

“Sorry,” he mutters automatically.

She shakes her head. “You're fine."

The wipes are colder on his chest.

He sucks in a breath.

“Jesus—”

“Oh, right. Sorry. Cold.”

“It’s fine. Just warn a guy.”

“I just did.”

“Yeah, after the fact, asshole.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile now.

She works methodically.

Across his collarbones first. Down his shoulders. Wiping away streaks of dirt he didn’t even know were there. Sweat-salt. Hay dust. Smudges like fingerprints from his own hands when he’d tried to steady himself.

The cloth glides over muscle that’s gone slack with exhaustion.

He doesn’t tense anymore.

Doesn’t brace.

Just… sits there, head tipped back against the couch, breathing slow.

Half asleep.

Every now and then she catches herself staring at some old scar or faded bruise and has to swallow whatever thought tries to rise up.

She keeps it clinical.

Respectful.

Quick where she can be.

Careful where she can’t.

When she wipes along his ribs he flinches.

“Ticklish?” she asks.

“Shut up,” he mutters, voice gruff.

She smiles.

By the time she’s done, the wipes aren’t coming away brown anymore.

Just damp.

Clean.

She tosses the last one and drapes the towel over his shoulders, rubbing briskly to warm him back up.

“There,” she says quietly. “Much better.”

He sniffs his sleeve experimentally.

“…Yeah,” he murmurs. “Smell like a baby, but… yeah.”

“Take what you can get.”

He nods.

And something in his posture loosens, tired.

Safe enough to be tired.

“…Thanks,” he says, already drifting.

She doesn’t make a big deal of it.

Just squeezes his shoulder once.

“All right,” she says quietly. “We’re done for tonight.”

He breathes slow, like moving too fast might break whatever fragile equilibrium he’s clinging to.

She presses a glass into his hand. “Water. Small sips.”

His fingers fumble, but she steadies the glass without comment, her other hand settling briefly at his elbow. Firm, grounding. He drinks obediently, swallowing with effort, a faint wince crossing his face.

A round tablet carefully placed in his palm.

"For the pain."

He nods.

When he’s finished, she takes the glass back and sets it aside.

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s get you to bed.”

He hesitates, just for a second.

“…Where?”

“Guest room.”

He pushes himself to his feet with her help, legs unsteady, weight leaning into her more than he probably means to. She just adjusts, keeping him upright, her hand a constant presence at his elbow, guiding rather than pulling.

The house feels different now.

Quieter. Softer. The hallway carpet muffles their steps. The light is low and warm, nothing harsh. He takes it all in through sound and smell and temperature. The clean air, the faint creak of old floorboards, the distant tick of a clock.

They pass closed doors.

One opens.

She guides him forward, then stops him gently.

“Bed’s right in front of you,” she says.

He reaches out automatically, fingers brushing a quilt. Soft. Clean. The mattress dips slightly when he sits.

A guest room.

He was in a barn.

He doesn’t say it out loud but it sits heavy in his chest anyway. It's different. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve this.

“I’m gonna grab you something clean,” she says. “I’ll be right back.”

When she returns, she’s carrying a folded bundle. Cotton. Heavy. Too big.

“They were my dad’s,” she adds. “Sorry.”

“That’s fine,” Gator murmurs. “Everything’s kinda… floaty on me right now.”

She nods and sets the clothes within reach. “Okay. We’ll take this slow.”

He braces instinctively, jaw tightening, breath going shallow, but he nods.

She hands him the clean shirt, turning it the right way before placing it into his hands.

“Tag’s at the back. I’ll guide your arm.”

Her fingers brush his forearm, firm muscle beneath skin, the kind that usually moves with certainty. She threads his good arm through first, then gently lifts the fabric to slide it over his head.

He exhales shakily as it settles.

“Okay,” she says softly. “That’s the worst of it.”

Pants are more awkward.

He braces a hand on the bed, muscles in his back tightening visibly as he shifts. She steadies him at the waist and keeps her eyes deliberately fixed on the task.

When he finally sinks back onto the mattress, he looks wrung out. Chest rising and falling harder now, shoulders sagging like the effort cost more than he expected.

“…Thanks,” he says, quiet.

She adjusts the hem of the shirt, making sure it’s not twisted. “You did good.”

The words hit him hard.

She stands there for a moment, looking down at him.

“You need to listen to me,” she says quietly.

He turns his head slightly toward her voice. “I am.”

“If you get me arrested,” she continues, “I will never forgive you.”

There’s no heat in it. Just truth.

“I can’t leave Charlie alone,” she says. “Ever.”

He swallows. “I won’t—”

She cuts him off gently. “I know what you’re about to say.”

A beat.

“If I turn in the first person who made my brother feel normal again,” she finishes, voice low, “I would never forgive myself either.”

The silence that follows is thick, but not uncomfortable.

His jaw keeps working, and his tongue feels thick, cottony, like nicotine would scrape it clean.

She notices because of course she does.

“You want water?” she asks.

“No.” His voice is rough. Honest in a way he hates. “I want my vape.”

She pauses at the door.

“…You’re kidding.”

He lets out a weak exhale that might be a laugh if he had the energy. “Wish I was.”

Her tone goes dry. “Well, congratulations. You’re detoxing in my guest room.”

A beat.

And almost grudgingly, she adds, softer, “We’ll deal with one crisis at a time.”

He swallows. “…Okay.”

She tucks the quilt more securely around his shoulders, a small, almost maternal gesture she doesn’t seem to notice herself making.

“I’ll be down the hall,” she says. “If you need anything—anything—you call out. I’ll hear you.”

“…Okay.”

He feels something cold, soothing and soft press to his eyes, "Should help with the swelling and pain."

Gator breathes a soft involuntary sigh.

“I’ll check on you in the morning.”

He gives a weak nod, exhaustion pulling him under fast now.

She turns off the overhead light, leaving a small lamp on by the door. Just enough.

Gator lies there, eyes bandaged, body aching, fever still humming low in his blood.

But clean, clothed, and surprisingly... seen.

__~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~__

A/N: Holy shit, I spent an embarrassing amount of my free time on this you guys. I hope you liked it! Extra long lol, busy weekend and week ahead of me with a new job, so I figured I'd feed you a little extra cause I might not be able to write as much for a bit lmao. Enjoy and stay warm everybody ✌

Chapter Three: Outed.

Instead of being arrested, a blind and injured Gator Tillman is hidden on a farm by a kid who thinks fugitives are more interesting than homework. What starts as temporary shelter turns into something dangerously close to family.

TW: Graphic descriptions of injuries, past abuse, abandonment cannon-typical with the Fargo series.

Word count: ~4.2k

(Cross-posted to AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78456726/chapters/205688016)

Contents:

Chapter One: Rock Bottom.

Chapter Two: Mole.

Chapter Three: Outed.

Chapter Four: Seen.

Chapter Five: Fever.

Chapter Six: Shape of You.

Chapter Seven: Idle Hands.

__~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~__

Charlie thinks about Pop on nights he can’t sleep. And times like today.

Pop used to sit out on the back patio long after everyone else went to bed, rocking chair creaking, cigarette glowing, a little red eye in the dark. He was old. Mean sometimes. Stubborn as hell. And he never complained.

“Be gentle with Pop,” Ma would say whenever Charlie got snippy with him. “He might be an ass, but he’s hurtin’.”

Charlie used to think that was such grown-up nonsense.

Pop never looked like he was hurting. He chopped wood. Fixed fences. Walked like his bones weren’t screaming at him every step of the way.

Then one morning, way too early, the sky still black, Charlie couldn’t sleep and snuck out to get a glass of water.

And there Pop was.

Hunched over on the patio, cigarette forgotten between his fingers, coughing like it was tearing him in half. Deep. Wet.

Charlie froze in the doorway.

He’d never heard Pop cough before. Not once.

Pop didn’t know he was there. Didn’t hide it. Didn’t brace. Just hacked and gasped until he had to grip the arm of the chair to stay upright.

Then Pop looked up.

Saw Charlie.

