#carpenter!ryan

You chew your lip, picking at the skin until you feel it sting. Ryan hadn’t spoken much of his family, but what you did know was that his Dad had meant a lot to him. You try to find your voice. “I’m sorry, losing a parent-”

He rejects your train of thought with a simple shake, lips pressing into a thin line. “It wasn’t just him. I lost my Dad in the Winter of 2014, my wife in Spring 2015, and daughter a few months after.”

The anguish starts first in your fingers, stretching though your palm and along your arm with a cold prickling sensation. With it your muscles seize, desperate to shake free the raw feeling that taints your body and courses through your veins. Infesting your being and stinging just beneath the skin. But you persist, clinging to the mourning that washes over Ryan as he remembers, oblivious to the cry you chew.

“I’m so sorry.” You struggle to keep from choking on the agony he hasn’t realised he’s sharing, forcing your voice to keep from sounding strangled. “That’s…”

But you can’t put your sadness into words, the feeling of someone else’s emotions burrowing into your bones making breathing hard. Clinging to his hand like it’s a lifeline that keeps you from drifting out on the sorrow he wears in his smile.

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” he replies in a tone that sounds wrong, given the circumstances. “But it’s alright. My Dad was old and fragile. He had a fall while we were working around the Grisham forest and steadily declined from there. And my wife was ill when I married her, so we were prepared for the inevitable. Got to say our goodbyes. We were lucky.”

He senses the question you don’t allow to fall from your lips, letting off a sigh and staring at your joined hands. He traces one of the silver scars cutting across your skin, thumb curving across a cluster that span like stars. Like Ryan prefers getting lost in the blemishes that bloom over your hands as opposed to dwelling in what he knows he can’t escape.

“I’m now realising that I’m kinda just throwing the ‘I had a wife’ thing on you. Kinda shoulda said something sooner, huh?”

“Don’t be silly,” you mutter. “Am I making this weird? I can let go of your hand?”

“Please don’t.”

You’re quiet for a moment, the nagging of a question becoming too much. “How old was she?”

He knows who you’re asking about, knows by the gentle tone that pools between his fingers that you’re not asking about his wife - and he sighs. “Bethany was 9.”  

Another wave of feeling, tainted with anger and a deep aching pain that resonates in your chest. You don’t speak this time, but you can’t bear to leave him alone. Not with the thoughts that race through his mind and infest yours as a result. And all at once you can see it, drowning in the guilt and agony and self loathing. His fear burning your airways and clogging your nose.

 The curtains are drawn. The house almost humid with the artificial heat that beats against the walls, clinging to the carpet and sticking across the windows. Ryan closes the door, soft click muffled through the darkness. A sigh sees him shrug out of his coat and kick off his shoes, straining with a relieved groan. He doesn’t notice you, an impression against the memory that haunts him now. A version of himself caught in the loop you’re only managing to glimpse.

He calls out a name, voice rippling as though the air were water. Every breath you draw never being enough as he yells louder, and waits.

“Bethany? Sweetheart?”

Nothing.

 You should be leaving. Should be yanking your hand free of his while you sit beside the fireplace, but you can’t. Because if you pull away he’ll be on his own again. Left in the cycle you shouldn’t be seeing, but can’t bear to abandon him too. So you follow him; socks padding across the stairs he takes two at a time, his hand gliding along the banister. There’s panic in his voice now, the name being called infinitely more fragile.

“Bethany? Don't tell me you're asleep already.”

Only empty silence greets him on the landing.

Ryan raps his knuckles against the door, painted a delicate pink and littered with dinosaurs. He’s impatient, you can see it in the set of his shoulders and the way his eyebrows knit. But he’s scared, too. And as his stomach fills with knots and nerves, so too does yours.

“Bethany?”

You feel sick when he yanks open the door. And this time you call her name, too. “Bethany?”

He’ll never get a response. He bolts across the small room, taking the bundle of blankets on the bed into his arms and shaking. Her name is falling freely now, littering the sheets like his tears when she doesn't smile into his voice. Burrowing into the carpet with the sound of his wails.

“No…” It’s your voice this time, bouncing uselessly against his back while he stares at his daughter’s blank expression. “No, please.”

He glances up as though he’s heard you, face contorted in utter agony. But instead he starts bellowing. Crying out for help, pleading for the babysitter that should have been there. For the neighbours. For his wife.

With that, you can’t take it anymore. Can’t stand to see him lose himself to a scene you’re sure he’s been trapped in far too many times. And rather than sinking to your knees like his emotions will you too, you take your first step into the room. And then another. Forcing your legs to move until you’re stood above the man who’s lost everything, cradling the world in bloodsoaked hands.

Reaching out, your fingers brush through his hair, a gentle ‘shh’ falling from your lips. His sobs falter, almost surprised as the energy that makes up your being crouches to his left, arm wrapping around his waist. Your head barely anything against his shoulder. “Shh, baby. It's time to go.”

  The pressure against your hand comes as a shock, and the sight of his blue eyes free from the clouds of crying anchor you back to the tavern. He smiles, creaking as he leans over to brush  a tear from your cheek, expression confused and soft. “Hey, you alright there?”

You nod, clearing your throat and turning a gentle pink. “Yeah, sorry. Just… thinking.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one crying?”

You smile, though barely. “Please don’t, cus I’ll bawl my fucking eyes out. And I’m wearing makeup.”

He chuckles, not at all bothered outwardly by the memory that’s seen you close to shattering. “Oh no.”

“It’ll be a bloodbath.”

“We can’t have that,” he determines firmly, lifting up his arm and motioning. “C’mere.” You don’t hesitate, shuffling into his side and tucking your shoulder beneath his embrace. The weight of his arm is reassuring, pulling you close. “See?” He nudges your foot with his, smirking. “Hugs makes everything better.”

“Shut up,” you laugh, snuggling further into him. Ryan chuckles, warmth of his chest glowing against your cheek.

“But if I shut up how am I supposed to ask you questions?”

“Questions?”

He nods. “We’re gonna trade life stories.”

You don’t do a good job of keeping the grimace from your face, picking anxiously at your fingers. “Okay, fire away.”

“You used to work with Jeremy.”

This statement comes as a shock, and you can’t figure out how best to respond. Instead you glance at him, a swift finger needling between his ribs. “That’s not a question, asshole.”

He smiles, a little more bashful and reserved than before. “Give me some time. Jeremy actually told me an awful lot about his partner back in the city, I just want to make sure I’ve not got anything wrong.”

“He talked about me?”

“A lot,” Ryan confirms, looking a little wistful. “He was always going on about the ‘best crime fighters to ever hit the streets’.”

You laugh, defrosting a little. “Of course he fucking did, oh my god. That fuck lives and breathes his work.”

“So did you.”

Now you stop, breath stammering across your tongue. Bitter with the apprehension clotting your throat. “You could say that.”

“According to our dear detective, you were the recipient of a number of medals and honourings. Best homicide inspector the area had ever seen.”

“Is there a question involved in this at all?” Your tone is a little sharper than you intend, body stiffening in his arms.

Ryan knows he’s hit a sore spot, gentle this time. “Why did you move to Motbury?”

It’s not what you’d expected, gearing yourself up to pour your heart out, bleed your feelings over the memory of a body you’ve never truly let go. A case you couldn’t solve in time. It takes you a while to reply, the crackling of flames accompanying the hollow tone that escapes your lips and coats your interlocked hands. “I couldn’t stand to be in the city anymore. It was to empty.”

His grip on you tightens. “I thought you lived with your friends? The ones that are moving down?”

“That was… after.”

“After?”

You sigh reluctantly, fidgeting with your fingers. Shifting, Ryan dives into your jumper pocket, plucking out the stones he’s seen you turn over too many times to count, dropping them into the palm of the numb hand you hold out. Once the smooth surfaces touches skin the negativity ebbs, just enough to manage. “Thanks…”

“You’re welcome.”

“So.” Folding the small stones over and over, you can’t bring yourself to share the glance you’re certain he’s casting across your expression. “Where do you want me to start?”

“Wherever you’re comfortable, Y/N. You really don’t have to tell me.”

“No, no it’s okay. When I was younger I actually lived around Grisham forest, too.”

“No kidding!” He’s grinning, like a kid finding out that his best friends loves dinosaurs as much as he does.

“Yeah, I lived there with my Granddad back when we were on speaking terms. Once I was old enough to get my degree I moved to the city and started working my way up. Trevor and Alfredo lived in my apartment complex, and I met Lauren through mutual friends. Jeremy… Jeremy and I became fast friends. Our desks were next to each other and we had the same drive. Ended up being partners, which was fantastic. Got a few good years in working at the top before everything happened.”

Ryan doesn’t interrupt, letting you continue at your own pace.

“I always had a problem with getting too invested in my work. Late nights at the office, even later surrounded by files at home. It started bothering the people I lived with, but at that point solving crimes and saving lives was all that mattered to me. To Jeremy and I. Then we got caught up in this really tough situation, and we were certain we’d got the asshole, but… we were too focused. Ended up getting tunnel vision and missing out on key information that was sitting right in front of us. I-”

You hum in irritation, trying to follow the soft movement of Ryan’s thumb as it rubs circles into your side.

“I refused to see something so fucking important because I was so desperate to solve the damn case. And it got someone killed. My ignorance and obsession was paid for with someone else’s life. Jeremy and I got the guy in the end, but it shook us up. He got transferred a month after begging the higher ups, and I stayed behind. Couldn’t really face anymore files, and eventually I couldn’t manage being alone. Trevor and Alfredo moved in, and we decided to move away from the city. Start again, just like you I guess.”

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, pulling you tighter against his chest and resting his cheek against your head. The gentle rocking is soothing, his free hand cupping your face. “That’s-”

“Life,” you finish, muffled in his plaid shirt, tears threatening to brim over. “That’s life.”

“Why didn’t you go and stay with your Granddad?”

“He died a few years ago and I hated him,” you reply, unfazed.

