this is literally crazy

When you arrive at the house, he's already out of his work uniform and in a pair of sweats he's had for years. There's a tear in the fabric at his wrist from when you'd gotten a little too excited trying to pull it from his body last winter, but he won't let you fix it. He's hovering between the edge of the living room and the hallway leading to the front door, a beer sweating in his hand and his eyes on the TV. His body is turned towards you, which counts as a greeting during game season. 

"Hey, kid," he calls out as you drop your bag on the table with your keys, then shouts, "FOUL!" at the game blasting from the entertainment system.  

Basketball season, maybe. Or football. It doesn't even matter because half the time it's not even his team playing. 

He tries to kiss you as you walk past, his free hand finding your hip and dragging you close, but his lips barely brush over yours before his attention is pulled away and he starts yelling at the TV again. You roll your eyes, squeeze his bicep, and keep moving towards the kitchen. There's a fresh bottle of red on the counter, the cork already popped and a single glass next to it, waiting for you.  

The pour is probably a little too heavy-handed, as the liquid sloshes over the rim when you kick your shoes off, your heels flying somewhere underneath the dining table, but you'll clean it up later. In the bedroom, the sheets are rumpled, most likely from Gator's nap earlier—the one he swears he never takes—and his work clothes are thrown somewhat near the hamper, but never quite make it inside.  

You've barely unbuttoned your blouse when two hands grab your face, making you squeak. Gator crushes his mouth against yours and tastes like Coors and spicy jerky. He pulls back just long enough to steal another kiss from your mouth before dropping one against your neck, pushing your hair over your shoulder.  

"Hi," he whispers, his thumb tracing your bottom lip.  

"You're missing the game," you smile.  

"Halftime," he grins, all teeth and roguish charm.  

"Stupid," you mutter, shoving him back lightly.  

Gator drops himself at the end of the bed, leaning back on his elbows and appreciating the view in front of him as you drag off your work clothes. They're not particularly sexy—a long wool skirt because the office is always freezing and a white button-up that gives you little to no shape—but you could be wearing a garbage bag, and he'd still stare openly at you like this. His eyes drag across every new inch of skin exposed, his tongue darting out to wet his lips and his breath hitching quietly when the straps of your bra fall down your arms.  

He looks like a predator. Like he can't decide between eating you alive or keeping you forever.  

When you're totally bare in front of him, you take another long sip from your glass and let him make the choice.  

~ ~ ~ 

Gator barely catches the last few minutes of play by the time you leave the bedroom. He grabs another beer from the fridge and the bottle of wine from the counter, pouring you another glass. He twists the cap off his bottle, tossing it towards the garbage can in the kitchen without looking.  

"Go, baby, go!" he shouts, pacing behind the couch shirtless because you're wearing his sweater now, torn cuff and all.  

He lets out a loud "Fuck!" when the final whistle blows, and you figure the team he's picked for the night has lost. He leaps over the back of the couch, dropping beside you and throwing an arm over your lap, squeezing at your thigh that's still warm from the shower. You've looked forward to this moment all day, being next to him and letting the day fade away as you fade into him instead. 

He watches you for a second, his thumb moving absently across your skin. 

"How was work?" He gulps back another mouthful, wiping at the beer that escaped his lips and is headed towards his chin.  

"Oh?" You mock gasp. "You're paying attention to me now?"  

"I think I paid you plenty of attention back there." He jerks his head towards the bedroom with that stupid grin of his—the one that can get you to do anything and always lands you in trouble. 

He keeps looking though at you, waiting for an answer. 

A heavy sigh slips out of you. 

"Work was..." It takes too long to gather the right words.  

"I should've bought you a second bottle," he snorts.  

"This is the only one?" You frown, looking at the side table and eyeballing what must be maybe half a glass left inside it. His head falls back against the couch cushion as he barks out a loud laugh.  

"Don't worry, there's a case in the back of the truck." He pointedly ignores your excited expression. "Couldn't be fucked luggin' it in."  

You throw your arms around his shoulders and press a few smacking kisses against his cheek. He shoves the remote into your lap.  

"Yeah, yeah, I'm the best, I know." He's being sarcastic, but he isn't leaning away from you either. "Pick a damn movie while I get us some dinner." 

~ ~ ~ 

The heels of your feet bounce off the cabinets as you sit on the counter and tell him about your day. He's stirring pasta in the pot on the stove, and there's a jar of home-brand sauce open beside you, waiting to be added.  

He nods at the right moments and laughs as you recall how one of the new temps jammed the copier, even though the story isn't actually funny. 

"I just like the way you tell it." He shrugs. "And I like the ugly little vein that pops out on your forehead when you think someone is stupid and you're trying to be nice about it."  

Your jaw drops open, and your heels stop bouncing. Bursting out laughing, he doubles over so hard that it makes you smile too. 

"Gator!" You pout. "It's not ugly." 

"Aw." He mocks, slipping between your knees and pressing his lips against yours before you can stop him. "It's a little ugly, but it's okay."  

"You're ugly." You kiss him again.  

"Ooft." He slaps a hand against his chest, stepping away from you to stir the pasta again. "You got me, kid."  

You smack him with the tea towel, and he flicks a wet noodle back in return. 

~ ~ ~ 

Some shitty horror movie plays on the television, but you're not really paying attention. You're tired now, the clock pushing past midnight, stomach full and the second bottle of red wine making everything hazy. There's an old scratchy blanket thrown over your tangled legs, and you're practically melting into Gator, your head against his collarbone and arms wrapped around his waist. His fingers have been tangled in the back of your hair since the film started, and it's lulling you to sleep.  

"She ran up the stairs instead of out the front door. Point to me," he mutters against your temple, his lips brushing your skin softly.  

You have this game that you play together. You try to predict what's going to happen in every single one of these B-grade movies.  

A point for when the character goes down into whatever creepy-ass basement they very obviously shouldn't be going down into. A point for guessing which two characters will have sex and inevitably die. A point for guessing the murderer.  

And yes, a point for when the characters run up the stairs instead of out the front door.  

Gator claims he's the reigning champion, but you never keep track of the score anyway. You still let him have the win.  

The October chill has started to creep its way inside the house. Snow hasn't hit the ground yet, but it feels like it's only days away now. The rain has been heavy, pouring consistently over the plains and drenching everything in its path. There's a mop bucket in the hallway catching drops of water from the leak in the roof that Gator can't seem to find.  

"I thought you were getting a guy to come out and fix that?"  

He turns his head to look down the hallway for a moment, watching the drops fall before turning back to you.  

"Forgot about it. I'll call someone tomorrow."  

"Uh huh."  

"I will."  