And after—

Charlie stopped sneakin’ out at night.

__~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~__

The barn door looms in front of him now.

Charlie shakes the memory, standing there longer than he means to, boots scuffing in the dirt, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He can smell it from here, hay and metal and something sour underneath it all.

Pride is an ugly thing, Charlie decides.

Pop had it. Ma had it too, in her own quieter way. Guess it runs in the family.

He chews on his lip, then sighs and pushes the door open.

“Phew,” Charlie mutters immediately, nose wrinkling. “It reeks in here.”

The heater hums softly in the corner.

“Mole?” he calls, trying to sound normal. Casual. Like he didn’t storm out earlier like a jerk.

Gator’s voice comes from the hay pile, rougher than before. “...You gonna keep insultin’ the place, or you plannin’ on fixin’ it?”

Charlie snorts despite himself. “I am helpin’. Emotional support.”

He steps inside fully now, eyes adjusting to the dim light.

And yeah... okay.

He wasn’t imagining it earlier.

Gator looks worse.

Not dramatic worse. Just… bad. Skin too pale. Hair damp with sweat. Breathing not quite right, like every breath costs him something.

Charlie’s chest tightens.

He clears his throat and plops down nearby, careful not to get too close. “So. Uh. You still mad?”

Gator doesn’t answer right away.

There’s a long pause, broken only by the heater and the faint shift of hay as Gator adjusts.

Finally,

“Look, kid,” Gator says, voice low. “Earlier… I shouldn’t’ve said what I said.”

Charlie blinks.

That’s it.

No big apology. No groveling. No ‘I’m sorry.’

But it’s… something.

Gator continues, words clearly dragged out of him one by one. “You weren’t wrong to talk. I was just—” He exhales through his nose. “I don’t do good when I feel cornered.”

Charlie shrugs, staring at his boots. “Yeah. I don’t do good when people tell me to go make friends.”

A beat.

“…Fair,” Gator admits.

Charlie risks a glance up at him. “You still think I’m annoyin’?”

Gator huffs weakly. “Oh, you’re definitely annoyin’.”

Charlie grins. “Just checkin’.”

Another pause.

Then Gator says quieter, less defensive:

“I didn’t mean it.”

Charlie swallows.

Be gentle. He's hurtin'.

He rubs at the back of his neck. “I kinda ran off like a baby.”

Gator shifts, grimacing slightly. “I’ve seen worse.”

Charlie hesitates, then blurts, “You were real sick. I knew that. I just—” He frowns, frustrated. “I kept talkin' cause you were worrying me.”

Gator goes still.

For a second, Charlie worries he pushed too far.

Then Gator says, very quietly, “You don't need to worry about me, kid.”

The barn settles around them again.

Charlie stands abruptly. “Anyway. Dinner soon.”

Gator scoffs. “What, you invitin’ me?”

Charlie pauses at the door, hand on the handle. “Nah. But my sister’s makin’ fried chicken.”

That gets Gator’s attention.

“…That so?”

Charlie grins over his shoulder. “Yeah. And I might  try and steal an extra leg.”

Gator lets out a short, surprised laugh that turns into a cough he has to swallow down fast.

Charlie pretends not to notice, but he files the sound away.

Like he did with Pop and like he will with Mole.

__~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~__

The house smells divine.

Not the gross, sour barn smells Charlie’s been swimming in all day, real food. Warm oil. Pepper. Something buttery and comforting that makes his stomach growl the second he steps inside.

“Wash your hands,” she calls from the kitchen without looking up.

Charlie grins anyway. He does it without complaint, scrubbing at his palms longer than usual, humming under his breath as he goes. He feels… good. Lighter. Like something in his chest has finally loosened its grip.

Charlie’s sister watches him out of the corner of her eye as he wanders back into the kitchen, hands still damp, hair a little wild from being outside all day. He’s smiling, really smiling. So much more than the small, half-there ones he’s been giving her lately.

“Well,” she says, amused. “Something put you in a mood.”

Charlie shrugs, hopping up onto one of the stools at the counter. “Just a good day.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You mucked stalls and stacked hay.”

“Still counts.”

She laughs softly and sets a bowl of potatoes in front of him, sliding a peeler across the counter. “Help me with these?”

“Sure,” Charlie says immediately.

That earns him a look.

She pauses, eyes flicking to him in mild surprise. “Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?”

Charlie snorts and grabs the peeler. “What? I can be helpful without complaint.”

She ruffles his hair as she passes, fingers lingering for half a second longer than necessary. “Since when?”

He swats her hand away, laughing, and nearly drops a potato. “Knock it off!”

She smiles to herself as she turns back to the stove.

Dinner comes together easily. Fried chicken piled high and golden. Mashed potatoes steaming in a big bowl. Biscuits split and buttered. Corn warming on the back burner.

She piles Charlie's plate high with mashed poatoes, his favorite. And some chicken and the rest before setting it in front of him.

“Eat,” she says. “You’re gonna get cranky.”

Charlie digs in happily, tearing into a chicken leg with enthusiasm.

“Are you gonna eat?” he asks around a mouthful.

“In a minute,” she replies. “I gotta feed Champ and finish up a couple things.”

Charlie nods, already reaching for another piece.

He hesitates just long enough to check if she’s looking, then slides a second chicken leg under his shirt, just tucking it against his stomach when—

“Charlie.”

He freezes.

Slowly, he looks down.

Then back up.

She’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, a fond smile tugging at her mouth.

“You know,” she says mildly, “if you’re still hungry, you can just ask.”

Charlie laughs, caught but not worried. “I wasn’t hiding it.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“I was gonna save it for later.”

“Later as in after bed?” she asks.

“Maybe,” he says, sheepish. “I been gettin’ cravings.”

She sighs, shaking her head, and reaches out to straighten his collar. “Eating late’s gonna give you a stomach ache.”

“I’ll risk it,” Charlie grins.

She nudges him gently toward the table. “Finish what’s on your plate first, then we’ll talk.”

He does, happily.

And as she watches him eat, really eat, relaxed and chatty and brighter than he’s been in weeks, something warm settles in her chest.

Whatever today was, whatever small thing sparked it…

She’s glad for it.

The knock comes just as she’s setting a second plate on the counter.

Three sharp raps. Firm. Measured.

Not neighborly.

The sound cuts through the kitchen like a blade.

Charlie freezes mid-bite, chicken halfway to his mouth.

She stills too but only for a heartbeat. Then she wipes her hands on a towel and heads for the door, calm and unhurried in a way that makes Charlie’s chest feel too tight.

“I’ll get it,” she says.

Charlie swallows hard.

The door opens to reveal a uniformed officer on the porch, hat tucked under his arm, breath puffing white in the cold. He looks tired and busy.

“Evenin’,” he says, polite. “Sorry to bother you so late.”

“No trouble,” she replies easily. “What can I do for you?”

“We’re looking for a man who may have passed through the area yesterday,” the officer explains. “Caucasian male. Early twenties. Brunette. Slicked-back hair. Brown eyes.”

Charlie’s stomach drops.

He stares down at his plate, suddenly very interested in his mashed potatoes.

“Haven’t seen anyone like that, unless you mean the little one back there,” She says without hesitation. Charlie huffs. “But you’re welcome to look around if you need to.”

The officer pauses, surprised. “You don’t mind?”

“Of course not,” she says. “It’s a big property, but you’re welcome to it.”

Charlie’s chair scrapes back suddenly.

“Everywhere’s fine,” he blurts out. “Except the barn.”

Both adults turn to look at him.

His sister raises an eyebrow. “Except the barn?”

Charlie’s face feels hot. His mouth is moving faster than his brain.

“Daisy just had her calf,” he says quickly. “She’s real ornery right now. Kicks at strangers. Wouldn’t wanna get hurt.”

The officer hesitates, clearly weighing the inconvenience against the likelihood.

Charlie’s sister bites back a smile. “He’s not wrong,” she adds mildly. “That cow’s mean on a good day.”

The officer exhales, nodding. “Fair enough. No need to rile her up.”