“That’s… not the response I expected,” Ryan chuckles, pulling away slightly and peering down at the small smile decorating your lips.

You shrug, reaching up to brush free the lock of hair that falls into his eyes. “He was a nasty man.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” you laugh, “bastard was constantly cursing people who rocked up on the property. Missionaries, girl scouts...” You snigger, the pair of you comfortably settling back into a lazy embrace. “Squirrels.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Not at all, he was a real piece of work.”

“What an asshole,” Ryan chuckles.

“You’re telling me. I’m much happier with the friends I’ve got now. Lucky, too. You know what they love?”

His face clouds. “Errm… food?”

“Ghost stories. But also food. Probably more so food. But I want to hear a ghost story.”

“The Widow of the Woods?”

“Unless you’ve got more?”

Ryan smiles, rubbing your foot with his. “I’ve got plenty, but we’ll start with the one you won’t shut up about.”

“I’ve asked, what, like twice?” your fingers hook into his ribs, and he yelps out a laugh, squirming into your side.

“Okay, okay. I give! The Widow of the Woods, I get it. Jeez, you’re a wicked person.”

“I prefer ‘witchy woman’.” You punctuate the words with a wave of your hand, of which Ryan gabs and forces back down with a playful eyeroll.

“Of course you do. But I can see it, you’re definitely a fucking witch.”

“If only you knew - wait. Excuse me? Are you insulting-”

You groan theatrically, head resting against the humming dashboard as he peels carefully out of the Hay Woodworks parking lot. And for once you don’t want to watch the trees go by, don’t want to face the forest that clings to the side of the truck.

“Someone’s grumpy today.”

His teasing stings, the back of your tongue bitter and eyebrows aching from being drawn so tightly together. You remember the night you’d spent awake, the smell of smudge stick still thick in your nose. A film coating the back of a throat hoarse with incantations. A night left staring out the window, struggling against the pressure weighted against your chest and the rising of a sun that didn’t care. Trying not to tear your skin apart with the burning itch playing at the base of your skull. “You would be too. My sleep cycle sucks right now.”

“I know, I had to peel you off a police desk this morning, remember?”

You remember. Remember the lightness that shone from every inch of your being as you’d rocked against his back. Remember how the sight of your home had brought with it the lull of sleep. The way the wooden steps underneath your feet had drained away the joy that’d simmered beneath your skin only moments before. The confusion, the fear, and the eagerness to see him gone so you could retreat into your home and carry out your work.

And the way the morning had crept up on you without any warning, fireplace still empty and tea cold on the side. Jaw set with the incantations calling for protection and strength. Pleading for some semblance of peace. You groan louder, eyes stinging and sore when you try and close them. “I feel like death.”

“Did you get any sleep at all?” Ryan asks, casting you a sideways glance that you don’t catch, concern bouncing off your back and splattering against the window.

“Some.”

“Maybe you’re working yourself too hard?” he offers, sharp turn seeing your temple clatter noisily against the side of the cabin, and you drag your head up. “I mean, you’re doing manual labour everyday with me, and spending nights at the station looking at god knows what. Maybe you need a break?”

“That was the first night I’ve spent at a police station in a while.”

“Something tells me it won’t be the last. What are you even working on?”

“Just offering Jeremy some fresh eyes. Don’t worry, Ry, I’ve been worse. Besides.” You lean back, finally throwing him the first smile of the morning. Your shoulders thaw a little, the knots smoothed out. “You’d be lost without me.”

He returns it eagerly, lips pulling into a lopsided smirk and eyes growing bright. The first sign of true colour for the day. “You do realise I’ve been doing this for years, right? I’ve worked with lumber my whole life.”

“Was it living though, really?”

He pretends to consider this. “I mean, yeah. I’m pretty sure I had a life before you came around.”

You scoff, face tilted to the scenery flashing past out the window. Motbury rushing by. “Doubtful.”

“It was a long time ago,” he responds eventually, pulling into a post lined car park and putting on the hand break. The truck shudders into silence, your legs still buzzing. “So I guess you helped kickstart phase two.”

“I wonder what your final form will be,” you joke, leaping out and feeling the snow compact beneath your boots.

“Hopefully one that doesn’t have to put up with you.”

“Ouch.” You recoil, feigning your heartbreak before grinning broadly, the banter in the truck’s cabin having defrosted your icy morning. “You fucking wish. You’re stuck with me. Get used to it.”

“God damn it,” he groans, hiding his smile in the process of jamming on a beanie, hints of gold finally peering around the fabric. A flash of sunlight buried in his suppressed smile. “You better make yourself useful, then. Go let Lindsay know we’re here, I’ll grab the forms and be right up.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you call, waving away his instructions and already heading up the stairs, warmth of the tavern glowing against your skin and pooling over your feet. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.”

“I’m your boss!”

“And I’m not listening!”

Your knuckles rap against the door quickly, loud enough to drown out Ryan’s wails of never being able to find good help these days. Or at least, the first few knocks sound with confidence. But they slow once you notice the grooves clawing at the window frames and tracing the door, catching against your skin with sharp nips. Long, wicked channels packed with splinters, fractures of wood peeling with the slices that take chunks out of the side of the tavern.

A step back reveals more, frenzied as they work across the entrance and scrape across glass. Clinging to the support beams and scampering up the steps. Your follow them, eyes wide and breath quickening. Scampering down the steps and kicking up tufts of solid earth. Frozen grass and sod reclaimed by the snow.

And now that you’re paying attention, you see them everywhere. Littering the homes lining the street and scattered across store fronts. Deep, frantic scratches clawing at door frames and prying at windows. Violent grooves that chip paint and splinter wood, marks that see addresses jotted down in Ryan’s palm sized ‘to do’ book as he comes up beside you with an absent minded smile.

“We’ll have to go into the forest soon,” he notes, tracing a mark with the end of his pen and frowning. “Make sure we’ve got enough supplies. I like to be prepared, what with storm season hitting in a few weeks. You up for it?”

You don’t respond, too busy trying to swallow the bitter lump that’s formed in your throat. Working through the heaviness that poisons your mind, thoughts sluggish and lips slowly churning silent nonsense into the snow. Heat blooms at the base of your skull, circling your neck and nestling in the hollow of your throat, yawning just beneath the skin.

Something in your expression has his eyebrows drawing together, hand twitching with the promise of comfort. To ease the tightness of your jaw. “Y/N? Hey, are you alright?”

You manage a nod and what you hope comes across as a smile, tight enough to tear your cheeks and make your eyes water. The uncomfortably numb heat continues to spread, curling across your collar bones and burrowing between your shoulder blades.

Ryan doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t have the time to pry. Muffled yelling from inside the tavern has his head turning, eyes finally releasing you.

A few clicks and the door shudders open, a bright, rosey woman beaming in the entryway. Hair like fire tumbles to her shoulders, blunt but beautiful. Her smile warms your heart, utter joy at your presence seeing the choking hold of fear and confusion scurry in retreat. Buried in layers of thick fabrics and flowing scarfs, the woman heaves the door open even further, and a gust of heat rushes around your knees. “Ryan! It’s about time you showed up.”

He grins, just as enthusiastic. “Hey Lindsay. I’d like to introduce you to my employee and second in command.” He motions to you, large palm engulfing your shoulder and smile overtaking your features. “This is Y/N.”

“It’s lovely to meet you.”

 ---

 The ladder wobbles, unsteady with the uneven flooring. You don’t look away from your task as it threatens yet again to fall with another gust of wind, fingers pinching the thin outcropping beams keeping the structure standing. Ryan casts a precautionary glance that you ignore, his worry for your safety becoming more of a hindrance than the rampant weather and Lindsay’s jokes.

But she’d long since retired with the arrival of Michael, his eyes hooded and voice thick with a yawn. Another late night at the station, and another promise of a warm drink. The morning is trickling into its final hours, clouds still not letting up.

“Are you nearly done up there, Y/N?”

You look down at Ryan, the skin of his nose red while pink stretches across his cheeks. “Yeah,” you reply, “Almost. I’ve just got one more section to secure. Would you pass me that?”

 ---

 “Thank fuck you guys are done,” exclaims Lindsay when you finally slip from the ladder, landing with a firm thud on the wooden panels Ryan has reinforced. “Get your butts inside before you fucking freeze.”

She doesn’t give you time to take in the smooth finish of the stairs, or to admire the new frames on the windows and doors. To drink in the sight of a building untouched by whatever was beginning to torment you. Instead she’s looping her arm through yours and tugging you inside, the warmth of a roaring fire embracing you like an old friend. Ryan’s quick to follow, the heavy click of the door closing shutting out the wailing wind and stray splotches of rain that hasn’t realised it should be snow.

“She’s been worrying for an hour,” comes a grunt from the bar, Michael spinning his exhausted but surprisingly soft expression on you, something warm and fragrant bubbling in his mug. It’s oddly refreshing seeing him in something other than a police uniform, something you suspect to be close to pajama’s far more comfortable. “I nearly lost it.”

“Shut the fuck up,” she laughs, swatting him with the scarf she removes from you. He sniggers, giggles resonating into his cup. “Ignore my worst half,” she continues, moving behind the bar and pulling out some glasses, smiling so brightly that you swear the room gets warmer. “What can I get you? On the house.”

You’re taking a seat beside Michael before even looking to Ryan, the officer scowling halfheartedly at you before shoving your shoulder playfully. “Thanks for fixing my house, fuckface.”

You shove back, and he struggles to keep the contents of his mug from spilling. His grin, however, has no trouble pouring across his lips. “You’re welcome, asshole. Remember, if I put it together I can take it apart.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” His eyes narrow, and your eyebrow cocks.

Spinning in your seat, your call of ‘boss, get the bloody crowbar’ rams into Ryan’s chest, knees clattering against his. He steadies you, hand catching your elbow before you topple into a pile of Michael’s laughter. “Easy there,” he smirks, eyes dancing on the blush decorating your cheeks before he spins you back towards the bar, “how about we don’t destroy things today?”