A scream erupts from the sound system as the characters on the screen meet their untimely demise, and you both jump.  

"I picked the virgins. Two points to me," you mumble.  

"Only one of them was a virgin. One point."  

You huff, and he pulls gently on your hair to tilt your head back, slanting his lips over yours.  

"Wanna go to bed?"  

"No. Wanna stay here with you."  

"Okay."  

He presses his lips against yours again, and you close your eyes. 

~ ~ ~ 

Saturday morning light breaks through the threadbare curtains in the bedroom as you wake up alone. Gator’s side of the bed is cool, but the laundry thrown around the room from the night before is gone, along with the hamper that sat in the corner. Your work heels are placed neatly beside his boots by the wardrobe, and there’s Tylenol and a glass of water on the bedside table for you. 

His sleep is always a bit screwed up on the weeks he works nights. He gets exhausted but struggles to keep his eyes closed, too restless to settle, too anxious to do anything except think. He doesn’t often talk about what happens during his shifts—sometimes a story about drunk arrests or spoiled brats speeding around in daddy’s Mercedes. 

But then there are the weeks when asking about work shuts him down immediately. Not subtly. He goes still in a way that feels wrong, like a caged animal, feral and sharp. So, you stop asking and start reading the signs instead. 

When it's been harder than usual, he keeps himself busy. You hadn't noticed it last night, too wine drunk and too Gator drunk to realize, but assessing the house now, you can see it. He cooked dinner, did all the dishes, and didn't let you lift a finger. You thought it was romantic how he wanted to take care of you after your shitty day. 

Something heavy settles in your stomach. 

Your bare feet hit the floorboards, and his sweater drops to the middle of your thighs as you stand. There's coffee in the pot on the kitchen counter, and the TV is muted with sports highlights rolling across the screen. The case of wine he promised sits on the dining table, but Gator isn't anywhere to be found. 

The backdoor is slightly open; a frigid breeze rolls through the house and curls its way around your bare ankles. He sits on the old picnic bench on the porch—the one that’s been there longer than they’ve probably been alive—vape in one hand, phone in the other. His empty coffee mug sits on the railing, and the door clicks behind you as you step out. 

He turns toward you, already halfway into whatever version of himself he uses when nothing is wrong. His face changes—subtle, practiced, wrong in a way you can always tell now. 

"Don't." 

You don't exactly know what it is that you're telling him to stop doing, but he seems to understand anyway because his face drops, and he looks over the plains again. It's raining in the fields a few miles away. Theres a shimmer in the air and the white noise of the rumbling water hitting the ground. It'll probably be pouring over them within the hour, creeping its way across the land until it swallows them whole. 

You still drop next to Gator anyway, pulling your knees up to your chest and curling into his side. You take his hand, dropping a kiss to the back of it before holding onto it with both of yours. Neither of you move until the rain washes you inside. 

~ ~ ~ 

You indulge him and get in the shower together when he asks. The cubicle is too small for two people, and the taps dig into your back, and Gator never has the water hot enough, but seeing you naked in front of him makes him act like a teenager again. So, you can ignore the quiet, unnecessary fear that he might drop you mid-thrust if it means you can make him forget about everything for a while. 

(And really, sex with Gator has never been a chore.) 

He steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist and you can finally turn the cold tap off and hot tap up. Steam billows through the bathroom enough that Gator mumbles about it "being hotter than Satan's asshole in here" before disappearing into the bedroom. 

You make grilled cheese for lunch using the good cheddar that he claims he can't taste the difference between but always reaches for at the supermarket now. After pouring yourself a cup, you also tip what's in the coffee pot down the sink and replace it with the decaf blend that you keep hidden in the back of the pantry. 

Gator's on the couch, staring at nothing with one arm folded behind his head and the other thrown over his stomach, fingers digging into the scar that sits above his hip. It's still pink, new, and you're not sure how he got it, but you know it's tender sometimes, especially when it's cold. 

You balance his coffee mug on his plate and do the same for yours, walking slowly across the living room to not spill anything. He sits up as you step closer, reaching up and grabbing both plates from your hands so you can sit down next to him. 

"Thanks, kid," he offers quietly, as he passes your plate back. 

He takes a sip from his mug and a wrinkle forms between his eyes as the bitter taste hits his tongue. 

"Fucking decaf," he grumbles, not looking at you and placing it on the side table. 

He complains, but he’ll be asleep on the couch before his plate is empty. You’ll put on some stupid reality show he pretends to hate, and he won’t move. Not to the bedroom. Not anywhere. His hand will stay on your thigh, and he’ll snore into the cushions like he hasn’t slept all week. He probably hasn’t. 

~ ~ ~ 

You open another bottle of red wine while you make dinner. The TV is finally off and the radio hums in the corner. Gator still has bedhead; the strands flattened on one side and puffy on the other, but he doesn't care. He's too busy laughing at you singing a terrible version of a Britney Spears classic with a southern accent. 

“She’s from Louisiana!” you laugh. “She’d sound like that!” 

He fiddles with the dial and changes the station to something more country. Old school. 

"Now, this is music!" He boasts as something that's older than either of you plays softly. 

You point the wooden spoon in your hand at him. "What happened to the guy who used to drive me around, blasting Limp Bizkit?!" 

He huffs a laugh at the memory of being sixteen, just getting his license, thinking he owned the world in his first car. 

"We grew up, kid." 

"OK, old timer." 

You dip the spoon back into the pot, stirring the stew quietly, when Gator's arms wrap around your middle. His lips press against your neck, once, twice, a third time, before his teeth nip at your jaw. 

"Dance with me." 

He's not asking. 

You turn around and wrap your arms around his neck, fingers scratching through the short hairs there. He sways you back and forth to the John Denver track playing before he lifts one of your hands and spins you around. It's hard to wipe the smile off your face when the same one is reflected in his. The song comes to an end, and he dips you back low. 

"Don't you dare drop me!" You warn through your grin. 

"What? Like this?" 

He pretends to let go, dropping you even further towards the kitchen floor and laughter spills out of you. 

~ ~ ~ 

The lights are off, and the television throws shifting shadows across the walls. 

Your clothes, and Gator's, are gone, thrown around the room in your shared haste to have nothing between you. Your hands press against the back of the couch as your hips do all the work, rolling against him and pulling tiny moans from the back of his throat as you work him over. Two fingers swirl around one nipple while his teeth bite and suck sweetly on the other. You run a hand over the sweat curling at his hairline, and he snaps his hips to meet yours, making the air leave your lungs. 

"Like that?" he gasps, doing it again. 