Relief crashes through Charlie so fast it makes him dizzy.

“Well,” the officer says, glancing back toward his cruiser, “thank you for your time. And for the offer.”

She gestures toward the stove. “You want a plate? I’ve got plenty.”

The officer hesitates, then grins sheepishly. “If you’re sure…”

She plates him a piece of chicken and a biscuit, wrapping it up neatly. He thanks her profusely, wishing them a good night before heading back out into the cold.

The door closes.

Charlie doesn’t wait.

He shoves his chair back and stands abruptly, stretching exaggeratedly. “Welp. I’m beat. Goin’ to bed.”

“Not so fast, mister,” She says, turning.

Charlie stops short.

Too fast.

The extra weight under his shirt shifts, and suddenly it’s all coming down, biscuits tumbling to the floor, two chicken legs bouncing across the tile.

The dog barrels in immediately.

“Champ! NO!” Charlie yells, lunging forward. “Those’re for Mole!”

The words echo.

Hang.

Die.

Silence fills the kitchen so completely Charlie can hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

She stares at him.

Slowly.

“…Who,” she says, very carefully, “is Mole?”

Silence stretches in the kitchen, thick and brittle.

The dog’s tail thumps once against the cabinet, hopeful.

Charlie doesn’t breathe.

His sister looks from the scattered food on the floor to his face, wide-eyed, flushed, guilt written all over him in a way he’s never been good at hiding.

She starts picking up the mess.

Charlie opens his mouth.

Closes it.

“…Who is Mole?” she asks again, softer this time, but there’s an edge to it now. Something watchful.

Charlie says too fast. “Nobody.”

She tilts her head. “Nobody you’re sneaking food for.”

He swallows. “I just—”

“And,” she continues calmly, "what was that bullcrap about Daisy?"

Charlie winces.

“She kicks,” he offers weakly.

“When she's startled awake by misbehaving little boys playing with firecrackers, maybe!"

"That was one time!"

Charlie shifts his weight, eyes darting toward the hallway like escape might still be an option.

She sets the towel down on the counter.

Neatly. Deliberately.

“All right,” she says. “Let’s try this again.”

Charlie’s chest feels tight. “I just didn’t want cops nosin’ around,” he blurts. “That’s all. It’s creepy when they do that.”

She studies him for a long second, unconvinced.

“Charlie,” she says quietly, “you’ve lived on this farm your whole life. When have you ever cared about cops nosing around?”

He doesn’t have an answer for that.

She sighs and turns toward the back door.

Charlie’s stomach drops.

“Wait—!” He lunges forward, grabbing the hem of her shirt. “Don’t—don’t go out there.”

She stops short, surprised more than anything.

“Charles Andrews,” she says sharply, turning. “What on God's green earth has gotten into you?”

He panics.

Words tumble out in a rush. “I—I stole magazines. From the gas station. The adult ones. And I hid ’em in the barn.”

She blinks.

“What.”

“You don’t wanna see that, do you?” he adds desperately. “Like—at all. It’s gross. You’d be mad. Super mad.”

For half a second she looks like she might laugh.

Then she shakes her head, prying his fingers off her shirt. “Move. And we’re gonna talk about that later.”

She opens the door.

Cold air rushes in, carrying the familiar smells of hay and metal and animals. The barn looms ahead, dark except for the faint glow leaking from the pole shed.

She steps inside.

Charlie hurries after her, a last ditch effort, "Wait, Mai, no—! Avert your virgin eyes!"

“Hello?” she gently pushes him aside and calls, half-expecting silence.

The barn smells wrong.

It hits her all at once as she steps inside, threaded through with something coppery. Sick-sweet. Blood.

The heater hums softly near the back, a low, steady sound that doesn’t belong.

Her eyes adjust.

And then she sees him.

Curled in the hay beneath a mess of blankets, shoulders hunched, posture tight and defensive like an animal expecting to be struck. His breathing is shallow and uneven, chest rising too fast, skin flushed and damp with sweat. Bandages wrap his eyes, thick, stained, clumsy. One arm is casted and held to his chest.

He’s hurt badly.

She doesn’t realize she’s stopped breathing until her lungs burn.

Charlie stands frozen behind her, heart pounding so loud he’s sure they can hear it.

“Hello?” she says again, sharper this time, grounding herself in the sound of her own voice.

The man flinches violently.

His whole body jerks at the sound, breath hitching, shoulders drawing in. One hand lifts instinctively, half-formed, useless with the cast, an aborted attempt at defense.

“I—” His voice is hoarse, cracked raw. “I’m sorry. I didn’t— I can go. I didn’t mean—”

Charlie moves before she does.

He darts forward, planting himself squarely between them, arms out like that might somehow make him bigger. Like he could physically block the sight of the man behind him.

“Don’t yell at him,” Charlie blurts, panic sharp in his voice. “He didn’t do anything!”

Her chest tightens.

“Charlie,” she snaps. “Move.”

“No.”

The word is small. Shaky. Absolute.

She stares down at him, disbelief flickering hot and fast. “Get out of the way.”

“He’s sick,” Charlie says, too fast, too loud. “And he can’t see and he’s not gonna hurt anyone and he didn’t even wanna be here, I brought him—”

“How long,” she cuts in sharply, “has he been here?”

Charlie falters.

“…Since yesterday.”

Her breath catches. “Since yesterday?”

“He didn’t have anywhere else to go,” Charlie says, voice cracking now. “And he was gonna freeze, and he was bleeding, and—”

Her gaze snaps past him, locking onto the man again.

“And you,” she says, controlled but razor-edged, “what the fuck are you doing on my property?”

The man stiffens.

“I didn’t know it was yours,” he says quickly, a lie. “I swear. I didn’t even know where I was. I— I was just tryin’ to get warm.”

He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I’ll leave. I don’t want trouble.”

Trouble.

The word lands wrong.

She rounds on him, anger flaring hot and sharp again. “You were trouble the second you let a kid take responsibility for you.”

Charlie spins on her. “He didn’t let me do anything! I invited him here!"

“Charlie,” she says, low and dangerous now, “go inside.”

“No,” Charlie says again, louder this time. “I’m not leavin’ him.”

Her jaw tightens. “Charlie.”

“He’s my friend,” Charlie insists, voice breaking completely now. “He didn’t do anything to deserve—”

“Enough.”

Charlie goes silent, chest heaving, tears glassy in his eyes. He doesn’t move, but he stops talking.

She exhales sharply, scrubbing a hand over her face.

This is real. This is happening.

She looks at the man again, forcing herself to slow down, to think.

Blood. Injury. Bandages. A heater dragged out here by a child. For the love of God, there could've been another fire!

And a cop on her porch less than an hour ago.

Her stomach twists.

“This can’t be happening,” she says in disbelief, the words tumbling out tight and fast. “This can’t— Charlie, what were you thinking?”

“I was thinking he was gonna die,” Charlie snaps back, tears spilling now. “He was in the snow!”

She paces a few steps, boots crunching in the hay, adrenaline buzzing sharp and ugly under her skin.

“You hid a fugitive in our barn,” she says, voice rising despite herself. “Do you understand that? The police are actively looking for him.”

The man stiffens at the word.

“Fugitive,” he echoes quietly.

She turns on him. “Don’t play dumb. There were officers at my door asking about you.”

His shoulders sag like the last of the fight has gone out of him.

Her hands curl into fists at her sides.

“This puts us at risk,” she continues, pacing again. “It puts you at risk, Charlie. If they find him here—if they think we were hiding him—”

“I wasn’t hidin’ him,” Charlie says desperately. “I was helping him!”

She whirls on him. “You don’t get to decide that!”

Charlie flinches like she’s struck him.

She immediately regrets the edge in her voice, but the fear won’t let go.

She gestures sharply toward the man. “God, Charlie, look at him! He’s badly injured. He needs a doctor. Real medical care.”

Charlie latches onto that instantly. “Exactly! You’re the adult! Help him!”

Her laugh comes out sharp and humorless. “I’m not a doctor.”