You grumble, accepting the tea Lindsay hands you, Ryan receiving a mug with a diet coke can inside. “I guess…”

“Just think of the paperwork,” Michael offers helpfully, waggling his eyebrows.

“Oh yeah, speaking of paperwork.” Ryan ferrets around in his bag, slipping free an envelope filled with forms. He carefully plucks one from the bunch, sliding it across the bar to Lindsay’s waiting hand. “Here, fill this out. It’s just to-”

“I know what it’s for,” she sighs teasingly, bending to the paper after pestering Michael for a pen. “I’ve done this how many times now?”

“5.”

“Jesus Christ,” laughs Michael, rocking back in his seat slightly before crawling on his elbows towards the paper, scanning the page. “And how many times have you charged us the full amount?”

“I mean-” Ryan squirms, looking anywhere besides Michael’s raised eyebrows and challenging glare. “It’s, what did you call it, Y/N?”

“Mates rates,” you chime, sipping your drink happily, fingertips scalding. “Lauren taught me that phrase.”

“Bloody Aussies,” Ryan laughs, shaking his head.

“She’s Kiwi, but that’s cool.”

He squints. “Same thing.”

“Don’t you dare let her hear you say that. She will murder you.”

“I’d like to see her try-”

“How dare you-”

“You wanna go, Y/N? Huh?”

“FIGHT ME HAYWOOD-”

“The point is,” interjects Lindsay, scribbling out the amount Ryan had already penned in and adding one much larger, “we’re paying you properly this time. Whether you like it or not. And if you don’t take the cash,” she jams a handful of notes into his shocked expression, her’s smug, “then we’ll give it to you next time the Widow of the Woods decided to pay a visit without a booking.”

You stop drinking, the laughter that errupts licking at your skin and leaving lines of tingling, static confusion. It only ceases once Michael lets out a monumental yawn, eyes watering and body involuntarily stretching. He rubs his face, groaning while Lindsay’s attention snaps immediately to him.

“Right, young man,” she instructs, “you’re coming with me. You need some fucking sleep.” She starts to shuffle him towards the back door, waving at you and insisting that you stay for as long as you’re comfortable.

Once they’re gone you turn to Ryan, who offers you a lopsided smile. “I love them.”

“They really do make everyone that walks through that door feel like family,” he muses softly, motioning for you to follow him on the venture closer to the fire.

You go without complaint, settling into one of the couches and sighing with the embrace of the cushions. In the amber light he screams autumn; body painted in the golds, oranges and rich, deep reds of turning leaves. “So,” you start, watching the content expression pressed against his features, taking in the comfort wrapped in his smile. “That’s something I don’t know about you.”

“What?”

“Family.” You sink further in your seat, kicking off your shoes and bringing your socks as close to the hearth as you can, balancing them on the coffee table. “Namely, do you have any?”

He’s quiet, but it’s not a cold silence. Instead it’s apprehensive, draping across your left side and hanging in your hair. When he doesn’t respond you turn, but his eyes remain intent on the flames dancing in front of you. Chewing your bottom lip, an apologetic hand rests atop his, and he lets out a sigh. “I’m sorry, that was kinda rude.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it.” He smiles, a tight tug that looks out of place.

Your eyebrows knit, palm beginning to burn with the comfort you attempt to push through, watching him relax further and further into his seat. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t,” he admits, recognising the surprise that flits across your face. This time the smile is genuine, if not a little small. “Sorry, I’ve not talked about my family in a while.”

“We don’t have too,” you rush, retracting your hand only for him to catch you fingers. Instead Ryan follows your lead, kicking off his shoes and resting them atop the table, too.

“You’re making me sound broken,” he laughs, giving your hand a squeeze. “C’mon, quiz me. I can handle it.”

“Just… just tell me about them.”

“Then we’ll trade?”

“You want to hear about mine?”

He grins, shuffling in his seat and leaning towards you, getting comfy. “Isn’t that what humans do?”

“Humans?”

“People,” he corrects, laughing at your expression. “I meant people. Stop judging me, it’s been a long morning.”

You consider your options, working over your family history in your head. “I suppose we can trade life stories. As long as I get to hear about the Widow of the Woods, too.”

“I did promise you a ghost story.”

“You did.”

Ice grips the window sills, carving at the glass with hungry, wicked fingers, frozen daggers clinking precariously from the exterior eaves. Like the weather’s trying to devour the house, leaching the life from everything it touches. And you can’t see through the snow. Drawing closer, the creaking of trees is barely audible above the roar singing outside.

You’re bounding into the kitchen before you can stop to think, diving into cupboards and rifling through the organised draws. How could you be so stupid, you scold, fingers curling around the bundle of rosemary and sage, twine scratchy and stiff. How could you forget?

Numb fingers don’t bother with a match, instead jamming the end of the stick into the flames of the gas stove, clicking incessant as you will the damn thing to light. Willing it to work, and praying that it isn’t too late.

It sputters to life and your stomach leaps with the thick, distinct smell of Cedar and Sweetgrass churning from the bundle. Containing the flame so that all that’s left is a gentle smouldering of ash you race back to the living room, raising the stick above your head and fanning the smoke across the doorway.

A quick glance to Ryan tells you that he hasn’t stirred, too lost in sleep to feel the panic and urgency trembling through your body.

Deep breaths, calm energy, you tell yourself. Deep breaths, calm energy, and confidence.

You clear your throat, drawing in the scent and trying to shut out the storm, wind growing angry as it circles your home. “Cleanse, dismiss, dispel.” Your voice doesn’t waver, firm in it’s whisper.

The windows rattle.

“Cleanse, dismiss, dispel. You are not welcome here.”

You trace your way around the room, letting smoke linger in every corner and smudging each window. But the feeling grows worse, frustrated and pressing against your chest. With a tightening throat you continue, forcing yourself as close to the windows as you dare go. It’s hard to ignore the darkness, avoid the flashes of distant light you’re certain aren’t just stars.

“Cleanse, dismiss, dispel. You are not welcome here.”

It only takes 10 minutes for you to make a loop around the room, Ryan slumbering peacefully as he’s engulfed in the protective blanket of smoke. And as soon as the circle closes the weight lifts, talons that’d been digging into your back releasing their hold. You want to collapse, knees begging to buckle with the exhaustion that sets in, and although you can’t feel it touching you anymore, you know it’s there. Abandoning the stick, you toss it into the fireplace, its smoke chugging up the chimney and filtering to the grounds. With it comes a silence, but it’s not one of comfort like you plead for it to be.

Instead it’s eerie.

It’s waiting.

And then the wind screams. A high pitched, layered and hair raising screech that scuttles between the trees and across the blanketed ground outside, rattling against the glass. You take a stumbled step back, shrill, animalistic snarls clawing towards your clumsy feet. And it hurts, a howl so viceral it’s as though it’s torn its way from the centre of your chest, tattered and agonisingly sharp.

“Don’t go near the windows.”

Ryan stands by the armchair, incredibly still and watching your back. You can’t bring yourself to face him, too desperate to make out the odd blot that seems like it’s moving between the scattering of snow. Instead your words are hollow, breathless. “What is it?”

“Just, keep away from the walls and stay in the centre of the room.”

“Ryan?” You can feel the confusion pooling,  the need to know just what is fighting back against your protections and leaving you terrified. The glass that you’re stuck staring at shudders with every lashing of the wind. “What-?”

Bang… bang… bang…

Everything in you freezes, goosebumps worming to the skin's surface. It shouldn’t be able to touch the walls. Shouldn’t be able to make it up the steps and reach out for the entrance. But it has. Your attention draws to the front door, nothing but a faint outline that groans beneath the pounding of the storm.

No, not the storm. Beneath the pounding of what sounds like fists.

It’s suddenly uncomfortably quiet, room loaded with the fear that sees your limbs aching and shoulders so tight can feel them work into knots. Every breath is difficult, trembling between frozen lips and catching on your sharp tongue. You don’t hear Ryan come up behind you, but his hand finds yours as another more frantic knock sounds against your home.

Bang… bang… bang…

Somehow you manage to find your voice, thick as it crawls up your throat and clings to your front. “Someone’s as the door.”

It has to be a someone, you tell yourself. There’s no way anything else would be able to stand the smoke. It had to be a person on the other side, otherwise they wouldn’t be able to make it to the porch. Has to be someone otherwise the fear that’s infecting your body and rendering it useless wouldn’t be so strong as it pleads for safety. Pleads to come inside.

“No one’s at the door,” he murmurs, not able to break away from the source of the sound. Still, his grip on you tightens.

“It’s stuck in the stor-”

Bangbangbangbangbangbangbang

You can’t feel your legs, the urgent demands of whoever’s on the other side rooting you in place. If it weren’t for Ryan your knees would happily buckle. He positions himself between you and the sound, shoulders curling protectively around your body, but eyes still glued to the wood as another crash of knocks hammer violently. “No one’s at the door, Y/N.”

And in that moment you question if you’re crazy, if somehow you’re dreaming the whole thing or if, somehow, Ryan can’t hear the noise. Can’t see the black throbbing in the doorway, or simply refuses to acknowledge it. finally your petrified and tiny shudder catches his attention, his shining eyes meeting yours. Tentatively he pulls your head to his chest, arms working around you as though he’s trying to muffle the sound.

But it doesn’t help because it’s not the knocking that bothers you, it’s the fact you can’t tell what it is. Can’t feel its heart pounding in your chest, can’t tell if its a man or a monster or a combination of the two. And can’t tell why your charms aren’t working.

The sound has moved. A sickening scrape shifting along the log exterior until it's tapping at the window behind you. Everything screams, you back crawling with cold fingers, and Ryan’s rubbing comforting circles into you. He lowers the pair of you onto the floor, knees relieved to feel the panels biting skin. He doesn’t let you go, staring at the window. “Don’t ever check, cus there’s never anyone there.”