Your eyes roll back into your head, and you move one of your hands between your legs. He bats it away before you can get there, though, pressing his thumb onto the bundle of nerves. The cry that rips out of you is loud, and the proud smirk that covers his face makes you want to smack him, but then he pushes his hips up again and you swear you'll never think again because he's fucking you stupid. 

"So perfect for me," he breathes, his eyes blown so dark that you can barely see the color in them anymore. 

He pulls out suddenly, and your back hits the sofa. Gator pushes your thighs apart, hitches one leg over his arm, and thrusts back inside you. There's no time for adjustment. You grab his shoulders, and your back arches, your jaw dropping in a silent scream as he moves his hips fast and hard against you. The pace is relentless, and everything outside of him starts to disappear. His tongue is in your mouth, his fingers are working over your clit, his cock is hitting every spot that makes you see stars, and he's everywhere. 

You're not even sure what you're saying anymore, but you can't stop. 

"Gator! Need you! Don't stop! Right there—God!" 

A high-pitched whine sneaks its way out of your throat, and everything crescendos. You're feverish and electrified, your skin ablaze. Hot white pleasure strikes the deepest parts of you, and he grunts as you impossibly tighten around him. Gator follows quickly after, thrusting until his own release takes over, spilling inside you with a groan. 

He collapses on top of your body, his cock still lingering inside you, and you close your eyes as you both try to catch your breath. You can feel his cum leaking out of you and the sweat that's pooled at the bottom of his back, but you don't mind. 

The movie is still playing. The ragtag crew on the screen makes it out of the forest alive. 

Except one. 

"I picked the murderer. One point to me," you breathe out. 

Gator laughs exhaustedly into your neck. 

~ ~ ~ 

Sunday morning rolls in slowly, like fog. There's a heavy arm around your waist, a stubbly jaw against the back of your shoulder, and warmth around your body that makes sleep hard to break out of. His discarded T-shirt is hanging off the footboard, and there's an ache between your legs and a soreness in your stomach from how much laughter you've shared since the weekend began. 

Gator's still asleep when you turn over, looking younger than he is with no worry lines carved into his face. You brush the hair that's fallen across his face away and trace your fingers over his features: his nose, the arches of his brows, the sharpness of his jaw. When your thumb traces over his bottom lip, his mouth parts, and even with his eyes closed, he tries to bite it. 

"God, I love waking up to you." His voice is hoarse, and his hand travels up your torso, brushing over your nipples and squeezing gently. He sighs like all he's ever needed in life is a handful of tit and he could die happy. 

"What time is it?" 

"Early, I think?" You lean back to grab your phone from the charger, and he groans as you move away. 

He squints one eye open, and you show him the time. 

"You got a lotta messages," he mumbles, pulling you back to his side tightly. 

"Nothing important," you promise, pressing your lips against the bottom of his jaw. 

He settles back against the pillow, eyes already drifting shut again. You feel a twitch underneath your thigh and grin. 

"That all it takes?" 

"Don't start nothin' you ain't gonna finish," he warns softly, his eyes still closed. 

"You're practically asleep still!" 

"Wake me up then." 

~ ~ ~ 

Sundays always feel off. The wind-down from the weekend, the preparations to go back to work. Gator puts the wine you didn't drink into the rack in the corner of the kitchen and tosses the empties into the garbage can outside. All the dishes from the last few days have been loaded into the dishwasher, and the bathroom gets deep-cleaned. The bed sheets are in the washer, and all the windows are open, ridding the furniture of the smell of sex and leftover beef stew. 

You sit on the porch bench with the last of the coffee still warm in your hands and Gator's head in your lap. 

"Are you on lates or earlies this week?" you ask quietly, your fingers dragging through the two clean lines shaved into the side of his head by his temples. He must have had it cut again in the last few days. 

"Lates," he mumbles, and you sigh, trying hard not to be annoyed. 

Overnight shifts mean you'll barely hear from him, or if you do, you'll already be asleep. Conversations will be dragged out across days. He'll be exhausted, and you'll miss him more than you already do when he's not around. 

Water drips into the bucket in the hallway, and before you can even say anything about it, Gator beats you to it. 

"I'm gonna call the guy," he insists. His hand reaches up to yours, still twisting through his hair, and pulls it to his mouth. "Stop worrying. Just be here with me." 

"I am here with you," you frown. 

He hums, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again. "You're thinking too much." 

"You don't think enough," you huff. 

"I think I love you." 

Crimson blooms in your chest, crawling up your neck towards your face. It feels like the first time, every time he says it. 

"I love you too." 

There's a TV show the guys at the station keep talking about that he wants to start. You mention a movie you've been seeing clips of all week. 

A shopping list goes onto the fridge. Leftovers go into the freezer. 

The sheets are finally dry, and Gator helps you fold them back into neat squares, kissing you every time the corners meet. The mattress is bare, and the bedroom is freezing, but you both still pull your clothes off anyway, delaying the inevitable and pushing your time together as far as you can. 

Because once you're dressed and your bags are packed, thrown into the trunks of your cars, you only have a few moments left to kiss each other goodbye properly. His tongue slips over yours, and your hands tuck under his shirt, feeling the muscles of his stomach contract and the ridges of the scar by his hip. It's indulgent because this part never gets easier. 

"Drive safe," he whispers, ignoring the tears welling at the bottom of your lashes. "I'll see you soon, okay?" 

You nod silently, your forehead pressed against him, because he will. One weekend a month, for the last however many years. But until then, you'll go home to your husband, and he'll go back to his wife.

end notes: there might be more to this. there might not be. i didn't originally plan to end it here, but it does feel right. if I decide to continue, you'll be the first to know about it.

Thank you so much for reading! If you like this story, please reblog, like, or leave a comment!

Buy me a coffee? 🍵

It wasn’t a bad day, necessarily. It was just... a day. There have been a lot of them lately. Days where nothing meaningful has happened. Outfits that didn’t feel quite right, lunches from cafes where the bread of your sandwich was more stale than fresh. Coffee that was too hot to drink straight away, then too cold by the time you remembered to take a sip. Winter was beginning to press in, the sky getting darker earlier and the days feeling shorter by the minute. 

And you were stuck at your desk, correcting stupid mistakes that you were usually better at catching before your reports were sent on. The office buzzed faintly with coworkers putting on their coats and making small talk about dinner plans as they headed out. They waved goodbye with a smile, and you mimicked the action back to them, the edges of your lips dropping the moment they were out of sight. 

The work wasn’t even that complicated, but it was hard to finish because your head was in the clouds. You had been like this for a couple of weeks now. Your focus had been scattered, stretched thin between your own feelings about yourself, work, Gator, and life in North Dakota. 