“You wanted to be a vet,” Charlie shoots back.

“That is not the same thing,” she snaps. “He’s a person.”

Charlie’s voice goes small. “He’s like a beaten puppy.”

She turns away, dragging a hand through her hair, pacing hard now. “I can’t believe you,” she mutters. “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding a fugitive back here.”

Her heart is pounding. Too fast. Too loud.

She stops abruptly and faces them again.

“We have to turn him in,” she says, firm now. Adult. Responsible. “That’s the only option.”

Charlie’s face crumples.

“No.”

Her voice softens just a fraction. “Charlie—”

“No,” he repeats, shaking his head violently. “You can’t. Please.”

Charlie doesn’t yell.

That’s the worst part.

He just stands there, fists clenched at his sides, shoulders shaking, eyes too bright. When he speaks, his voice comes out thin and fractured, like it barely makes it past his throat.

“He’s my only friend,” he says.

The words come out small. Bare. Unprotected.

His sister stills.

Charlie swipes angrily at his face with his sleeve, voice wobbling as he pushes through it. “He listens to me. He talks to me. He doesn’t—” His voice breaks hard this time. “He doesn’t look at me like everyone else.”

Her chest tightens.

“You can’t take him,” Charlie pleads, stepping closer, hands curling into the hem of her jacket now like he did earlier. “Please don’t call the cops. Don’t make him disappear. Everyone always leaves.”

Silence swells around them.

The man in the hay goes still.

She opens her mouth to respond, to be the adult again, to lay down the rule, to explain why this isn’t how the world works—

And then the man makes a sound.

It’s small at first. A sharp, involuntary hitch of breath. His hand flies to his mouth as his body folds in on itself.

“No—” Charlie starts, stepping forward.

She moves without thinking.

She grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him away just as the man retches violently, the sound tearing out of him raw and uncontrolled. He barely manages to turn before it hits the barn floor, dark and wet against the hay.

He gags helplessly, shoulders shaking, breath coming in harsh, broken pulls between waves of nausea. His skin has gone grayish beneath the grime, sweat beading thick at his temples. A tremor runs through him so strong his teeth click audibly.

Charlie freezes where she holds him, horrified.

She tightens her grip, anchoring him to her without looking away.

“Don’t,” she says softly. “Don’t go closer.”

When it finally passes, he slumps there, breathing hard, one hand pressed uselessly to his mouth, the other shaking against the dirt. Sweat slicks his hair, plastering it to his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters hoarsely, voice wrecked. “I didn’t—”

She moves before she can think better of it.

Kneels. Reaches out. Stops herself just short of touching him.

She exhales slowly, shakily, like she’s trying not to panic.

“Okay,” she says, mostly to herself.

Charlie looks up at her instantly. Hope flashes too fast in his eyes.

She meets his gaze and doesn’t look away.

“I’m not promising anything,” she says carefully. “Do you hear me?”

Charlie nods frantically.

“We’re not calling anyone tonight,” she says finally.

Charlie lets out a broken sob of relief. “Thank you.”

She holds up a finger. “That is not a promise. That is me putting a pin in it.”

She turns back to the man. “You need to be looked at. Properly. I don’t care what you did or who’s after you, you are not staying in this barn like this.”

He doesn’t argue.

Doesn’t thank her.

He just nods weakly, swallowing hard, breath still uneven, every ounce of energy clearly going toward staying upright.

She straightens slowly.

“For now,” she says, mostly to herself. “That’s all I’m agreeing to.”

Charlie nods again and again, wiping his face, already moving closer to Gator like he’s afraid to let go.

They don’t move him right away.

For a few seconds, all three of them just breathe in the barn’s stale air, hay and metal and sickness still clinging thickly to everything. Gator stays hunched where he is, one hand braced uselessly against the ground, shoulders rising and falling too fast.

“Okay,” the sister says finally, voice steady in the way it gets when she’s made a decision. “We’re gonna get you inside.”

Gator stiffens. “I shouldn’t—”

“That’s not a discussion,” she cuts in gently. “It’s temporary.”

Charlie’s already at his side, wiping his face with his sleeve, eyes red but determined. “C’mon, Mole. You heard her.”

“I really don’t—” Gator starts again, pushing weakly at the hay as if he might manage to stand on his own.

He doesn’t.

His legs tremble immediately, buckling under him, and he makes a small, frustrated sound in the back of his throat.

“Easy,” she says, stepping in before he can fall. “Don’t fight it.”

They have to figure it out together.

Charlie wedges himself under Gator’s left arm, small but stubborn, gripping the fabric of his jacket like it’s a lifeline. She takes the other side, sliding an arm around his back, bracing him against her shoulder.

He’s heavier than she expects, dead weight.

The kind that comes from exhaustion and injury and a body that’s running on fumes. When she adjusts her grip, her palm presses briefly to his side through thin fabric.

He’s burning up.

The heat radiates off him, unnatural and alarming, damp with sweat. She bites back a curse and tightens her hold.

“Wow,” Charlie mutters, nose wrinkling as they haul him upright. “I wasn’t kidding earlier when I said you stank.”

Gator lets out a weak, offended huff. “You try… livin’ in a barn.”

She snorts before she can stop herself.

Charlie beams at that, just for a second, and then they’re moving.

Step by slow, careful step.

Gator’s boots drag, but he manages a few stumbling steps in an effort to help out. His breathing turns rougher with each movement, weight sagging more heavily into them both. Charlie grunts, jaw clenched, refusing to let go even when his arm starts to shake.

“Almost there,” she murmurs, more to herself than anyone else.

Cold air bites at them as they step out of the barn.

The porch.

The door.

Gator stops.

His body goes rigid, grip tightening reflexively on Charlie’s sleeve.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he says quietly, voice barely more than breath. “I don’t— I don’t belong in there.”

She shifts her hold, firm but not unkind. “It’s just a doorway.”

“I'm trouble,” he mutters.

She leans in just enough for him to hear her clearly. “It’s temporary.”

That’s all she gives him.

They guide him forward.

The door opens.

Warmth spills out to meet them. Soft yellow light, clean wood floors, the faint smell of soap and dinner still lingering in the air. The contrast is jarring. Gator flinches as if the house itself might reject him.

It doesn’t.

The door shuts behind them with a quiet, final click.

Chapter Two: Mole.

Instead of being arrested, a blind and injured Gator Tillman is hidden on a farm by a kid who thinks fugitives are more interesting than homework. What starts as temporary shelter turns into something dangerously close to family.

TW: Graphic descriptions of injuries, past abuse, abandonment cannon-typical with the Fargo series

Word count: ~3.8k

(Cross-posted to AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78456726/chapters/205685961)

Contents:

Chapter One: Rock Bottom.

Chapter Two: Mole.

Chapter Three: Outed.

Chapter Four: Seen.

Chapter Five: Fever.

Chapter Six: Shape of You.

Chapter Seven: Idle Hands.

__~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~__

Gator wakes as though he’s been shoved.

His body jerks hard against the ground, heart slamming violently in his chest, breath tearing into his lungs in sharp, panicked pulls. For one disorienting second, he’s back in the snow. Waiting, listening, bracing—

Ole Munch.

The name hits before the memory does.

His hand claws uselessly at the straw beneath him, fingers scraping dry stalks that stab into his palm. The sensation snaps him fully awake, pain blooming everywhere at once like it’s been waiting patiently for him to open his eyes, or what’s left of them.

His arm screams first, a deep, throbbing ache that radiates up into his shoulder and down into his ribs. His head pounds with a thick, nauseating pressure, every pulse of his heartbeat echoing too loudly behind his face. His throat burns when he swallows, raw and tender, the skin there tight and angry.

He sucks in a breath and immediately regrets it.

The air is cold. Stale. It smells like manure and old hay and metal. Sharp, sour, unmistakably a barn. The scent sits heavy in the back of his throat, mixing unpleasantly with the copper tang he can still taste.

Straw prickles everywhere. Itches along his neck, his wrists, his back. Every small shift sends little pinpricks of irritation across skin that already feels too sensitive, too exposed.