“What’s happening?” you all but beg, dry tears threatening to seal off your throat with the wringing of your lungs.

And then he starts to hum. Soft, gentle tones that seem far too harsh in the silence and screaming wind. He rocks, and you move along with him, ears no longer straining to hear through his biceps. “Don’t worry, Dear,” he breathes, holding you close. “It’ll stop soon.”

---

 You don’t know how you managed it, but eventually a deep, possessive sleep takes hold at some point during the night. Last night is nothing more than a sluggish memory you can’t quite grasp, and the sunlight burns far too bright as a gentle groan escapes into the blankets. It takes a few moments for you to realise you’re in a bed as opposed to the hard, solid ground you can’t remember leaving, and another few to comprehend the time blaring at you from the clock once you roll over.

2:23pm

A tight spasm shoots through your temple, head aching horribly as you pull into sitting and look around. It’s as though you’ve been here all night, sheets sufficiently messy and clothes strewn in the general direction of the laundry hamper. But the tea that sits on the nightstand is fresh, if not a little cold. The sight of it makes you smile, mind wandering to Ryan, and soon your feet do the same. Swinging out from the bed and pressing into the rug, a stretch and yawn seeing your body pop.

The lodge is already pleasantly warm,  the sound of a fire crackling leading you down the stairs with your tea in hand. It’s only once you pull into the living room and call out for him that you realise you’re alone, left to dwell in a home that seems too empty for just you. No longer do the windows shiver in their frames or threaten to burst, the wood comfortably quiet now the storm has died down. You can’t find any fear buried in the couch as you move to stand where you’d been kneeling hours before, taking in your surroundings.

You can feel the barriers you’d set up last night, battered but still standing strong. Hugging the walls and draping over the doors. Grateful, the smudge stick seems to have been taken with the new flames dancing in the hearth, spreading the smell of rosemary and white sage through the house and dusting it across the landscape outside. Whatever was out there, you hope, won’t be bothering you again. Not any time soon, at least. Not now that the protection charms have been set up in advance, and not now that you’re planning on strengthening every boundary you can.  

Relief washes over you, and for a moment you stop caring that you don’t know what it was, or how Ryan knew what to do. Instead you just breathe, taking in the light of the morning and sweet, musty smells of a smudge stick. But it doesn’t last long, the rap on the door dragging you once again into movement. Pulling it open you’re surprised to see a patrol car parked on your front lawn and clumsy footprints wobbling through the snow.

“Hi, Y/N,” greets Jeremy grimly, looking sullen and cold. Deep hollows trace his eyes, face caught between days without sleep. An exhausted pang shoots through your temple. “You mind if I come in?”

“Go for it.” Stepping aside he trudged into your home, shivering before removing his coat and folding it over his arm. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry if I woke you up, but I’m here on police business.”

Your stomach drops, and you know he can see it squirm in the way you fidget. Desperate to do something with your hands you make your way to the microwave, nuking your tea before turning to him. “What’s happened?”

“We’ve lost another kid.” But he didn’t need to say it, because you already knew. It’s obvious from the set of his brow and the tightness of his shoulders. “Last night during the storm a young girl went missing.”

“What time? 

The question catches him off guard, and he warily pulls out a file from his bag, and with a start you notice it’s jammed full of information. He flips through it, free hand coming to rub his exhausted face. “About 4am. Laura Hannon, 6, went-”

You stop him with a statement that has his blood running cold, face draining of colour and mouth popping open into a grimace. “Went missing during the worst part of the storm.”

“How did you know that?”

“I’ve read some of the files on this Lumberjack guy, J. Besides…” You chew your bottom lip, picking at the chapping flesh nervously. He can see there’s more you want to say, and motions for you to take a seat in your own chair. You don’t argue, sitting down and leaving your tea to cool yet again. “Someone was knocking on my door last night just before the worst of it hit. I thought it was the wind, but I was told not to answer it.”

“Wait.” Jeremy’s face contorts into an expression you’ve seen far too often, one that he’s worn during every investigation. One of suspicion, of doubt and a burning desperation for a lead. “Who told you not to answer the door, and why?”

“Ryan,” you admit, expecting his lips to draw into a thin, displeased line. Instead his eyes set while you continue. “I was scared to be on my own during my first snow storm, and he offered to stay. Something woke me up in the middle of the night, and then someone was knocking. He said not to go near the windows or the door, just in case.”

“Why?”

“I dunno. He probably thought it was an animal.”

“What time did you wake up?”

“About…” you wrack your brain, taking your best guess. “I don’t know, about 2 in the morning?”

“And then what happened? I need you to tell me everything, Y/N.”

“I know how this shit works, Jeremy,” you snap.

He sees he’s trodden on a line and backs away from it with a surrendering raise of his hands. “Sorry, just - just this could be a big lead if you heard something. Or saw something.”

“I woke up and it was completely dark. Storm was still going, so I went to have a look. Then I heard a weird animal scream, and Ryan told me to get away from the windows. I asked him why, but then someone half tried to knock the door down to get in. I eventually fell asleep and only woke up a few minutes ago.”

He seems a little more apprehensive to ask the next question, oblivious to the fact you’ve avoided the smudge sticks and negative feelings you’re certain he’d brush away. “And where’s Ryan?”

“Not here.”

“When did he leave?”

This startles you, and you find yourself worrying. “I don’t know. I fell asleep around 3 or something, but I doubt he’d leave in the middle of the night. He was pretty insistent on not going into the storm. He’s probably at work.”

“He didn’t tell you where he was going?”

You bristle. “He doesn’t need my permission to live his life.”

It’s quite for an awkwardly prolonged and apologetic moment while Jeremy sighs and moves to stand, groaning as though the conversation has aged him. “Well, I mostly wanted to let you know that we’ll be searching the trees around your property,” he starts, “but seeing as you’ve experienced the knocking I want you to keep in touch if you hear or see anything else. Or if you remember anything, okay?”

“Okay.”

He goes to leave, stopping in the doorway while you hover. “And, Y/N, please be careful.”

“Jeremy?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I have access to the police files?”

Jemma Perkins Missing 05/02/2016 - Found 07/02/2016 Body, female 8 yo (no. 1), found 700 meters past tree line. Footprints entering. None leaving.

Post Note:

Found within vicinity of victim 2 and 4

Inexperienced kill but still more efficient than livestock

Skull found fractured in several locations (see. autopsy) NOTE: Find is an anomaly for case

Lacerations located on chest and neck 

Attempts to remove head through incision at base of skull to top mid section of skull. Skin peeled but no further efforts made.

SCRIPT

Interview with Jane. L. Perkins (Mother) Interviewer: Officer B. Burns Supervisor: Det. Insp. J. Dooley 06/02/16 - Prior to body recovery

START.

Burns: Now Mrs. Perkins- Perkins: Ms. Perkins, sir… and please, call me Jane. Burns: Of course, Jane. Now, I know that this is a difficult time for you and the rest of your family, but I’d like you to be as accurate and honest as you can while I’m running through some standard questions. Can you do that? - for the record, Ms. Per- Jane has nodded. **Perkins: **Oh, sorry! I agree to be as accurate and honest as possible. Burns: Thank you Jane. Do you mind telling me what happened the day of Jemma’s disappearance?   

Perkins: From the beginning?

Burns: If you can.

Perkins: This morning was rushed, as always. I woke up at 8 and got the kids out of bed before sorting out some breakfast. Nathan left pretty early to stay at his boyfriend’s, so Jemma and I cleaned up and spent the day together. School’s closed when a storm is blowing in. Safer, I think. We did puzzles and painted. We made dinner together, curled up on the couch, and then I carried her to bed around 7. But when I woke up… I-I couldn’t…

Burns: It’s okay, take your time, would you like a tissue? For the record, Nathan is your..?

Perkins: Eldest son, sorry. Um, I’m just a little- err… Yes, Nathan is my Eldest son. He’s 16.

Burns: Thanks, Jane. According to your initial statement with police outside of these interviews, you were having some work done?

Perkins: That’s right.

Burns: Do you mind telling me about that?

Perkins: Of course. The window frames - they’re um, not what they used to be. I was having them reinforced before the storm, just to be on the safer side, you know? It was that nice man from Hay Woodworks in town. He was in an out in no time.

Burns: Do you have a time frame?

Perkins: For Mr. Haywood? Uhh, maybe 2 hours or so. He arrived just after lunch, so maybe 1? 

Burns: And did he, or anyone else, come into contact with Jemma, or cause you concern?

Perkins: No! No, not at all. That man’s as polite as polite can be! He was thrilled when Jemma gave him one of the painting’s she’d done that day. Like it was the best gift anyone’s ever given him.

Burns: I don’t mean to seem accusatory, Jane.

Perkins: Oh. No, I’m sorry. I’m just very… sorry, sorry. It’s all a lot. My poor little girl, I-

Burns: It’s okay. We’re doing all that we can to find her, Jane. We’ve got men scouting every inch of Motbury, and further. We won’t stop until we find her. Please, tell me about anyone else that was around. Did anything out of the ordinary happen?

Perkins: No… well, maybe a little. There was a lot of commotion up the hill that night.

Burns: Up the hill?

Perkins: Y-yes. Up the path and towards the… towards the treeline. Kids, I thought. Harmless teenagers sneaking up there to smoke. I-I know that Nathan does it. He thinks he’s being sneaky, but I can smell it. I just figured… You don’t think she could’ve been picked up by some kids and..?

Burns: Don’t worry, Jane. Please, I know it’s hard, but panicking won’t help Jemma. We need to work together, and keep all of our options open. Would you mind us talking to Nathan?

Perkins: Of course. I mean, of course you can talk to him. He’s distraught, I haven’t seen him so heartbroken, not since his father died.

Burns: I understand. We can have a councillor ready, if you’d like? Someone for him to relate and feel comfortable with.

Perkins: Please, Officer Burns. Anything, anything to find my daughter.

STOP.

You stare at the information in front of you, taking in the photos you’ve scattered across every piece of desk you have free. 