Working in HR wasn’t exactly thrilling, and the work felt mostly meaningless (until you forgot to approve timecards and suddenly half the office couldn’t afford to pay their mortgages or rent for the month). That had actually been a bad day. 

Every now and then, you wondered what else was out there. You had travelled a bit, far more than most of the people around you, and you hadn’t exactly set roots down in Stark County, only renting your little two-bedroom house. You could move again if you had to. If you wanted to. 

But then there was Gator. You had been going out for a few months now. He had a key to your place and could let himself in anytime he wanted, which was often. He was fun, took you drinking with his football buddies from high school, and you got to watch them drunkenly try to reenact the homecoming game’s final touchdown most Friday nights in the field behind the bar. There wasn’t much to do around these parts, but he showed you everything there was. 

Plus, it was kind of nice having someone to come home to. Someone who always looked so enamoured with you, like they had won a prize by your very presence. You had never felt that way with guys in the city, like you were something special. 

The thought made something dark swirl inside you. You could almost feel the way evil seeped into your mind, curling its way around your flesh and bones, settling comfortably in your chest. The negative thoughts about your body and who you were as a person weren’t new. You still compared yourself to every woman you were in a room with, assessing their weight against yours, studying the glow of their skin and the colour of their nails. 

You turned off your computer. 

The drive home is silent, the roads twisting and turning ahead in the headlights as you leave the office and head home. Gator’s truck is out the front when you pull into the driveway, and you can see the lights are on through the gaps in the curtains in the front window. 

You turn the engine off and sit there, staring at nothing. 

This life feels unfulfilling. 

Your chest tightens because it’s not a thought you’re supposed to have. You did all the right things. You went to college; you got a degree. You have a full-time job, you have bills, and you pay them on time. You have friends who depend on you, like you do on them. You call your parents at least once a week. 

You’ve done exactly what was expected of you, and you’re so fucking bored. 

“Hey,” Gator’s voice breaks through the closed car door. “You good?” 

He stands by the front door, arms crossed over his chest, brows furrowed. 

You plaster a smile on your face—the same one you use at work—and nod quickly, taking your frozen hands off the wheel and grabbing your bag from the footwell of the passenger seat. 

He kisses you quickly as you step through the house, pressing his warm lips against your cold ones and rubbing his hands up and down your cold arms. “It’s fuckin’ freezin’.” 

The door locks behind you, and you sling your coat and bag on the hook by the door. Gator’s still talking, something about ordering dinner or maybe going out, but you’re too caught up in your own mind to give him your full attention. 

“Order whatever, okay? I’m not really hungry.” 

He closes his mouth, and he gets that look on his face again, like he’s confused by you. 

“I’m gonna have a shower,” you tell him softly before padding towards the bathroom connected to your bedroom. 

The sheets are still rumpled from the morning, and there’s a growing pile of laundry in the corner that will need doing before the weekend hits. You don’t want to deal with any of it. 

Steam from the shower fills the bathroom, and as you take your clothes off, you stand closer to the mirror. Your cheeks are pink from the cold, but your skin is dull—not like in summer, when Gator took you down to the river after work every day to cool off. You’d spent months in nothing but your swimsuit, sometimes nothing at all as you lay on the pebbled banks, your feet dipping into the water. The tan lines have all but faded from your chest now. 

It feels safe to cry under the running water. The hiss of the shower covers any sobs that manage to break free, and your eyes are always a little red when you remove your makeup anyway. Gator isn’t perceptive enough to ask any questions, and these feelings don’t happen often enough to warrant a conversation, even if he did. 

Everybody feels like shit sometimes. You know that. 

You don’t wipe the condensation off the mirror as you dry off. You’ve already tortured yourself enough tonight, and you don’t need to compare your naked body with the girls on the walls of your boyfriend’s bedroom. There is no comparison. You know what you’d pick if you were a twenty-something-year-old man and had the choice. 

It’s okay, really. You don’t judge him for it, and you know where you stand when it comes to the women in Stark County, especially Lehigh. You’re prettier than most of the locals. More worldly and smarter, but reminding yourself of these things doesn’t always make you feel any better. 

There’s pizza on the dining table when you leave the bathroom, and Gator is watching football highlights on the TV. There’s a can of Sprite, already with the tab cracked open, sitting next to a glass with ice cubes slowly melting in it, waiting for you. Tears threaten to spill out, and you bite your lip to keep them from moving beyond your lash line. It feels so stupid to cry over someone remembering that you like Sprite over Diet Coke, but it’s nice to be seen—or heard. Especially after today. 

You pour the drink and curl onto the sofa with Gator. His arm drops over your shoulders, and he tilts his head back to blow the vape smoke away from your face. There’s an empty dinner plate on his lap with a few pizza crusts that he refuses to eat, and you sip from your glass, eyes turning to the TV as you pretend to be interested in whatever he’s watching. 

“Ya still not hungry?” 

You shake your head, no, and sink into his touch as his fingers trail over your arm. 

“You okay?” he presses quietly. 

“I’m fine,” you lie. “How was your day?” 

It’s like taking candy from a baby, how easily he’s distracted once redirected. 

He spends the next hour complaining about every part of his day—the traffic stops he had to make, the rookie who fucked up the paperwork so he had to redo it, as well as deleting things from the system, “which took, like, twice as long.” 

He bitches about the fire department, who arrived on scene before the sheriff’s office, which is apparently a big deal. You don’t quite understand the drama between the two sectors, even though he’s explained it to you a million times, so you just laugh at the right moments and wait for his face to light up when he thinks he has your full, undivided attention. 

You go to bed when it’s late enough that you think he won’t be suspicious. You just want the day to be over already. Gator puts the dishes in the sink to be washed in the morning and dumps the pizza box in the garbage outside as you climb under the covers. You’re practically asleep when his body slides against yours, wrapping himself around you. 

“You awake?” he whispers. 

You let out a soft hum, eyes closed, your body sinking deeper into the mattress with every passing second. 

“You gonna tell me what’s wrong?” 

You groan. 

“I’m fine,” you mumble, the words slurring together. 

Gator sighs, rolling onto his back. You feel the cold immediately against your skin where he used to be. 

“I heard you cryin’ in the shower earlier.” 

Your eyes open. 

“I know you think I don’t know, but you’re not as quiet as you think you are.” 

You stare at the bedside table—your phone plugged into the charger and the little pile of hair ties that you keep meaning to put back in the bathroom. 

“Is it me?” he asks quietly, and you think you can hear him holding his breath. 

You haven’t done this yet—had the big conversation about your lives and what you want for the future. Hell, you don’t even know if Gator wants kids or not, or if he even wants to get married. You don’t know who his first kiss was, or his favourite memory. There hasn’t been enough time to cover the basics, and yet here he is, asking you to be honest, even if it means hurting him. 