He’s cold.

Not the sharp, biting cold from the field, but a deeper one that settles into his bones and makes his teeth chatter even when his skin feels faintly clammy. He shivers, breath coming unevenly, and for a second panic flares again, hot and irrational.

...Where am I?

He forces himself to slow his breathing, counting like he did before.

In. Out.

His head spins anyway.

The pain is worse than it was last night. That’s the part that scares him, not the intensity, but the change. Everything feels heavier, thicker. Like his body is lagging a second behind his thoughts.

He swallows again, stomach rolling unpleasantly.

He’s just starting to wonder if he should be more worried when a voice cuts through the fog.

“Geez, Mole,” Charlie says cheerfully. “You look and smell like shit.”

Gator startles, breath hitching sharply in his chest.

The sound grounds him immediately. Too close. Too casual. Too annoyingly lively to be imagined. The panic ebbs just enough for him to orient himself. Hay beneath him, wooden post at his back, the faint hum of the heater somewhere near his feet.

Barn. Pole shed.

Right.

He exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tightening. “Good mornin’ to you too, kid.”

Charlie snorts. He can hear the movement now, boots scuffing through straw, something rustling nearby. The kid’s presence fills the space without effort.

“You wake up like that often,” Charlie continues, unbothered, “or am I just lucky?”

Gator shifts, immediately regretting it as pain flares bright and sharp through his arm. He hisses quietly, breath stuttering, then stills again.

“Didn’t realize I had an audience,” he mutters.

Charlie laughs. “Hard to miss. You were breathin’ like you just ran from a bear.”

Gator closes his eyes beneath the bandages and lets his head fall back against the post. The wood is rough and solid at his spine. Uncomfortable, but real.

“Feel like it,” he says hoarsely.

There’s a pause just enough for Gator to notice the way Charlie’s footsteps slow, how the kid seems to hover closer than before.

“Yeah,” Charlie says finally, softer than before. “Seems like it."

Something crinkles near his head.

Gator startles, breath hitching, muscles tensing on instinct before pain reminds him exactly why that’s a bad idea. He exhales through his teeth and stills.

Charlie clears his throat loudly. “Relax. It’s just me. Again.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Gator mutters.

There’s a pause, then the soft thump of something being set down close to his hand. A familiar, papery rustle.

“Breakfast,” Charlie announces, like this is official business.

Gator frowns faintly beneath the bandages. “What time is it?”

“Morning-ish.” Charlie shifts closer. “Eat before you pass out or somethin’. Sis says skipping breakfast is bad.”

Gator reaches out slowly, fingers brushing a box. Cardboard. He opens it by feel, the foil inside crackling loudly in the quiet shed.

“…Is this a poptart?” he asks, incredulous.

“Strawberry,” Charlie says proudly. “And chocolate milk.”

Something cool presses against his knuckles, a bottle. Condensation beads against his skin, shockingly cold. Gator’s stomach rolls immediately, a wave of nausea curling low and unpleasant.

“How’d you sleep?” Charlie asks.

Gator huffs a dry laugh. “On hay. In a barn. With my head feelin’ like it’s full of gravel.” He shifts an inch and winces. “So bad.”

“Wow,” Charlie deadpans. “Sorry the barn ain’t five-star. I’ll talk to management.”

Gator almost smiles. It hurts his face when he does, so he stops.

He takes a careful sip of the milk. It’s too sweet, too cold, but it settles something shaky in his chest. His hands are trembling a little. He notices now that he’s stopped moving.

“You’re shiverin’,” Charlie observes.

“Cold,” Gator says automatically.

Charlie hums. “It's like, 78 degrees in here, dude.”

Gator doesn’t argue. The chill feels wrong, deep and crawling. His skin feels tight, faintly damp beneath his clothes.

Charlie goes quiet for a beat.

“You can’t let my sister see you,” he says suddenly.

Gator stiffens.

“What?”

“She’ll turn you in,” Charlie says matter-of-factly. “Immediately. No hesitation.”

The words land heavy.

“Turn me in,” Gator repeats slowly, jaw tightening.

“Yeah.” Charlie shifts his weight, boots scuffing in the straw. “Look, I’m a kid, but I ain’t stupid. And I ain’t blind like you either.”

Gator snorts despite himself. “Low blow.”

Charlie ignores that. “There were cops everywhere yesterday, man. Like, everywhere. So either they were in the area for funsies, or they’re sniffin’ out a mole.”

The nickname hits different this time.

Less joke. More warning.

Gator’s grip tightens on the poptart, appetite fading. His pulse picks up, thudding loud and uncomfortable in his ears. “You shouldn’t be sayin’ stuff like that.”

“I should,” Charlie counters easily. “’Cause it’s true.”

There’s a pause. The heater hums. Wind rattles faintly against the metal walls.

“But,” Charlie adds, softer now, “I swear I won’t say nothin’. Not even if she grounds me.”

Gator turns his head slightly, trying to orient toward the sound of him. “Why?”

Charlie shrugs. Gator can hear it in the way his coat rustles, the way his voice lifts. “I’m bored.”

“That’s it?” Gator asks.

“Pretty much.” Then, after a beat: “And you’re kinda weird. In a not-boring way.”

Gator lets out a quiet breath. He doesn’t know what to do with that.

Before he can respond, Charlie’s name is called from somewhere outside the shed. A woman’s voice. Sharp, familiar, close enough to make Gator’s stomach knot.

Charlie groans. “Ugh. Chores.”

Footsteps retreat, then pause.

“Don’t move,” Charlie says firmly. “Eat. Drink. I’ll be back.”

The door creaks open, cold air slipping in, then shuts again.

Gator is alone.

The shed goes still after Charlie leaves.

Wind scrapes faintly along the metal walls. Somewhere outside, something creaks.

Gator sits there for a minute, breathing through his nose, waiting for the room to stop tilting.

His hands are shaking.

Just enough that the foil wrapper crinkles louder than it should when he finally opens it. The sound makes his head throb harder, pressure blooming behind what’s left of his eyes, like a vice tightening inside his skull.

He breaks off a piece of the poptart and brings it to his mouth slowly.

The first bite is almost overwhelming.

Sugar. Warmth. Something solid on his tongue after nothing but blood and cold and bile for longer than he wants to think about. His stomach clenches immediately in want.

He chews carefully, eyes closing beneath the bandages. Swallows.

God. He didn’t realize how hungry he was.

He takes another bite. Then another, slower this time, savoring it like it might disappear if he rushes. The chocolate milk follows, cold and sweet, coating his throat, soothing the raw scrape there.

For a brief, fragile moment, it feels like relief.

Then his stomach turns.

It starts low and slow, a sickening roll that makes his breath hitch. He freezes, poptart halfway back to his mouth, heart picking up speed for all the wrong reasons.

“No,” he mutters under his breath.

Too late.

Heat floods his face, sweat breaking out along his spine even as a violent shiver racks his body. His stomach cramps sharply.

He fumbles for the ground, barely managing to turn before it hits him.

He retches hard, the sound tearing out of his chest, violent and humiliating. The poptart comes up almost intact, followed by milk, sour and burning, his body rejecting it with brutal efficiency.

He coughs and spits, gagging helplessly, one hand braced against the dirt floor, the other curled uselessly against his stomach.

It doesn’t stop right away.

When it finally does, he’s left shaking, throat raw, eyes watering uselessly beneath the bandages. His head pounds viciously now, each pulse sending a fresh wave of nausea through him.

He stays there, crouched over the hay, breathing hard.

Alone.

Ashamed in a way that sinks deeper than the physical mess. Like he failed at something simple… He wasted the kindness.

His stomach growls faintly, traitorous and insistent.

Still hungry.

Gator swallows thickly and wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve, smearing sweat and grime together. His hands won’t quite stop trembling. He feels cold again, bone-deep this time, despite the heater humming steadily beside him.

Whatever this is, it’s not getting better.