It’s brutal; far more so than victim number 6. 

The tiny girl is smattered crimson, the fur trim of her coat matted with so much blood that you can’t tell where it stops and her hair starts. Again, nothing makes sense. There’s no progression or logical reason, and all you have to go off is the passionate and excessive measures taken to make sure she’s dead. Your chest tightens with the sight, nerves bundling and muscles tort with panic. It takes all you have not to scratch out the terrible, burning itch that traces the back of your neck, instead trying to concentrate on the scene. Body curled on her side and legs tucked against her chest, it’s almost as though she’s sleeping. Peaceful despite the display.

This time you let your forehead touch the desk, but only once you carefully lower it down. With stinging eyes and an ice cold cup of coffee making your stomach chur, you consider following jeremy’s lead. Cheek pressed to the image of a dead child, staring at your friend - your partner - until your lids drift closed with a trembling sigh.

And in the dark and static hum of lights you can’t help but wonder whether they’d be able to tell you what happened if they had gotten away. Whether their tiny expressions could contort into anything else other than fear, or whether their lips could speak of anything else other than a monster.

The hand that cups your shoulder doesn’t make sense at first, but you feel no need to bat it away. You’re comfortable beneath its weight, happy with it’s familiarity. It’s only once a thumb rubs you gently back into consciousness that you raise your head groggily, looking around.

Everything aches, the dryness claiming your mouth sour with coffee, and the strain dancing through your back throbbing with each movement. But the light that slants through the open door behind you is a surprise, those over head having been turned off. The space free from the hum that once infested the ceiling.

“Hey,” comes the tentative whisper, “Michael said you were still here.”

Finally able to find the source of the sound, you’re face to face with Ryan, a sigh accompanying the creaking click of his kneels while he crouches to you. His expression is kind, concern and exhaustion fighting for dominance over the curve of his smile and carving of the bags beneath his eyes. Looking past him you can see the outline of Michael, officer still holding the door open.

Clearing your throat is far too loud, and you shoot a worried glance to Jeremy, who doesn’t stir. “What time is it?”

“Late,” chuckles Ryan, his breath tinting your cheeks pink.

“How late is late?”

He looks to Michael, who you barely see shrug. “It’s about 3:30,” he hushes back, far more considerate of your drowsiness than you expect. “They passed out around 2, and I called you at 3. Figured you’d be the only one she’ll listen too. God knows neither of them listened when I told them to fuck off hours ago.”

“Wow,” you groan lightly, sitting up completely in your chair. “It really is late.”

“C’mon, Y/N,” he murmurs, standing and taking your hand, leading you out of the office once you find your footing. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“But I’ve got work to do,” you insist, but not very confidently. Instead you’re flinching at the sound of your own voice rasping up your throat once hitting the reception, tones too loud and inconsistent. Lights far too bright, artificial and blinding.

“No you don’t,” he rejects casually, the soft click of Michael closing the door only just registering before the young man joins you. “These guys don’t pay you to do this.”

“And we’re not going to either,” states Michael firmly, earning a sleep smile from you. “We couldn’t afford the over time.”

“In all honesty,” you grumble, shrugging on the coat Ryan directs you into, having collected the garment from the back of your chair along with your gloves and hat. “You don’t pay me either.”

“That’s not my fault,” he reminds, wrapping you snugly in a scarf before standing back and admiring his handy work. “You haven’t returned the forms yet.”

Your lips part, a gentle and defeated sigh burying in the wool and warming your nose. “Oh fuck, you’re right. It’s on the kitchen table. I’ll bring it into the shop tomorrow.”

“I think you mean today,” he teases, waving goodbye to Michael and easing you into the angry wind, snow swirling excitedly. “And I can pick it up before I leave.”

“Before you leave?”

His eyebrow quirks, and something inside you either drops or warms, or some combination of the two, at the sight. You bury your face in your scarf, thankful that it’s too dark for him to see the blush you’re sure is creeping onto your cheeks. “Do you really think I’m going to let you walk home on your own?”

“Sometimes I forget that you’re a gentleman.”

Taking the arm he offers, you let him pull you close, bodies pressing together while he leads the journey towards home.

He laughs, a cascade of chuckles so warm you’re surprised that the snow doesn’t melt. “The most gentlemanly.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” you laugh.

Ryan looks affronted, but the smirk tugging at his lips says otherwise. “Oh really? And what makes you say that?”

“Gentlemen don’t generally fuck on the first date.”

“You do have a good point,” he muses, not at all thrown off by your mention of the previous night. If anything he seems pleased at the turn the conversation has taken, holding you just that little bit closer. The husky drop of his voice does take you off guard though, and you nearly slip on the step you’re attempting to maneuver on to. “But neither do ladies.”

“I never claimed to be a lady,” you respond, turning on the step to face him, still no way near as tall as he is. His eyes trap your gaze, shifting blues leaving you enraptured as a coy smile peels across your lips. “In fact, I’ve never been one for formalities.”

“You don’t say,” he almost squeaks, breath lost to the moonlight that dusts your skin. He visibly shakes himself, taking the step you stand on.

“Oh, I do say, Mr. Haywood. And speaking of the unconventional,” you manage in your newfound confidence, swaying with the wind, “we’ve still got some unspoken business. I demand an explanation.”

“What for?” 

You can’t even feel the cold of the snow. “For whatever tried to take my door down.”

“I’m sorry Miss Y/N,” he murmurs, lips tugging into a teasing smile. “All I’ve got is a ghost story.”

“Ghost stories are the best way to sweep me off my feet.” You laugh, lost in the colours of his eyes churning in the moonlight.

“Is that all it takes?” He’s close enough to send sparks through your veins, his cheeky grin making your stomach twist joyfully. His hands comes to rest against your waist, thumb rubbing soothing circles against your hips. You move with him, or start too, until you realise the interaction isn’t going the way you expect. Instead he’s lifting you, your laughter musical in the night’s silence as he tosses you onto his back, your arms winding around him. “In that case, I’ll make sure to tell it to you one day, cus this is gonna be quicker. You’re so slow when you’re tired.”

“You didn’t have to come and get me, asshole,” you remind, snuggling into his neck as he begins to walk.  But he’s right, the pace he sets is almost twice as fast as you had been going.

Beneath you, he shrugs. “Of course I did. Someone has to look after you.”

“I can look after myself, you know.”

It's still dark. Window humming with cold and garden doused in the incredibly deep blues of night. Thick like a choking film, impenetrable with such sore eyes. You consider your room, thinking of the bed you'd made yesterday in the hopes of curling up in it, and the path you'd mentally prepared yourself to forge. It would be so easy to bunker down for days, eyes trained to the treeline and chin burrowed in blankets. But you can't sleep anymore, not with the eerie shapes lurking in the corners. And certainly not with the beams of light emanating from the bulb you've hastily flicked on. Besides, you'd promised yourself that it'd be different here, that you wouldn't let the world pass by from the confines of your duvet. Wouldn't let self loathing leave you bedridden. You were going to take life and run with it, willing or not; which means recognising the fact that if you can't sleep, you might as well work. Still, your body has other ideas, rebelling against your efforts.

4:47am, insists your phone. Far too early to start anything, but too late to work in more sleep. At least, not with a day as packed as you've forced it to be. There's nothing else to do besides coax yourself into moving, one foot falling in front of the other and a forearm diving into the closest box. It shouldn’t be hard to do some unpacking before leaving for Hay Woodworks, you tell yourself sternly, and if you start before the sun rises you should be able to get at least one room finished before lunch. But that process can wait for another hour, argues the monumental growl of your stomach and the dry aching of your abdomen. First comes food.

Breakfast passes in a daze. Scrambled eggs and toast you're lucky you didn't burn, nothing but plastic cutlery and paper plates until you're able to find the crockery. You almost forget about the tea sat on the side, caught up in the memories you've long since chosen to forget and the packing paper scattered across every surface you can find. Almost. Cup pressed to your lips, tepid warmth wasting no time before radiating in your chest. Gentle at first, creeping through your limbs until you can feel your fingers for the first time today.

Its with the rising of the sun hours later, and splashes of washed pinks and blues, that you feel more like yourself. Hopeful again, and as determined as ever. Snow can’t dampen your mood, and not simply because there is none. The sky remains a clear crystal blue, so bright that what remains on the ground in patches shines. Even the greens of the trees look happier, deep forest hues coming alive. The promise of a new day seeps across the floorboards with the morning's fresh light, touching your toes and working across your back while you busy with unpacking. Tedious exercises of interior design, a guessing game of what goes where and who’s is what.

Another hour and the kitchen is completed far sooner than expected, no longer home to only the necessities of a kettle and cup. The cupboards are lined and pantry packed, fridge brimming healthily in the now cozy space. Pride thumps with the beat of the speakers you’d found midway through the process, music now marrying with the warmth of the roaring fire, flooding the corners and burrowing into the rugs. You'd celebrate the accomplishment with another cup of tea if you could, but the muffled tone of your phone, buried beneath empty boxes, stops the idea short. Disheartened, but only for a moment, the once forgotten flash of Jeremy's name across the screen reignites the possibility of taking a much deserved break.

And with his name the world feels alien, like the years haven’t passed and the tears that’d littered your bed sheets over countless nights were never shed. The warmth of the room twists into one of the many summer’s days you thought you’d never experience again, bringing with it an uncomfortable tightness in the skin spanning your shoulders. There had been numerous times when you’d considered deleting his number, erasing his existence and all the memories that come along with it.

But, god, you’re glad you didn’t.

Jeremy: I clock in @ 10. Coffee at the place opposite Geoff's Mercantile?

Y/N: I'll be there in 30.

You take the steps two at the time, all suitcases long since allocated to rooms and the banister overlooking the kitchen and living space finally free of everything you’d tossed over it. Barging into your room, you swim through the clutter, wrestling over books and battling to the bathroom. Looking around, you’re glad you’d thought ahead and kept it relatively clean. Swiping your toothbrush and working through the motions, you’re halfway through your hair when the next text arrives.