He gets out of bed because you’ve taken too long to answer. You sit up, watching him aggressively pull his jeans back on, clenching his jaw so hard that you think it might break. The lamp on his bedside table makes the shadows in the room seem long, and at the thought of losing him, you realise you want him to stay. 

“I don’t think I like me very much.” It comes out choked and raw, and your throat burns as the words hang in the air between you. “And I don’t think I like my life at all.” 

It’s what you feel, but he looks devastated anyway. 

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?” He sounds bitter, frustrated, and completely at a loss with what he’s just heard. “You said that you liked me.” 

The metaphorical box is open, and it’s horrible. 

“I do like you!” Hot tears spill over your cheeks, and you’ve never cried in front of him before. “Please stay. Let’s just go to sleep and forget I said anything.” 

“Forget? What the fuck?” He runs a hand through his hair that’s still slicked back from work. “You come home like a ghost, you’re fuckin’ cryin’ in the shower, pretendin’ everything’s fine—but it’s not.” 

Your chest tightens, and this has gotten away from you so suddenly. You should never have said anything in the first place. You should’ve played it cooler, should’ve hidden it better. A wet sob bursts out of your mouth, and it’s so mortifying, having him watch as you spiral right before his eyes. 

“Did I do somethin’?” His voice is quiet beneath your tears. 

You shake your head, no. 

He leaves anyway. 

You close your eyes and pull the blankets over your head so you won’t hear the inevitable slam of the front door. The pillow is wet beneath your cheek, and it’s hard to breathe under the weight of the duvet, but you won’t move. You’ll lie there until morning, when it’s easier to pretend that he spent the night at his dad’s ranch than in your bed with you. 

Something is placed on the bedside table, and the blankets are pulled off you gently. 

“Come ’ere.” Gator pulls your elbow until you’re sitting up before passing you a glass of water. “Drink.” 

You swallow slowly, letting the water slide down your throat as you look at him. He won’t look at you, choosing to focus on the wall instead. One hand is on your thigh, though, so you suppose that’s a good sign. 

“My mom was good at this stuff.” He clears his throat. “The talkin’ thing.” 

His mom is the sorest of subjects. He doesn’t mention her. Ever. 

“I never knew the right thing to say, but she said I’m a pretty good listener if I’d ever learn how to keep my mouth shut.” 

He looks at you finally. 

You put the now-empty glass on the bedside table and take a deep breath. 

And you talk to him. 

You tell Gator every dark thought that’s floated through your mind in the last few months. How some nights you watch the girls he went to school with flirt with him, and how he acts like he doesn’t realize it. How you compare yourself to them, how you don’t measure up to their impossible standards. You tell him how you don’t feel like you have a purpose and that the work you’re doing is completely meaningless. 

You tell him how you’re genuinely disappointed when you drive to work and see the building hasn’t burnt down overnight. (He seems kind of mad about this particular point, but you figure it’s just because if there was a fire, then the fire department would have to come, and really—what the fuck is their deal?) 

Gator forgets that he’s supposed to be listening at one stage, and you argue about the posters in his room. You argue about the girls in town and the way he acts when his dad is around. It’s the stuff you’ve been letting slide since you’ve known him, but once you’ve started, there’s no turning back. 

He argues about how noncommittal you are, even if that’s not what he calls it. He vents about how you only ever do the things you want to do and never go with him to the things he likes. How he feels inadequate because you actually went to college and explored parts of the world he could only ever dream of seeing. 

It’s well after 2 a.m. when you’ve both said all that you can say. It’s quiet as you sit in the heavy mess that’s been made. Your eyes are red and sore, and your cheeks are splotchy. Gator’s jeans are in a pile on the floor next to his boots, and he’s back in bed with you. You’re watching him from where you lie on your side while he stares at the ceiling above him, not touching you. You wish he were. 

Grabbing the arm that’s lying across his stomach, you lift it and slide underneath, pressing yourself against his side. He adjusts so his arm curls around your back before resting at your hip, his thumb brushing the skin exposed beneath your top. You can feel his heartbeat beneath your cheek, slow and steady. 

You don’t go to work the next day. Gator has already left by the time your alarm goes off, and you pretend not to be disappointed. You tell your boss that you’re taking a personal day, and he doesn’t question it. You lie in bed for most of the morning, staring at the laundry pile in the corner, trying to convince yourself to do it. You end up closing your eyes and falling back asleep instead. 

The sun is setting when you wake up, and the house smells like reheated cheese pizza and strawberry vape. 

Gator is still in his work uniform as he sits at the counter, working on his laptop. He barely looks up when you walk into the room. 

“Hey, baby,” he says, still typing, slamming the keys harder than necessary—but that’s how he’s always been. He takes another pull from his vape, blowing the smoke away from you. 

You didn’t expect to see him. 

“Come ’ere.” He jerks his head, calling you over, and your feet carry you to him. “You can, like, study everything online now. Did ya know that?” 

One arm wraps around your waist as he points to the screen and starts rambling about all the different things he’s been looking up all day—for you. 

“Or there’s more jobs down in Bismarck, if you can be bothered with the commute.” 

“Hey,” you interrupt him. “You don’t have to fix this part.” 

“I know.” The corner of his mouth lifts into a slanted smile. “I want to, though.” 

end notes: my first foray into the Fargo universe!

Thank you so much for reading! If you like this story, please reblog, like, or leave a comment!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/75055616/chapters/196122346

The drive to Indiana from Texas is long. It’s full of winding roads where the radio signal can’t reach, motels that look like they’ve been frozen in the 1950s, and what feels like an endless number of overpriced gas stations along the way. The drive isn’t the worst you’ve done, and memories of the cold creeping into your bones during the snowstorm you got stuck in going from Boston to Utah a few years ago spring to mind. Your car had slid off the road due to the ice, and you had to walk miles to the nearest anything to get help. 

So, yeah. The drive to Indiana from Texas is long, but it’s fine. 

As you drive over the county line, you can see the trucks parked on the side of the road; silver chain-link fences laid to the side as they’re installed, sealing Hawkins off from the rest of the world. Your chest tightens at the thought of being stuck in this backwater town for the foreseeable future, with no access to the outside. You were too low-level for that. 

Reaching onto the passenger seat, you push the empty wrappers onto the floor in search of the deck of cigarettes you tossed there hours ago. You don’t smoke— not really. It’s just handy for when things are stressful, and moving across the country, again, while reporting for more duty fits the criteria. Your fingers brush the packet, and you grip it tightly, flicking the top off with your pointer finger and rooting around for a stick. It’s empty. 