He leans back against the post, exhausted, breath coming a little too fast, a little too shallow, and stares blindly into the dark behind his bandages.

He closes his eyes anyway.

Minutes, or maybe longer, pass in a feverish blur.

And goes completely still when something breathes hot near his head.

Not a person.

Too slow. Too wet.

There’s a warm rush of air against his hair, damp and heavy, followed by a soft snort right by his ear.

His body reacts before his brain does.

He jerks sharply, heart slamming, breath ripping into his lungs as panic flares. His shoulder clips the wooden post, pain exploding down his arm, and he lets out a startled sound he doesn’t recognize as his own.

“What—what the f—”

Something bumps his head again.

A broad, gentle pressure nudges at his hair, followed by the rough scrape of a nose dragging lightly across his scalp. The smell hits him next, strong and unmistakable. Warm animal, hay, grass, something earthy and alive. Manure.

He freezes.

Breathing shallow. Listening hard.

Another huff. A slow exhale through wide nostrils. The faint creak of wood as weight shifts somewhere above him.

“…You gotta be kiddin’ me,” he mutters hoarsely.

The panic ebbs, replaced by confusion.

Whatever it is snorts again, louder this time, and he feels the vibration of it through the post at his back. A tongue runs briefly through his hair, scratchy and wet, before retreating.

Gator grimaces. “Hey—hey, cut that out.”

The thing doesn’t listen.

Instead, it noses his head again, persistent and unbothered, like it’s decided he’s interesting and that’s the end of the discussion.

It clicks into place slowly.

He’s in a barn. A working barn. Which means—

“... a cow,” he murmurs.

It huffs softly.

Gator lets his head rest back against the post again, heart still racing but no longer panicked. His breathing evens out a fraction. The warmth from her muzzle lingers where she nudged him, oddly comforting compared to the cold seeping through everything else.

“…That’s it, huh,” he says quietly. “This is where I’m at.”

It snorts again and bumps his hair once more, harder this time, almost playful.

He winces. “Easy, big girl. Ain’t exactly in fightin’ shape.”

She ignores him completely, apparently satisfied now, and withdraws with the sound of hooves shifting and straw rustling. He hears the soft clink of a chain, the creak of wood as she settles back into place.

The space above him feels emptier without her.

Gator exhales slowly through his nose, the tension draining out of his shoulders despite the pain.

“Well,” he mutters to the empty shed, “nice to meet you too.”

__~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~__

The shed door creaks open again sometime later.

Gator doesn’t know how long it’s been. Time has gone soft around the edges, measured only by the occasional sound of a crow outside and the ache in his bones deepening into something dull and heavy.

“Hey,” Charlie says, bright as ever. “I’m back.”

Boots scuff across the floor. Something metal clanks. The smell of hay shifts as Charlie moves around, entirely too comfortable with the space.

“Got barn chores,” Charlie continues, like this explains everything. “Means I’m stuck in here for a while. Lucky you.”

Gator huffs weakly. “Thrilled.”

Charlie laughs and drops down nearby with an easy thump, close enough that Gator can feel the disturbance through the hay. He doesn’t touch him, just settles in like this is normal, like sitting next to a bleeding stranger in a pole shed is a perfectly reasonable way to spend an afternoon.

It almost feels peaceful.

Charlie moves around the shed for a minute, boots scuffing through the straw. Gator listens to it absently, eyes closed beneath the bandages, breathing heavier than he wants it to be.

Then the footsteps stop.

There’s a pause.

Charlie doesn’t say anything.

Instead, Gator hears the scrape of a shovel being dragged across the floor. The sound is deliberate. Careful. Straw rustles as it’s pushed aside, then piled back over something damp.

Gator stiffens.

Heat creeps up the back of his neck, sharp and embarrassing. He keeps his face angled away, jaw clenched, waiting for the question.

It doesn’t come.

Charlie hums quietly to himself as he works, shoveling fresh hay over the spot, packing it down with the flat of the blade like it’s just another chore. No comment. No joke. No “are you okay.”

When he’s done, he kicks the shovel aside and drops back down nearby like nothing happened.

“So,” Charlie says, casual as ever. “Where you from?”

Gator exhales slowly through his nose, chest tight for reasons that have nothing to do with pain.

Gator shifts under the blankets, a shiver running through him despite the heater set closer at his feet. He tucks the fabric tighter around his shoulders and exhales slowly.

“Around,” he answers.

Charlie snorts. “That’s not a place.”

“Close enough.”

Charlie hums, unconvinced. “What do you do?”

Gator hesitates. Just a fraction too long.

“Used to be a cop,” he says finally.

There’s a beat.

“Like… sheriff cop?” Charlie asks.

“Deputy Sheriff.”

“Huh.” Charlie seems to consider this. “You don’t really sound like one.”

Gator frowns faintly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Charlie shrugs. “I dunno. You talk weird.”

“Talk weird.”

“Yeah. Like you’re hiding something under your tongue.”

What a strange analogy.

Gator lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “That’s just how I talk.”

Charlie accepts this immediately. “Okay.”

The conversation drifts after that, lazy and uneven. Charlie talks more than Gator does. About the farm, about the animals, about how Daisy, the cow apparently, kicked over a bucket earlier and nearly took his shin with it.

“Daisy don’t like strangers," Charlie adds while mindlessly shoveling crap from her stall.

“Coulda fooled me.”

Gator answers when he can. Dodges when he can’t.

It’s almost… normal.

But the cold won’t leave him alone.

It creeps in slow and insistent, settling deep in his chest, his arms, his legs. He pulls the blankets tighter, shifts closer to the heater, but it doesn’t help. His teeth chatter faintly before he can stop them.

Charlie notices immediately.

“You cold?” he asks.

“Fine,” Gator mutters.

Charlie doesn’t argue, but he moves anyway, dragging another blanket over and tossing it onto Gator’s lap. “You’re shakin’.”

Gator goes still, jaw tightening. He hates this part. Hates being seen like this.

“Just tired,” he says.

Charlie squints, voice laced with suspicion. Gator can hear it in the pause. “You were like this earlier too.”

Gator swallows. His breathing feels heavier now, each inhale taking a little more effort than it should. His head throbs steadily, a deep pressure that makes it hard to focus.

“It’s nothin’,” he says again, less convincingly.

Charlie doesn’t push. He just goes back to his chores, movements quieter now, more deliberate.

They sit like that for a while, Charlie working, Gator bundled up and shivering despite himself.

The lull stretches.

And somewhere in the back of Gator’s mind, a cold, unwelcome thought settles in:

This isn’t just pain anymore.

It’s something else.

Charlie stops working abruptly.

“You wanna play a game?” he asks.

Gator snorts, the sound thin and tired. “Look at me. What the hell am I supposed to play in this shape?”

Charlie doesn’t miss a beat. “I Spy.”

There’s a pause.

Gator lets out a sardonic huff. “Very funny.”

“I’m serious,” Charlie insists. “Plus, it’s not even a bad idea. You gotta learn what’s in here somehow.”

Gator shifts under the blankets, arm throbbing sharply at the movement. His head feels like it’s packed full of wet cotton. “Kid, I can’t see.”

“Yeah, I know,” Charlie says patiently, like Gator’s the one missing something obvious. “That’s why I spy, and you guess.”

Another pause.

“…How’s that fair?” Gator asks.

Charlie grins. He can hear it. “It’s not. But I’ll play nice.”

Gator exhales through his nose, weighing the effort it would take to argue against the effort it would take to just… let the kid have this.

“…Fine,” he mutters. “One round.”

Charlie’s already excited. “Okay. I spy something… brown.”

Gator tilts his head slightly. “Great. That narrows it down to the entire barn.”

“Hey,” Charlie says defensively. “I said I’d play nice, not perfect.”

“Try again.”

“Okay, okay.” Charlie clears his throat theatrically. “I spy something brown… and scratchy.”

Gator grimaces. “Hay.”

“Nope.”

“Wood.”

“Warmer.”

Gator sighs. “That don’t help.”

Charlie laughs. “It’s the beam you’re leanin’ on.”