Jeremy: Still drink chai?

You can’t believe he has to ask.

Y/N: Chai is the love of my life.

Too busy pulling on the thickest cable knit sweater you own, the reply goes muffled until you return with a hat in hand. On the screen flashes a photo that must’ve arrived just before you hit send on your last message, Jeremy smiling between two steaming drinks. 

Jeremy: You have 10 mins before I drink it and you buy your own.

  -

 The path into Motbury’s town centre is incredibly familiar at this point. Traversed so frequently in the past few days that you can recount every dip in the uneven stone, and know when to let your hand drift in the hopes of touching the spongy moss that waits to greet you. Eventually, and rather regretfully, you say goodbye to the isolation of your home and it’s expansive nothingness lined with trees, welcoming the warm smell of baked goods and hum of civilization. It creeps from the bottom of the hill, sandwiched between the banks and gently smoking with the puff of tens of chugging fireplaces. The clusters of homes and stores are almost indistinguishable from one another, doused in lackluster snow and looking as though they belong in one of those expensive Christmas decorative towns your Grandma used to collect.

Gripping the gnarled wooden fencing, you take the stairs will little regard for the ice lying in wait, dampness leeching the warmth from your fingertips. No longer does that damn near invisible grass bank trip up your exit, triumphant as you leap across it under the watchful eye of the children gathered in the square. You don’t even stumble. Bent knees catching your descent, body rocking into standing and smile plastered across your face. A spin sees you staring back up the hill you’ve mastered without incident, path curling up the grass fighting its way through the snow, oblivious to the fact that the night will most likely cover it again.

Locating the coffee shop is just as easy, retracing your steps past the fountain you doubt has ever been running, venturing a little further than the well trimmed floral displays struggling through the cold. You must have passed at least two bakeries and a handful of artisanal shops by the time you get there, eventually standing with you back to Geoff’s Mercantile and taking in the tiny store slipped between a teahouse and antiques boutique.

Through the windows you catch a glimpse of ice blue, your fingers tapping playfully on the glass and a childish smile splitting your cheeks. Jeremy jumps in the booth he’s claimed, whirling on you with accusations in his eyes. He huffs, deliberately reaching for the cup sat opposite and bringing it to his lips with a slurp you can hear from outside. Offended, you clutch your chest, glaring before pushing through the door with a musical jingle.

The scolding of the barista is the first thing you register, clambering over a cluttering of tables and mismatch of chairs. He’s glaring at Jeremy, forcing a thick mane of dark hair from his face. Hands so expressive you can practically see them shaking the detective inspector by the shoulders.  In the display cases cakes and pretty pastries span out, glowing rich and fetching the lining off your stomach. The monumental growl goes unnoticed, man glowering at Jeremy.

“You’re a terrible person.”

Jeremy looks insulted, continuing to sip from the cup he’d intended to be yours. “How dare you, Jon. I should arrest you right now.”

Jon looks unfazed, eyes sparkling. “For what?”

“For… err…” Jeremy has to think, taking a moment to compile a response. “For unruly behaviour.”

“Was it at least good sex?” He doesn’t sound at all defeated, instead he’s rather eager. “Am I paying Ren Ren because you had good sex with a strapping lumberjack?”

“Does that make me a prostitute if money’s changing hands?” you ask, trying to wrap your head around his teasing.

“Someone’s a prostitute in this situation,” Lauren agrees. “It’s gotta be Trevor.”

“Why’s it gotta be me?”

“Because if you call me a prostitute I’ll kill you,” she says simply, and you can almost see her shrug.

“I’m not arguing,” he admits, leaning closer to the phone and pressing a quick kiss to Lauren’s temple. “If I’m paying you that means I’m getting laid.”

“Oh, gross,” you hurry, “not right now you’re not. I need to talk to you about the weird entity-”

He cuts you off, rushing through a quick ‘it was good talking to you i’ll see you later byeee’ before hanging up.

---

Folding your phone over in your hand, you consider your options.

Not with Ryan disappearing early in the morning, because if you’re honest, you’ve done your fair share of vanishing acts. You aren’t a child, or even a teenager, and you’ve never really been fussed about a silly game of cat and mouse. You’re not about to have your mind run in circles over a man seeing you naked, or see yourself questioning where he’s gone because, frankly, it’s none of your business.

What is your business, however, is whatever the fuck tried to get through your projection charms last night. You’ve run all the numbers, even though you’re terrible at maths, and come to the sound conclusion that every tree that’s been uprooted from the forest, frozen roots curling like agonised fingers and flung against the side of the lodge, couldn’t possibly have made the sounds.

The knocking was too consistent.

Intelligent, that might be a better word.

And besides, a tree wouldn’t leave you struggling for breath. Wouldn’t taint your body with absolute fear, every touch of the walls seeing your charms ripple with strain.

 No, it’d be pointless to argue that it was anything without a pulse.

 You do, eventually, decide that asking Ryan about it is the only option. Testing the waters and seeing where you stand, rather than diving straight into the depths of the unknown that you know not everyone is as open to accepting as Lauren, Trevor and Alfredo. Some information is better than nothing, and you make a mental note to strengthen your barriers before another night takes hold.

So instead of demanding where Ryan’s been, or prying an apology for his absence, you shoot him a quick message asking whether he’d like a drink for when you finally manage to step outside and head to work.  His response comes before you can collect your stones from the windowsill, the almost instantaneous exclamation of ‘hot chocolate!!!’ popping up in the process of crafting another message destined for Jeremy.

You swear at the way it makes your heart flutter.

---

Jon’s just as friendly as ever, chatting with the detective across the counter as Jeremy lounges in the booth he’s claimed. Warmth spills from the cafe’s windows across the street coated in ice and snow, so white that it takes on every colour splashed across it. Every step brings you close to its welcoming arms, the smell of coffee and cakes crunching underfoot like they’re compressed into one glorious scent. But the pair don’t see you, too enraptured in one another’s company, burying laughs in their cups. It’s only once you enter with the swirl of snow - of which has made short work of taking back everything the sun had thawed a day or so earlier - that they break away from each other.

“Y/N!” Jeremy greets eagerly, slipping from the booth in a stumble of limbs and a smile more comfortable than what had graced your home hours before. “Bout time you showed up.”

“It took a while to fight through the snow,” you complain, hugging him close before taking Jon into your arms. “Besides, I asked you here.”

“And here I was thinking Jeremy was here for my glorious company,” sighs Jon into your hair before drawing back, swiping the empty cup the cop had abandoned on the table.

“I’m always here for you,” Jeremy insists, following him to the register, “I swear!”

“Don’t waste your breath,” Jon laments with a fist locked in his tumbles of hair, “you’ve moved on. I can see it.”

“It’s nothing,” Jeremy rejects, looking as though he’d take the man by the collar and shake him if it weren’t for the fact that he’s now working on a second coffee. “She means nothing to me.”

“It’s true,” you confirm. “I’m an inconvenience.”

“An inconvenience!”

Jon glances over, studying Jeremy through fogged glasses before working on the milk. “I can’t take back someone that’s so mean to their friends.”

“God damn it,” he groans, mocking a glare at you.

You shrug, finally letting out the chuckle that’d been mounting since the interaction began. “My bad. I thought he’d go for it.”

Jeremy shakes his head, accepting the cup he’s offered and tossing a few coins back. “Well, I’ve always been a lost cause. Besides, Jon isn’t my type.”

“Ouch,” winces the man behind the register, looking unfazed.

“Don’t worry Jon, no one will be good enough for our dear old Inspector.” Jeremy scowls into your teasing sentiment, but you continue regardless. “Speaking of which, I wanted to ask you if I could swing by the station today and dig into some of those files.”

“Sure,” Jeremy beams, pleased to have your help. Even though you’re unfamiliar with the case, he’s eager to have another set of eyes combing through incase there’s something he’s missed. “I can bring you with me and drop you off home if you want. I’m about to head out.”

“Nah, you go on without me, I can meet you there. I’ve promised Ryan a hot chocolate.”

His face falls, mumbling his goodbyes and excuses to his feet before bolting for the exit. You watch him go, the low sulk of icy blue hair cutting the blinding snow. Out the door with an ill timed jingle and towards his car without a single bounce in his step to be found. Helpless, you attention shifts to Jon, who seems just as put out as you do. He sighs and momentarily buries a hand in his hair, pulling a face before gently removing the reusable takeaway cup from your hands and beginning to work.

“What was all that about?”

Jon doesn’t respond immediately, face squishing while he searches for the words. “Jeremy’s been having a rough time. A lot of stress in his work and personal life.”

You nod as though you understand, and in a way you do, but the fact he hasn’t spoken to you about his troubles stings when you know it shouldn’t. “Would it help if I talk to him?”

This time Jon shakes his head, sharp jerks that stop your offers of comfort in their tracks. Apologetically he smiles, frothing milk with a subtle scream. “I don’t think you being around would help the problem. It might make it worse.”

With a start your expression drops with your stomach, despair and guilt pooling around your ankles like a blanket while your vulnerable body shivers in the cold. Chewing your lip, you watch Jeremy through the window, officer finally lifting his forehead from the steering wheel and sighing with the weight of his shoulders. “It’s because I’m the problem, isn’t it? I was so excited to see him, and he was so eager I just assumed that we could be friends. I didn’t even think about the fact it could bring back bad memories-”

“No no no,” rejects Jon gently, finishing your drink before taking both of your hands in his across the counter. He bounces them, one corner of his lips pulled into a smile. “That’s not it.”

You can’t look at him, glaring at the beautiful cake display while his palms warm your fingers. “Then what’ve I done?”

“It not necessarily you,” he starts, careful with his choice of words. You look up, taking in the sincerity flooding from ocean blue eyes and the subtle quirk of his eyebrows knitting together. “It’s just, well. It’s complicated. Jeremy is interested in Ryan, and you’re kinda getting in the way of his plan.”