“Fuck,” you breathe out, tossing it to the floor and turning your eyes back to the road. 

You don’t know a lot about this place except for the major stories that had been on the national news. The Department of Energy had allegedly had a gas leak that killed a few people. Starcourt Mall had burned down, and more people had been killed. An earthquake hit a few days ago; the earth tore open and, guess what, even more people had been killed. Honestly, it was surprising that there was anyone left. 

You slow down as you pass a group of kids on their bikes, veering away from them slightly and smiling as their little legs pedal faster so they can soar down the hill, their arms spread wide like they’re flying. This is the part about small-town living that you love: the innocence. All too soon, their laughter fades through your open windows— as does your smile— and the space widens between your car and them until they’re out of sight. 

A few houses start appearing along the road, eventually leading to some larger buildings and a small gas station. Pulling into the parking lot, you take a second to stretch your tired muscles before grabbing your wallet and heading inside. The air is thicker here than in Texas. Something about humidity, you’d seen while reading over your assignment. You grab a Coke from the fridge and head straight to the counter. 

“Camels,” you demand, and the clerk quirks an eyebrow. After a second, you mutter, “Please.” 

The bell above the door rings as you leave the store, and you sit on the hood of your car, attempting to crack the seal on the can, but you can’t quite get your finger underneath the tab, and your nails are too short. 

“Need help with that?” 

There’s a guy standing nearby, eyeing the can in your hands before looking back up at your face with a smile that you just know has the women of Hawkins falling at his feet. You eye him from head to toe and pretend you aren’t noticing him do the same to you. There’s a pair of aviator sunglasses hanging from the neck of his shirt, and his jeans are tight. He’s cute. 

You hold out your arm, the can dangling from your fingertips, and he grabs it, making sure his fingers touch yours— exactly like you knew he would. You’ve seen all these tricks before; the different plays all meant to land a touchdown. 

He cracks it open with ease and passes it back to you, sucking the liquid that escaped the rim off his thumb before smiling softly at you. 

“Thanks.” You take a sip and go back to ignoring him, but he ignores the brush off. 

“Coming or going?” 

You cough, sputtering around the drink. “I’m sorry?” 

He looks amused by you, and points to your car and the luggage that’s practically bursting out of it. 

“Oh.” You wipe the edge of your lips. “Coming, I guess.” 

He arches a brow, clearly not expecting you to take the bait, before he bites back a laugh, staring at his shoes for a second. 

“I’m Steve.” He holds out his hand for you to shake, and it’s such a bizarre move that you find your own folding into his quickly without really thinking about it. 

“Hi, Steve,” you grin, because you know he expects you to say your own name back. The silence hangs in the air as he waits for it, but you don’t say anything. 

He changes tactics. “Can I get your number?” 

“I don’t have one.” And it’s true. Even if you wanted to give him your phone number— which you don’t— you don’t even know if you’ll have your own phone in your room. 

“That’s OK.” He pulls out a marker from his pocket and takes the cap off with his teeth. You think maybe his confidence is more arrogance, because his hand slides out of your own and circles your wrist instead as he starts writing his phone number down your forearm. 

You can smell his cologne as he stands so close to you, and it's nice. Very masculine and earthy. His hair falls into his eyes as he writes, curving the marker across your skin. A mother gets out of her car with two young boys in the space next to yours and watches the exchange between you and this impossible man. You do everything in your power to keep your cheeks from flushing fluorescent pink. 

“There’s a payphone on Main Street,” he says as he lets go of your wrist and snaps the cap back onto the marker. He tilts his head at your obvious confusion. “You know, because you don’t have a phone?” 

“Right,” you whisper. 

“Right.” He smirks. 

He steps back, pulling a set of keys from his pocket that apparently belong to a BMW that looks extremely out of place in this small Midwest town. He gets into the driver’s seat and drives away with a small wave over the steering wheel. 

~ ~ ~ 

You don’t call him. In fact, you don’t call anyone. You arrive at the control zone in the center of town that’s still being set up and get assigned your sleeping quarters. It’s a single bunk bed in a back room of one of the stores that’s been practically blown through by the earthquake, and you get the pleasure of sharing it with eleven other nurses and doctors. There’s no privacy, no space to be alone to think or just breathe. There’s no time for it. 

Your entire first week in Hawkins is spent working yourself to the bone—setting up nursing stations, sitting through brief after brief of changes. Toxicology reports because of the ash falling from the sky; EPA reports due to the air quality; pathology reports because initial blood testing is starting to show cancerous properties in some citizens. 

In your professional opinion—which is, indeed, professional—they should all be packing up and getting the fuck out of Hawkins. But they’re not, and you can’t understand why. 

You hardly sleep because the generator in the corner of the room is too loud, and every time Marleen in the cot below you moves, the whole bunk shifts, so you feel like you’re on a boat all night long. Then there’s the snoring— and that’s just at night. 

You can’t remember the last time you ate sitting down, or actually got to finish reading a report before a new one came out. You’re irritated and uncomfortable, and you have to constantly keep reminding yourself why you’re there. 

~ ~ ~ 

Mandatory health checks start the day spring break ends. They begin with the schools, the students lining up single file into the high school gym which now reeks of sweat and disinfectant. You’re meant to be checking for any irregularities—crackling sounds in lungs when breathing; high white cell counts in their bloodwork—anything that might hint at infection, contamination, or whatever the hell the DOE wouldn’t put in writing. They’re all mostly fine. 

There’s one kid, though—kind of nerdy. Quiet. He doesn’t speak unless spoken to, and he looks... broken. The stats say roughly one in four people in Hawkins lost someone in the earthquakes, and looking at him, it’s hard not to imagine who he had to say goodbye to. His white cell count is high. Higher than everyone else’s. His eyes are sallow and red, like he’s been crying nonstop for days. His chest is crackly, and you can hear it when he coughs as he explains how he twisted his ankle trying to get away from the earth tearing apart. 

“Take these twice a day for that cough.” You pass him a bottle of antibiotics, and you note his raw fingers, blood still coating the edges of his nail beds. “And eat more oranges for your vitamin C count.” 

He nods and hobbles out of the bay. Watching him leave, you toss his chart onto the pile of students who didn’t need additional checks that month. You remember what it was like to lose someone—how sick you’d been for months because it was too hard to take care of yourself. This kid didn’t need the goddamn military knocking on his door because he didn’t eat enough fruit. 

~ ~ ~ 

You wanted to be a doctor because you wanted to help people. Your mom had been sick—really sick—and you were in awe of the doctors and nurses who banded together to work out ways to save her life. The hours they’d put in, the hushed conversations in the hallways as they pieced together anything they could attempt in the hope of making even the smallest difference. 