Gator huffs despite himself. “That’s cheap.”

Charlie beams. “My turn again.”

They keep going.

“Okay,” Charlie says, clearing his throat like this is serious business. “I spy something… loud.”

Gator exhales. “A tractor.”

“Nope.”

“Wind.”

“No.”

“Me,” Gator mutters. “Breathin’ like a busted engine.”

Charlie laughs. “Nah, but that’s a good guess.”

Gator frowns faintly beneath the bandages. “Then what?”

“The heater,” Charlie says proudly. “It’s hummin’.”

“That don’t count,” Gator says. “It’s not that loud.”

Charlie shrugs. “Loud enough.”

Gator grunts. “You’re cheatin’.”

Charlie ignores that completely. “My turn again.”

“Figures.”

“I spy something that smells weird.”

Gator doesn’t even hesitate. “Manure.”

“Close.”

Gator sighs, rubbing absently at his chest. “…Me?”

Charlie howls with laughter, doubling over. “Oh my god—yeah. Yeah, that’s actually right on the money.”

“Christ, it’s not that funny I stink, kid,” Gator mutters.

Charlie wipes his nose on his sleeve, still giggling. “Okay, okay. Next one. I spy something that almost killed me once.”

Gator stiffens slightly. “What.”

Charlie says it like he’s talking about the weather. “The light.”

Gator tilts his head. “What light.”

“The big one,” Charlie explains. “Hanging from the ceiling. Came loose one winter and fell right where I was standin’. Missed me by, like—” he makes a vague slicing sound “—this much.”

“Jesus,” Gator mutters. Should he be worried?

“It was awesome,” Charlie adds. “My sister freaked out.”

“That don’t sound awesome.”

Charlie shrugs. “I got a cool scar outta it.”

Gator shakes his head slowly. “You got a death wish, kid.”

Charlie grins. “Nah. Just bad luck.”

They keep going.

“I spy something that squeaks.”

“A mouse,” Gator guesses.

“Nope.”

“Rat.”

“Nope.”

“Then what?”

Charlie pauses. “…The door.”

“That ain’t squeakin’,” Gator says.

“It does when it’s cold.”

Gator exhales sharply through his nose. “You’re makin’ up rules.”

Charlie beams. “That’s how you win.”

Another round.

“I spy something that’s alive.”

“The cow.”

“No.”

“She's alive.”

“Well, yeah, but it's somethin' else.”

Gator’s brow furrows. His head throbs harder now, pulse pounding behind his eyes. “…You?”

Charlie laughs again. “Yeah. But I was thinkin’ Daisy.”

“You mean the cow I literally just pointed out?”

Charlie shrugs. “She has a name.”

Gator huffs, then winces as the motion sends a sharp flare of pain through his head. He shifts slightly, breath hitching, then stills again.

Charlie notices, even if he doesn’t comment.

“I spy somethin’ red,” Charlie says more gently.

Gator doesn’t answer right away.

“…Mole?”

“Dunno,” Gator mutters eventually. “Bucket.”

“Nope.”

Silence stretches.

Charlie fills it, like he always does. “It’s the toolbox. You were close though.”

Gator hums vaguely, eyes closed beneath the bandages. His breathing is heavier now, chest rising and falling unevenly.

They sit in companionable quiet for a moment, heater humming loudly between them.

Then Charlie pipes up again, softer but insistent. “Wanna do another?”

Gator swallows. His throat feels thick, dry. “One more.”

“Okay.” Charlie thinks. “I spy somethin’ stinky.”

Gator doesn’t answer right away.

The word settles heavy in his chest.

“…already did me,” he says finally, voice rough.

Charlie hesitates. “Nuh uh, this one's different.”

Gator exhales slowly. “... Manure.”

“Yeah,” Charlie says, easy. “That works.”

A longer silence stretches between them.

Charlie hesitates. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Gator says automatically.

They try another round.

Then another.

Gator’s answers grow slower. Shorter. Sometimes just a grunt.

Charlie talks more. Asks questions. Fills the gaps.

“So where’d you live before?”

“What was it like bein’ a cop?”

“You always sound mad, or is that just your voice?”

"You already asked that," came Gator's thin grumble.

Each word feels louder than the last. His headache spikes, pressure blooming viciously behind his eyes. His arm screams where it rests wrong against the hay.

Finally, something snaps.

“Jesus, kid,” Gator bites out, sharper than he means to. “Don’t you got anything better to do?”

The words hang there.

Charlie stills.

Gator keeps going, momentum carrying him forward before he can stop himself. “Friends. Hobbies. Somethin’ that ain’t botherin’ the hell outta me.”

Silence.

Thick. Heavy.

Then, quietly:

“You know,” Charlie says, voice smaller now, “you can be kinda mean sometimes, Mole.”

No yelling.

No sarcasm.

No comeback.

Just that.

Gator’s chest tightens.

Before he can say anything, before he can take it back, Charlie turns and walks away. His footsteps retreat across the barn floor, then stop. The door creaks open.

And closes.

Gator is left alone again.

With the barn too quiet now.

With words he can’t call back.

Guilt settles heavy in his chest, sharp and unfamiliar.

The hell is wrong with me?

Chapter One: Rock Bottom.

Instead of being arrested, a blind and injured Gator Tillman is hidden on a farm by a kid who thinks fugitives are more interesting than homework. What starts as temporary shelter turns into something dangerously close to family.

TW: Graphic descriptions of injuries, past abuse, abandonment cannon-typical with the Fargo series

Word count: ~3.5k

(Cross-posted to AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78456726/chapters/205683856)

Contents:

Chapter One: Rock Bottom.

Chapter Two: Mole.

Chapter Three: Outed.

Chapter Four: Seen.

Chapter Five: Fever.

Chapter Six: Shape of You.

Chapter Seven: Idle Hands.

__~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~__

...This is what happens when you outlive your usefulness.

A wry, fruitless thought that seeps in slowly like the snow pressing cold through his clothes.

It soaks through denim, through the thin layers meant for standing, not lying still. Gator Tillman can feel it against his back, melting, refreezing, damp in places that already hurt too much.

His breathing fogs the air in front of his face. He can feel it against his cheeks, damp and warm before the cold steals it away. His arm throbs inside the cast, a deep, nauseating ache that pulses in time with his heartbeat. His head feels wrong. Too light. Too heavy. The bandage over his eyes is stiff, tacky with old blood, pulling uncomfortably every time he shifts his jaw.

The rope around his neck burns when he swallows.

It’s stiff with ice and dirt, fibers biting against skin that’s already raw. He can feel where it rubbed him bloody earlier, where it dragged when he stumbled, where it tightened when he didn’t move fast enough.

Gator stays still at first.

Moving feels like admitting something he isn’t ready to face just yet. The wind scrapes over the field in low, empty gusts, carrying sound with it. Far away, something creaks. Wood, maybe. Or metal. He can’t tell anymore. Everything feels distant, like it’s happening on the other side of glass. His own breathing, too loud, too fast, ragged in a way that makes his chest ache.

He waits.

His eyes throb beneath the bandages. A deep, pulsing pressure that makes his stomach roll. Every heartbeat feels like it echoes behind his face.

Dad’ll come back.

That’s the thought he clings to first. It’s simple. Solid. Familiar.

He just… left to get help. That’s all. He wouldn’t leave me out here. Not like this. Not after everything.

He can’t tell how long he’s been there. Minutes, hours. Time stretches weird when you can’t see. Long enough for the cold to stop being sharp and start being heavy. Long enough for his arm to scream every time he shifts, the rough cast digging into his ribs.

He listens for footsteps. For a voice. For the sound of boots crunching through snow. Anything. He counts breaths instead, like he was taught to do when panic started clawing at his throat.

In.

Out.

In.

He waits longer.

Nothing happens.

The silence starts to feel wrong. Empty and all-consuming. No footsteps. No voice. No shape moving through the sound of wind.

He swallows thickly.

A thought slips in, uninvited.

Whatever purpose you had before, it’s gone.