You didn’t think it were possible, but your stomach drops even further.

---

You don’t linger at Hay Woodworks, and that’s not because you don’t want to. The smile Ryan had thrown your way when delivering his drink was enough to make the ice encasing the town melt, and the frown that crosses his expression at your quick retreat back into the outside world even harder to deal with.

But it wasn’t these things that made it hard to stay. It’s the fact that every gust of wind rattling against the windows has you jumping when he’s around, has you waiting for the screech that clots your blood and halts your heart. The calm that inhabits his body leaves you uneasy, like the night had been nothing more that part of a routine. A regularly scheduled freight that scares the life back into someone so they can finish the week with vigor.

And it worries you. The empty ache that rattles against you ribs crying out for something in the way of answers, for him to at least acknowledge that the knocking hadn’t been normal. For Ryan to grip the tops of your shoulders and ask if you’re alright. To at least act different; shaken up or on edge. Something. Anything. But you got nothing besides the same smile that always has your heart racing.  

That’s not to say you don’t consider asking about what had happened last night. But the question that clings to your tongue remains trapped behind tight lips and a polite smile, fearful of what the answer may be. The possibility that he’ll confirm your suspicious that the howling and knocking that’d ravished the lodge hadn’t been the wind like you willed it to be.

You can’t deal with it, can’t handle the potential for ridicule for working yourself up over nothing, or idea of him telling you that something stalks through the snow storm. To save your peace of mind you leave with the question, tucking it under your tongue to keep it from spilling down your front.

It’s easier to accept his pretence of not noticing anything out of the ordinary, of not acknowledging that something had been desperate to claw their way into your home. Easier, you repeat firmly, to ignore it. Prepare, protect, but pretend that it’s merely precautionary. Pretend that every element making up your being isn’t screaming.

You’re on the path to the station in no time, following the cobblestone and stopping every now and again for the children that bolt out in front of you. You’re recognising them now, the few times you’ve seen them outside of the community garden project giving them enough courage to squeal your name as a hello while they rush about. Far too much energy for their own good, you think, waiting for a girl named Bea and her bouncing tight curls to pass in front of your knees before moving on. Enough energy that they ought to be able to share. But you don’t spare it much time, waving the group on and continuing your venture across a dusky Motbury until the worries you have surrounding Ryan fade away with the approach of the police station.

The same greeting you’ve come to expect meets your entrance, a warm gust of artificial heat and a cheery “what the fuck do you want, asshole?” from Michael. He tosses you a grin across the reception, watching you shake off the snow that’s started falling again. You hurl him the middle finger and an equally wide smile, and he beams even brighter. “You here to make a complaint?”

“Complaint?” you ask, perplexed and slightly weary.

He shrugs, still grinning. “Yeah, I imagine Ryan’s getting a little handsy at this point. I can arrest him, if you’d like.”

“On what grounds?”

“Pretty sure he cut down some trees without a permit a few years back,” Michael teases into some files he’s pretending to check, tutting and shaking his head. “He’s a menace to society.”

“The only handcuffs he’ll be in are my own,” you shoot back coyly, leaning against the desk while Michael loses himself in giggles that can only be described as those belonging to a gremlin. “I’m guessing Jeremy’s been talking about us, then?”

Michael nods, punctuating his words with a shrug. “Taking about you? He doesn’t shut the fuck up about it, and it’s not just Jeremy. The whole town practically knows you guys are gonna end up fucking. It’s kinda obvious, especially considering the way he looks at you. Not that it’s our business… unless you wanna share details. In that case, I’m all ears.”

“I’m sure you are,” you chuckle, not at all bothered by small town gossip. “Speak of the devil, where’s that little shit?”

“My little shit of a boss?” he questions, taking the widening of your smile as a confirmation. Calling over his shoulder and into the depths of the offices, you hear scuffling and a muffled yelp after his bellowing. “HEY JEREMY, THAT GIRL’S HERE FOR YOU.”  

“I have a name.”

“I know.”

It only takes a few moments of light, and eventually aggressive, banter between Michael and yourself before Jeremy stumbles into the small reception. You stop instantly, taking in the exhaustion you swear wasn’t there the last time you saw him, hair a mess of sad blue and expression so drained that you’re surprised he isn’t in a shallow grave. And although this isn’t the first time you’ve seen him so invested in his work, you know it’s getting the better of him.

He doesn’t seem to notice the pang of concern shooting through your chest, greeting you warmly and opening the door leading from the waiting rooms into the offices. Michael tosses you a shit eating grin as you pass, mumbling faintly about having a spare pair of handcuffs if you were ever to need them. You ignore him, following Jeremy and trying to keep his sleepy footsteps and slumping shoulders from bothering you. It doesn’t take long to draw to a stop, the gentle click of a door opening and a rush of cold making your hair rise, but no more so than the office itself.

The file room makes you flinch, papers stacked so haphazardly it a miracle they haven't fallen. It's painful to see the disorganisation, the cork board so jam packed that information talks over each other, and the desk drawers lined with evidence bags. And they don't contain much. A splinter of wood here and a woollen mitten there. The space screams with nerves, a tight bundle immediately forming across your shoulders and tugging incessantly at the back of your neck. You don't know we're to start, so overwhelmed that it takes Jeremy's directive hand to steer you towards the first faded brown file.

"This was the first kid that went missing," he says around a sip of cold coffee - of which you're starting to think is straight up energy drink as a substitute for sleep hidden in a takeaway cup. "And over there are all of the complaints made of knocking during the storm." He gestures to another shelf, a little more coherent this time with its coloured tags. "You're welcome here whenever you'd like. I've made sure to give you clearance with your pass. Just tell reception if you don't want bothering. Just, try not to take things home. And that doesn't mean you should live here, either."

You're nodding, drifting towards the desk and sitting. It feels... Odd. That's the best way to describe it. A feeling of routine familiarity that you haven't experienced in a long time. Still, your face doesn't give you away, the smile you offer to Jeremy seeing him return one just as bright. "Thanks J," you say, pulling the file over and opening it, "I appreciate it."

“Ryan,” you cave, the eager blip fluttering in your chest seeing you glare at the stones, abandoning them on the windowsill in the hopes bathing in the moon will help. “Stupid fucking things, I swear ever since I’ve moved they’ve been acting up. I tried using them the other morning, right? And nothing, absolutely nothing. They’re not even touching the weird fuzzy whatever-the-fuck thing is going on and making me feel kinda out of it. But oh my god dude, he’s amazing. His eyes are so fucking blue, Loz, and oh my god his fucking smile!”

“Spill, spill! So help me, Y/N, if I don’t get every juicy detail I’m gonna fly to those mountains and-”

But you don’t give her to opportunity to finish, pouring your heart into the phone line, agonising over every description, every flirtatious smile, and every heart skipping laugh. “His puns are fucking terrible.”

“Marry him,” she demands, “marry him right now.”

“I’ll make sure to propose as soon as I get to work tomorrow.”

“Wait, he’s your coworker?”

“Lauren,” you fold the words over slowly, feeling her excitement vibrate against your cheek, “he’s practically my boss.”

“YOUR BOSS?! Fuck, Y/N.”

“I know!” you throw yourself sideways, splaying across the couch and grinning at the ceiling. “Trust me, I know. But hey, enough about me. My face is gonna fucking split if I keep thinking about it. Speaking of bosses, how are things with you? How’s Trevor?”

It’s her turn to gush, voice quickening with her enthusiasm. “Dude. DUDE. Cus of you guys moving and shit he decided to take me out. We got all dressed up, and I mean dressed up. Heels, black lipstick - I looked like I might kill a bitch. And bitch, I might. But he picks me up and we’re driving, right? And he pulls into a burger joint. My favourite burger joint. So we’re sat there in this grease filled room surrounded by people in pj’s while I’m in this fucking expensive dress and he’s in this hot as fuck tux and bow tie, and Y/N?”

“Don’t tell me,” you giggle, “you fucking loved it, right?”

“I FUCKING LOVED IT.”

---

It takes a while for you to start moving, slumping off the couch and to your knees. Shuffling towards the fireplace, it's as simple as lighting a match; last night's set up of tinder and newspaper catching almost instantly. Lost in the hypnotic flames and the comfort your best friend is always able to provide without even trying, the room is engulfed in amber; warmth wrapping its arms around you as you wander to the kitchen, flick on the kettle, and get a cup ready. Scrounging up what the herbal ingredients you’ve stashed inside the island counter, you’re careful when measuring out quantities, muttering under your breath before starting your tea. A few quick stirs and deep inhales levels you, the feeling of the floor far more solid beneath your feet.

It's only once you draw your bag closer that you stop, tea pressed to your lips and fingers coming across something smooth.

Drawing the folder out of your bag, you stare at the file. It’s worryingly large. Jam packed with stapled sheets and post it notes, paper clips so heavy the top threatens to fold under the weight. Turning it over in your hands, you come to face the case printed on the front before you drop it like you’ve been stung. Your palm burns, recoiling away as the energy that’d started to smoulder diminishes. Still, the title glares from the floor, demanding your attention as it screams.

Case no. 30574208 Head in Charge: Det. Insp. J. Dooley Lumberjack of Motbury Active: 2016 -

It’s not the whole file - but it doesn’t have to be; because you can already see the first name poking from beneath the discoloured card. Can already see the smallest section of a lime green coat littered with tiny frogs, caught in the corner frame of a photograph. Can already feel a painful sting encasing your neck uncomfortably. A sharp pain that shoots through the centre of the back of your skull, harsh and demanding.

You’re on your feet in an instant, circling it as though it’s going to lash out with quick, erratic steps. But it doesn’t. It stays deathly still, like the bodies you’re sure remain buried within it. Just photos, sketches blotched with trauma and cross hatched with wounds while the real things rot in the morgue.

As quickly as you were moving you’re stopping again, cold despite the heat that leaves you suddenly sweltering, skin slick with sweat beneath the numerous layers plastered to your body.