There had been one nurse who stayed back after every shift, who practically bathed your mother, holding up her arms gently and running a warm cloth over her skin to give her some peace from all the disinfectant smells coating the hospital. 

You didn’t sign up to be abused all day long by disgruntled residents who were trapped in this town and had nobody else to take it out on. The kids had been easy; they were glad to be missing classes and didn’t mind waiting around all day with their friends. The adults, on the other hand… There was now a soldier stationed outside your bay to prevent any more aggression. 

“Next!” You yell down the hallway before sitting back down and preparing another chart. 

Sneakers squeak across the linoleum of the old general store they’d taken over to turn into a screening facility, and the paper on the bed crinkles under the weight of your next patient. 

“You didn’t call.” 

Turning, you see Steve reclined on the bed like it’s his own, arms behind his head, one ankle crossed over the other, and that grin that makes women melt. 

You roll your eyes. “Hi, Steve.” 

“Oh, so you do remember me!” He looks so genuinely delighted that it's almost as if you can feel the heaviness of the day dissipating. 

You wheel your chair over to him and go through your regular list of questions. 

“Have you had any fevers recently?” 

“No. Hey, what time do you finish?” 

You ignore him. You’ve gotten good at that. 

“Have you had any aches or pains recently?” 

“No. Do you like Italian food?” 

Steve jabbers away about a restaurant in town while you strap the blood pressure cuff around his arm, and you pretend not to notice him quickly squeezing his hand to flex his bicep as you secure the Velcro. You go back to your chart as the machine starts pumping and fill out any missing details. 

“What’s your last name?” 

“Harrington. What’s yours?” 

You ignore him again and focus on unstrapping his arm, dropping the chart onto the bed next to him. 

“Can you undo this for me?” You point to the top few buttons on his shirt. He raises a brow but does what he’s told. “It’s cold, sorry.” 

That’s the only warning he gets before you place the earplugs in and press the stethoscope to his chest. He breathes in like he’s done this a million times before: one deep breath, one long exhale, then he waits for you to move the chest piece. Another deep breath, another long exhale. 

You lean in closer to listen better when there’s a commotion in one of the other bays—another person angry about the military presence—and you can smell his cologne again, something musky and expensive, no doubt. Adjusting the chest piece, you focus on his skin in front of your face and notice a red line circling his neck. It’s harsh and angry, like rope burn or something worse. His skin is scabbed over and so raw that you think if he turned his head too quickly that the gashes might break open and bleed all over again. There’s a sore-looking welt beneath his ear—pink and swollen—so you know it’s fresh. You eye him carefully 

“How’d you get that?” 

“Earthquake,” he answers, sighing like he’s bored before buttoning his shirt back up. 

His chest sounds clear enough—nothing suspicious—so there’s not really any reason to hold him for much longer. There’s a small stab of disappointment in your stomach now that your time with him is over, because it means you’re going to have to deal with another asshole. 

Turning back to your desk, you look for his chart, but it’s not there. Looking back at him, it’s in his hands—he must have grabbed it from beside him—and he’s using your pen to scratch something onto the page. 

“Until next time.” 

He stands, hands the chart back to you with a wink, and leaves the bay. 

His phone number is written on the corner of the page, in a spot that’s easy to tear off. How very considerate of him. 

~ ~ ~ 

There’s a rumor that a radio station in Hawkins has been blasting out anti-military propaganda. You overhear conversations in the mess hall that it’ll be shut down if they’re not careful, and as much as you understand the general public’s frustrations, curiosity claws at you. 

Maybe it’s sleep deprivation. 

There’s a Radio Shack in the middle of town that has apparently been wiped of anything useful, but you’re still cleared to check when you ask for things like “ventilation regulator batteries,” something you made up in the moment when questioned. 

Unfortunately, your superiors were correct. The store has been wiped out, all the shelves covered in debris, and a thick layer of grime coats most surfaces. The floor creaks under your boots, cracking old tiles and scattering broken merchandise, but in what used to be the staff break room, you get lucky. 

There are a few photo frames on the wall of the employees—headshots mostly, and a few scattered photographs of family and friends. The manager has a goofy smile but looks kind. On the table, next to an old newspaper with a half-filled crossword and a 3 Musketeers wrapper with some chocolate still melted inside, sits a radio. 

Turning the knobs, it comes to life, static resonating loudly in the air, and your heart thumps in your chest as you quickly turn the sound down until it’s practically mute. You hold your breath for a few seconds, imagining the store being stormed and hoping nobody else heard. 

Listening to the radio isn’t illegal. Actively seeking out anti-military propaganda, on the other hand? You weren’t exactly going to earn a medal of honor for that one. 

It’s too risky to keep fiddling with the radio here, so you put it inside a brown paper bag you find on the floor and place the newspaper carefully on top. 

“I got it!” you call to the soldier outside before being escorted back to your quarters. 

~ ~ ~ 

It takes a full week before you’re able to catch any of the broadcasts. You had been obsessively checking throughout the day, waking up every few hours to flick through every station, waiting to catch… something. Then you heard it. Michael Jackson. 

The broadcast typically starts at 7 a.m. and is hosted by someone named “Rockin’ Robin,” who talks faster than anyone you have ever met before. 

She’s funny, though, and you find yourself smiling as you listen, ear pressed harshly against the radio so nobody else knows what you’ve discovered. Sometimes she does pop quizzes that are practically nonsensical, moving through her own train of thought at a dizzying pace, but it’s nice having a taste of the real world. It’s a complete distraction from ash falling from the sky and earthquakes. The Squawk becomes your own personal escape from Hawkins, if only for a few minutes a day. 

Then you finally catch it—the moment Rockin’ Robin takes it too far. 

In what could only be described as a tirade, she spends almost fifteen minutes comparing Hawkins to war-torn countries, even though what occurred in town was, quote, “a natural phenomenon.” Your chest tightens and your fists clench as she questions the military presence, questions why they’re quarantined, questions what will come next, and how many more human rights will be obliterated in the military’s pursuit of whatever comes next. 

You joined the military because you’d seen firsthand what it did to your own father. You wanted to help—but as she speaks, the line between right and wrong blurs. For the first time, you wonder whose side you’re really on. 

~ ~ ~ 

Soldiers laugh and slap each other on the back, comparing bruises in the mess hall the next morning. The smell of burnt coffee and stale bread fills the air. Your stomach twists. 

The Squawk is nothing but static. 

~ ~ ~ 

The next time you see Steve, he comes into your bay with a black eye. You have to do a double take to make sure it’s him. 