Gator squeezes his jaw tight, like he can physically hold the memory back.

No. I just… I just need time. That’s all. I can still—

Still what?

The thought trails off, fraying.

He pushes himself upright on one elbow. Pain explodes through him immediately, bright and nauseating. His balance goes sideways, snow giving way beneath his boots, and he stumbles, barely catching himself before he goes down again. His heart slams hard against his ribs, breath coming too fast now, sharp and uneven. He hisses through his teeth, breath stuttering. Snow scrapes under his palm, numb fingers struggling to find purchase.

I can’t just lie here.

I have to prove I'm still useful.

That’s the rule. That’s always been the rule.

Gator drags himself upright, swaying immediately. The rope tugs unpleasantly, catching against his collarbone.

For half a second, his body reacts on instinct—goes still, waiting for the pull to come harder.

The world tilts even though there’s nothing to see. His balance is shot. No horizon, no reference point, just the dizzy lurch of his own body misfiring.

He takes a step. Then another. Each one feels wrong, like the ground keeps shifting when it shouldn’t. The open space around him is suddenly terrifying. Too much room. No walls. No edges. Nothing to anchor himself to.

I can’t see. I can’t see. I CAN'T SEE—

The thought loops, loud and frantic, drowning everything else out.

He turns his head, searching for something. Any change in sound, any difference in the way the wind moves. He nearly trips when the rope catches under his heel, a sharp noise tearing out of his throat before he can stop it, and the humiliation hits sharper than the pain.

He takes another step.

The snow gives way unevenly beneath his boot and he nearly goes down again, barely catching himself. His heart slams against his ribs, panic flaring hot and fast.

His hands shoot out blindly, fingers scraping through empty air until... wood.

Solid. Rough. Real.

He gasps, chest heaving, and lunges forward, pressing himself against it. A wall. Boards. He can feel the grain beneath his palms, splinters catching at his skin. Relief crashes through him so hard it makes his knees weak.

Structure.

Okay. Okay.

Structure means direction. Means shelter. Means something he can follow.

He shuffles along it, shoulder brushing the wood, cast bumping awkwardly. Every few steps he has to stop, lean his forehead against the wall, breathe through the nausea. The bandages are damp now, sticky against his skin. Blood, probably. He can’t tell. Everything smells like iron and cold and dirt.

The ground changes beneath his feet. Less snow. More packed earth. The rope catches on something, tugging hard on his throat, and he stumbles back. His hands fly out to catch himself, palms scraping against rough ground. Pain blooms, white and dizzying. He gasps, the sound tearing out of him, and curls in on himself instinctively.

Underground.

The air is different here. Still. Damp. It smells like soil and rot and something old. The space closes around him immediately, and instead of panic, he feels something like grim comfort. The walls are close enough to touch on both sides. He reaches out, fingers brushing coarse dirt, grooves where tools once dug through earth.

He presses his cheek briefly against the wall, grounding himself. The cold seeps into his skin, but the closeness helps. Keeps him from spiraling.

I can do this.

He crawls at first, then staggers to his feet again, one hand sliding along the wall as a guide. The tunnel narrows and widens unpredictably. He misjudges the distance and slams his shoulder into wood, a sharp cry ripping out of him before he can stop it.

“FUCK—”

His voice echoes strangely, swallowed too fast. The sound of it makes his chest tighten.

Everything is too loud.

And too quiet.

He leans there, forehead pressed to the wall, breathing hard.

Blood smears wet and dark against the dirt where his face touches it. He can feel it. Sticky, crusted along his cheek, his nose, his mouth. Tears leak anyway, hot and useless, slipping down skin he can’t wipe clean fast enough. His nose runs. He doesn’t bother trying to stop it.

Don’t cry, he tells himself fiercely. It's pointless. Weak. Stupid. He gets up.

Every scrape of his boot, every ragged breath feels amplified, but there’s nothing else. No voices. No footsteps. No one coming to get him.

His thoughts start to splinter.

Maybe I just need to wait. Dad said—Dad—

He stops walking.

The realization hits slowly, sinking in like cold water.

He left.

Not temporarily. Not as a test. He left him here. Broken. Blind. Bleeding.

Whatever purpose you had before, it’s gone.

Purpose. Usefulness. Love.

They were always the same thing.

Love—

His thoughts derail.

All he can see are bruises blooming under skin. Hear the crack of knuckles. The way Roy Tillman called it discipline.

Love hurts.

The sound that escapes him is small and wrecked and nothing like the man he’s supposed to be. A wet, broken whimper. His shoulders shake, breath coming in jagged pulls that scrape his throat raw.

Can you cry without eyes?

Apparently, yeah.

He sinks down slowly, sliding until he’s crouched against the wall, fingers digging into the dirt like it might hold him together. Everything feels too loud. The rush of his blood, the rasp of his breathing, and too quiet at the same time. No voice. No footsteps. No sign of anyone else in the world.

No one is here to see it.

That thought makes it worse. And somehow… easier.

He curls forward, arms wrapped around himself, shoulders shaking as the sound finally tears loose. Ugly. Uncontrolled. Animal.

When it passes, because eventually it has to, he’s left hollow and trembling, breath rasping in his throat.

He wipes his face with the heel of his hand, smearing blood and tears together, and forces himself to stand.

Waiting didn’t save him.

If he’s going to survive, it won’t be because someone comes back.

He turns, hand dragging along the tunnel wall again, and keeps going.

Cold air hits him first.

Open, biting, sharp enough to sting where his skin is already raw. It rushes over his face, under the bandages, down the back of his neck. Snow presses against his hands when he crawls forward, the texture wrong after dirt, slick, wet, shifting under his palms.

He drags himself out and collapses half in, half out of the opening, chest heaving.

The world feels too big again.

Sound spreads out in all directions, no walls to catch it. Wind rushes over open ground. Something scrapes nearby. Light, rhythmic. A thump. Then another. Snow being thrown, maybe. He can hear it scatter, soft and hollow.

A voice follows.

“Uh… you okay, mister?”

It comes from somewhere ahead of him, just out of reach. Carried lightly on the wind, casual and curious.

Gator goes still.

Doesn’t answer. Doesn’t breathe.

“You stuck?”

The voice moves. He hears it circle, boots scuffing through snow, quick and unbothered. There’s a rhythm to it. Small steps, uneven, like someone who isn’t worried about slipping. Someone playing.

“What’s your name?”

Closer now. To his left, maybe. He turns his head slightly, trying to pin it down, but the sound keeps shifting, refusing to settle.

“Jeez,” the kid adds, conversational. “Don’t tell me you’re blind and mute.”

Gator’s jaw tightens.

Another step closer. Too close.

“I’ma just call ya Mole,” the kid continues, unbothered. “I mean... just look at ya. Blind. Dirty. Just came outta some hole.”

Something ugly twists in Gator’s chest.

Mole.

Small. Burrowing. Something that lives underground. Something you don’t notice until it ruins the yard.

He hates it immediately.

Hates that a stranger, a kid, has named him without asking. Hates that it fits.

What unsettles him more is the tone.

There’s no fear in it.

No hesitation. No sharp intake of breath. No recoil at the blood crusted on his face, the bandages, the rope dragging uselessly behind him. Kids are supposed to be afraid of men like him. Hurt men. Men who smell like iron and dirt and wrongness.

This one isn’t.

The kid sounds… amused.

The voice dips suddenly, closer, like the kid has crouched. Gator stiffens, instinct screaming at him to create distance, and he steps back without thinking—

His heel catches.

The rope.

He goes down hard, breath knocked from his lungs in a sharp, humiliating sound as he hits the snow. Pain flares everywhere at once, white and dizzying, the rope jerking at his throat as it drags behind him.

“Whoa—okay, yeah, don’t do that,” the kid says quickly, suddenly closer. Concern flickers through the words, but it’s still light. Still easy.

Gator grits his teeth, shoving himself up on one arm. “Don’t,” he snaps hoarsely, voice rough from crying and cold and disuse. “Don’t come any closer.”

The kid pauses.