You know what will happen when you pick it up again. It’s going to consume you, you think reproachfully, discarding the offending fabric that has you struggling to breathe, shedding and strewing it across the living room. It’s going to destroy you, just like last time. And just like last time, you won’t be able to help them.

You’d realised what being a detective meant a long time ago, and you’ll never forget. Never be able to ignore the fact that for you to do your job, people had to die. Names had to stack up so you could find the pattern, so you could ram their faces beneath the suspect and hope for some crack in their facade. Hope that one would die covered in stains, or with fingernails chock full of DNA. And when you’d come to rely on a tiny body still clinging to the crime that had seen it taken too soon, you’d been sick. So violently that you’d shaken for weeks. So violently that everything you ate came back up, so you just stopped eating.

And you could feel it. Feel every sharp wound and tattered bullet hole, limbs so restless that you’d wanted to scream.

Never again, you’d sworn, never fucking again would you pray that the next body would be more broken than the last for the benefit of another. You don’t care if one death could save the many. It didn’t fucking matter if that tiny, tiny person held the key to stopping the next body arriving on the coroner’s doorstep; because a life had still been lost. You’d hoped for it, you’d felt it, because it’s what you needed to do your job.

A shock of pain shoots through your scalp as your hand swipes through your hair, the old habits of stress already seeing you pull too hard. Gingerly withdrawing your hand, the clump of hair caught between your fingers is enough to spur you forward. Snatching the file from the floor you toss it on the counter, completely intent on storming into the station and ramming it down Dooley’s throat.

But you stop as it falls open, the photo staring at the ceiling far too familiar to ignore. You approach it as though it’s explosive, peering at the treeline you see outside your window every morning, covered in red markings and arrows. Taking it in your hand, you flip the photo over and read the notes jotted on the back with a falling stomach and burning palm.

17/04/2018

Body, male 10 yo (no. 6). Found 500 meters past tree line. Footprints entering. None leaving. Within vicinity of victim 3 and 5. Wounds consistent. Small incision at base of neck. Lacerations.  

You recognise the handwriting. Jeremy’s scrawl had always been all over your notes, and the later he’d stayed at the office, the worse it had gotten. The curves of his ‘g’s and ‘y’s are clumsy, ink smudging as he’s forced his numb, tired fingers to write down another death. Number 6. And now you have to look, have to see the body that’d reduced him to such sloppy functionality. The body found just beyond your treeline only a week before you’d moved in.

It’s the lime green coat again, tiny frogs leaping across the thick, puffed fabric donned by a smiling little boy. Mousey blonde hair sticks out at every angle, but he doesn’t seem to care, brown eyes wrinkling in delight while he laughs. You don’t want to look at the picture behind it, but you do. Taking in the tiny body curled in the snow, knees tucked into his chest. If he wasn’t wearing the coat, you wouldn’t be able to tell it’s the small boy from before. Tom, you tell yourself. Number 6. Tom.

You’ve seen a lot in your professional career, seen more vile, disturbing acts of violence than many can even dream of existing. Felt them prickle across your skin and scratch in your veins, itchy and raw. But this was more perplexing than it was nauseating, but it’s more certainly both of those things. Because rather than a beaten face covered in blonde and bloodied hair, there’s simply nothing at all.

The neck just… stops.

The wound is there, granted. But it isn’t messy. Blood and gore doesn’t coat the snow, nor does it soil the jacket. But it’s not a clean cut, either. Tattered around the edges, curling, bruised and blackened. Sagging.

And they’re all the same. As you search through the file’s contents you can’t find a single child with a head. Every body found in the same position, curled up as though they were sleeping. Found in the woods directly surrounding your home.

No wonder this place was so cheap to buy.

Curiosity burns intense over your concern, sitting heavily on one of the stools surrounding the island and shifting through the papers. The more you try to understand, the more confusing the case becomes. No matter how many times you fold it over in your head, you can’t comprehend the information you’re taking in. Only able to feel the pinch at the base of your skull, and a terrifying calm that numbs your chest and makes it harder to breathe.

And honestly it sounds more like an urban legend to scare children into behaving, or scare parents into disciplinary action. Because it just doesn’t make sense.

At first, it seems, the police force was inundated with complaints. Petrified townsfolk calling in as a snow storm rages through the night, the sound of knocking hammering against their doors. None dared answer. A group of kids messing around, you assume. And you notice that Jeremy had thought the same. Or perhaps a lost traveller caught in the harsh weather and seeking help. But there were no one there in the morning. Porches untouched by the snow but tattered by something, deep grooves tracing the frames of the entrance with vicious brutality. Camera’s cut out and sensory lights left undisturbed.

And then the trail of death started. Livestock, in the beginning. Bloody, brutal maulings that eventually left sheep with lolling necks and a glaringly absent skull - as though the bone has been sucked from the skin. But what bothers you isn’t the carnage, nor the senseless violence that has an animal killed and unused.

It’s the damage, the aggression once the creature was obviously dead. You can see it; can feel just how frenzied it all was. It’s not the first time, either. Every case you’ve witnessed like this leaves you with only one thought. Passionate, you’d argue. Angry. But the closer the timeline gets to the current date, the cleaner the kills become. Until they stop all together.

And the kids start disappearing.

The first one was just as messy as the livestock. Beaten and bloody, a pile of skin the only remnants of a face. But eventually, even that too disappeared. Like whoever it was, was getting better. Getting into the rhythm.

Your stomach twists, staring down at the file you’ve scattered across your counter.

It’s going to consume you, a small, defeated voice whispers in your head while you collect the pages, taking them to the scanner and copying the file before arranging it back the way you’d found it. It’s going to destroy you, just like last time. And just like last time, you won’t be able to help them.

You head for the car once you’re done, not bothering to wrap up against the cold.

---

The station isn’t fancy, barely recognisable as a place of authority when nestled between the other buildings. But regular shop fronts don’t normally have this many patrol vehicles lined up out front. 2, you correct while your foot meets the curb, only 2 cars. The late night doesn’t both you, and neither does the sterile atmosphere you step into. It’s a small space that offers a short line of chairs before the room is cut off by a reception desk, sliding glass protector open wide. Behind the divide you can see what you assume to be the staff room dotted with couches, and offices and files on the opposite side.

The door shuts gentle behind you, and with it’s quiet click you can hear the frustrated voices approaching the room. You don’t wait for them to arrive and beckon you forward, already moving to the reception and leaning against the ledger.

“I’m serious, Michael,” comes Jeremy’s exasperation through the walls, “I swear I just fucking had the damn thing.”

“Obviously not, asshole,” replies Michael smugly, “otherwise we wouldn’t be turning the station upside down.”

“I don’t get it. I had it at Jon’s, had it when I got into the car…”

“So you must’ve lost it on the way in this morning.”

“But I didn’t do anything else with it!” cries Jeremy, finally rounding the corner with his head hung in defeat.

“You must’ve,” insists Michael, coming into the room moment’s behind him. “If the boss finds out, he’ll be pissed.”

“I am the boss,” Jeremy groans into his hands, oblivious to your presence.

Michael, however notices you, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “What do you want?”

You go to respond, but Jeremy interjects. “The damn case file before my fucking head explodes.”

“Not you, idiot,” laughs Michael, nudging his superior’s hands from his face and motioning to you. “You’re lover.”

“Gross.” Your nose wrinkles distastefully, as does Jeremy’s when he finally spots you. It doesn’t take long for him to beam, despite the teasing. “Never in a million years.”

“I’m way out of your league,” he insists around a comedic frown, “I’m arguably too good to be talking to you. But I will, because it’s weird seeing you back in a police station and I’m concerned.”

It’s your turn to laugh. “Don’t get used to it. I just wanted to return something I picked up by accident earlier today.”

“If you pull out this missing file I swear Jeremy is gonna fucking come.”

Jeremy’s expression agrees with Michael’s off-hand joke, the file you pull out of your bag seeing him light up. “Oh thank fuck! I thought I’d lost it, I was about to fire myself!” He takes it eagerly, holding it to his chest with a sigh of relief.

“Don’t leave your shit lying around next time,” you scold, “especially something as important and weird as that.”

He’s nodding until he realises the insinuation of what you’ve just said. Even Michael turns to you, the pair studying you critically. “How would you know it was weird?”

You shrug, seeing no harm in answering Michael’s question honestly. “You think I wasn’t going to look at it?”

“You said you’d never look at another case,” says Jeremy slowly, concern and excitement creating a strange, bubbling concoction in his chest.

“I didn’t really have a choice,” you admit ruefully, rubbing the back of your neck. “But it looks like you’ve got a serious problem to deal with. They all look… very angry.”

“Angry?” His brows furrow, casting Michael a quick glance before snatching a pad and jotting the word down. “What do you mean by angry?”

Instead of answering his question you pose your own. “What do you think it is?”

“A wild animal attack, mostly.” Michael grimaces as the words leave his lips, seemingly upset that they have nothing else to go off.

But you’re shaking your head, dismissing the thought. “No way this is an animal.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, more out of curiosity than ill intent, “but who the fuck are you, exactly?”

“Shit,” mutters Jeremy, jumping in before you can introduce yourself. He holds out a hand to you with a broad, proud beam. “This is Detective Inspector Y/N of the L.D. FBI squad. We used to work together, she was my boss.”

“My god.. You’re legendary around here.” Michael’s eyes are wide as he offers out a hand for you to shake, his grip firm and eager. “I didn’t realise you and the woman Jeremy’s been raving about were the same person. I thought you retired?”

“I am retired,” you say flatly. “What’s he been saying about me?”

“Nice things!” interjects Jeremy rather quickly, his hand covering Michael’s face to shut him up. He struggles, grunting and pulling away with a yelp. But Jeremy pays the complaints no more mind, now looking at you intently. “Does this mean you’re going to join the team as an external source?”

“No, I’m sorry Jeremy.”

His face falls. “No no, I get it. I appreciate you bringing it back. I owe you one.”