“What the hell happened to you?” You can’t even keep the surprise out of your voice. 

“You should see the other guy,” he quips, but doesn’t answer your question. He doesn’t even crack a smile. If he doesn’t want to talk about it, you won’t push him—but he’s quiet today. 

He takes a seat on the bed and waits for you to start your questioning. He doesn’t offer any more information than required. He’s silent as you take his blood pressure and doesn’t even bother flexing this time. He just stares through the open doorway, into the hall where the soldier is stationed outside, the fluorescent light flickering above them both. 

Unstrapping his arm, you take a second to check his neck. The welt under his ear is gone, and the marks on his skin have disappeared, like they never existed. 

“That healed up nicely,” you say, nodding toward the space where his skin used to be marred, and he hums in agreement. 

Aside from his mysterious black eye, Steve Harrington is a picture of perfect health. 

You’ve finished all your screenings, and there’s nothing else to say—but you can’t bring yourself to let him go. He doesn’t seem all that eager to get up either. 

Pushing back on your chair, you get up and close the door; the lock clicks beneath your fingers. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, brown eyes melting in confusion. 

“Are you okay?” you quietly ask. 

His confusion turns to annoyance, and he stares at his shoes in frustration. Maybe you’ve overestimated this little connection you’ve been having. Your heart aches, and you turn to your desk, pretending to shuffle papers just to do something with your hands so he won’t see them shaking. You feel stupid for letting this asshole, someone you don’t even know, get to you. 

You just kind of enjoyed not having to think with him. 

He sighs. “It’s not you.” 

There’s a hand on your back, soft and warm over your uniform, and you turn around. You can smell his cologne again. 

“I’d feel better if your boys out there used words instead of fists… but I’m okay.” He jerks his head toward the door, standing too close. And you get it. The soldiers. They did this to him. 

Don’t ask. Don’t tell. 

“Okay,” you whisper. 

He gives you his famous grin, even though it clearly hurts his eye. 

“I’m gonna go.” His hand drops off your back, and he shrugs back into his jacket before leaving the room, giving a pat on the door frame and an awkward wave goodbye. 

~ ~ ~ 

You don’t get to spend a lot of time in the main square of the base. You’ve only walked across it a few times, dropping off paperwork from one station to another. It’s unspoken that it’s meant to always be kept clear, but every time you walk through it, you do your best to note as many irregularities as you can. 

And the three large tanks, whose guns all point toward the giant, glowing red wall of melted gum, are about as big an irregularity as you can get. 

Your past assignments had involved checking in on war vets or assisting surgeries to help those who had suffered amputations in the field. The military worked on a “don’t ask, don’t tell” basis, but it was getting very, very hard not to ask what the hell was going on. 

Especially when you’re ripped out of your bed one night, told to shove on your shoes and run out the door. 

“There’s been an accident,” you’re told by the soldier running in front of you. “Two men went down, and one D.O.A.” 

Dead on arrival. 

You swallow harshly and fight to keep pace, ignoring the way your shoe rubs harshly on the back of your ankle. 

The door bursts open to the hospital suite that you helped set up only a few weeks ago, and you stand still at the sight. Blood everywhere—coating the walls, pooling on the floor, spraying over the curtains. The metallic tang fills your nose, mixing with antiseptic. A tray clatters to the floor, and the wails of the men cut through your ears. The shouts of the other doctors fall away as you try to take everything in. Your stomach drops. Your hands shake. For a second, you can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t process the chaos around you. 

“Don’t just stand there!” The soldier who escorted you nudges your shoulder, shoving you into the chaos. “Do something!” 

~ ~ ~ 

“Time of death: 4:43 a.m.” 

You nod, and the last doctor leaves the room, snapping his rubber gloves off and dropping them into the overflowing rubbish bin by the door. 

You’re alone. 

The last few hours replay in your head like a horror movie. The way you’d walked around the curtain to see a soldier you’d never met before in literal pieces. His right leg laid on a table, covered in blood and greying by the second as the skin and muscle began to decay. He was missing an eye, and one cheek had been torn apart, baring his teeth through the gaping hole. 

His chest had multiple wounds, one so deep that every time they wiped the blood away, you swore you could see his literal beating heart. You assessed and made your choices, hoping they were the right ones. You cauterized his leg, stopping the blood from flooding out of him, ignoring his screams. 

“Sedate him!” you’d commanded the nurse standing in the corner, too horrified to move. 

The night only got harder from there. You’d fix one bleed, and another would start. You’d stitch one artery back together, and his heart would stop. Move. Stitch. Stop. Move faster. It was one problem after another, with no time to do anything except keep going faster than this man’s body was trying to kill him. 

“What the hell happened?” you had yelled across the room to the soldiers standing by the doors. “Huh?!” They remained silent. 

Don’t ask. Don’t tell. 

That had been hours ago. The room was silent now: no beeping machines keeping track of his heart rate, no whooshing from the ventilators, keeping one of his lungs breathing for him. The only sound was the ticking clock hanging on the wall on the opposite side of the room. 

His body lay on the table, unmoving, chest still, and his eye closed. His dog tags remain around his neck, the chain coated in his own blood. You don’t even know his name. Your bloody hand drags over the silver metal. 

Callahan, Ryan. 

He’s younger than you by a few years. He was probably recruited right out of high school. Bitterness floods your veins. He should’ve been driving around whatever town he was from in a car he worked on with his dad. He should’ve been going on dates to the cinema to see Back to the Future or The Breakfast Club. He should’ve been coaching pee-wee football because his younger brother was on the team. He should not be lying dead on a surgical table in the middle of Hawkins, Indiana. 

A tear drops from your eye, and even though you’re not religious, you say a prayer for him. 

~ ~ ~ 

You ask to take the day off, and your superior doesn’t even look up from her desk when she agrees, stamping your exit paperwork with a thump. You walk out the front gates in plain clothes and have to ask one of the soldiers for directions to Main Street, feeling like a complete idiot. 

It's your first time off the base, with no escort. You think you’ve done pretty well to even make it this far. 

Summer is almost over, but there’s still warmth in the air. Walking through town, you could almost forget everyone is in a quarantine zone and that this was just the all-American Dream. Kids ride their bikes in the middle of the road, enjoying the end of their summer break. A few people sit on the grass, reading their books in front of what used to be the library. There’s even an older couple sitting on their porch swing, watching the world go by. 

If they can pretend, so can you. 

Picking up the phone, you drop a few coins into the machine and read off a torn piece of paper as you dial the numbers. 

End notes: I had originally planned for this to be multiple parts, but I think it works on its own like this. Maybe one day I'll come back with another section, or the rest of the story as I imagined it in my head though.

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