Otis came to Wicked’s Rest looking for a new perspective, but found himself a bit too much of a shy violet to properly interact with the locals. But he was trying to get better. Hence the bar. The Journal. And the Writing, but in public. This wasn’t his first time in the Wormhole. It was close to home, and cheap enough that he could afford to keep a tab open long enough to get some work done. Only, it was getting pretty hard to think. So many eyes all around, so many ears. It was a little unnerving. A strange feeling for the apex predator, one he wasn’t too sure he’d come to terms with. 

“Ah– hey–” The bear sighed, attention shifting from the lack of words on the page to the bartender. “Could I– Another?” You’d think with a profession built around talking he’d at least be good at it, but Otis had never been a real conversationalist. Words never seemed to fit in the right order when he had to make them up on the spot. Always mixing up, switching around. Like his mouth was a blender and speech was a smoothie. Well, maybe not a smoothie, everything always came out pretty rough. 

— 

Being back in Wicked’s Rest meant a lot of things, but mostly it meant that with every whisper, she was left to guess whether it was a spirit, or somebody trying to figure out why, under their breath, Rue Kincaid was back in town. She’d gotten used to the voices; had gotten even better at ignoring them– pretending she couldn’t hear their requests. In Seattle, the population of ghosts that swarmed her were typically of the familial variety with a few stragglers here and there, all aware that she could see them even when she tried to pretend she couldn’t. 

Her old hometown was entirely different. With its high death toll, it was bound to be filled to the brim with ghostly entities, all looking for their medium to latch onto. But this was just visiting, and while she had the option of working out of her dad’s ski loft for the summer, she figured there’d be more money to me made in town at the tried and true Wormhole. It wasn’t the cleanest of establishments, but the tips were typically good, and it was hard to say no to easy money, even if she had some funds coming in from her over the phone business. The underwriting job had proven to be boring, and while she didn’t anticipate straying from Seattle for too long, a summer couldn’t hurt. 

Rue finished off the glass that she’d been polishing, putting it down onto the counter when her attention diverted to the customer sitting adjacent from where she sat. He’d been quiet, for the most part– an easy customer, and a face she saw a few times since returning to Wicked’s Rest. Her gaze flickered to the now empty glass and she gave him a curt nod, grabbing the glass before pouring more of the brew in, cutting off the head by pouring some to the side before filling it up the remainder of the way. “This all you want?” It was why people came to bars, wasn’t it? He had a notebook in front of him, and a pen poised between his fingers. She had to wonder what he was writing, and she wasn’t typically the kind of person to beat around the bush. “What’s going down in there? Grocery list? Are you a food critic, here to review the beer? Just know I’m not in charge. I only work here, just for the summer at least.” She gave him a wink before grabbing an additional glass to begin shining. 

—

You had to get alcohol at a bar, right? It was like the law or something. Truthfully, the bear didn’t care for the stuff. Didn’t really like the way it reminded him of the air outside a dumpster in the thick of summer. But it’s what you were supposed to do, and Otis wanted a place to be social, so. Beer. An IPA, or something. Locally made with so many hops it could put a bunny to shame. The label seemed nice. That’s why he picked it. All scrolls and swirls like an Alphonse Mucha portrait. Got his brain lost in the ways he followed the lines. He found himself staring at it long after the drink was poured. Long after he was asked a question, or was it a series of questions? 

Otis blinked back to the bartender, ideas swirling behind his dark eyes. Something about a label that drew people into a trap, ensnaring them in a trance far deeper than any stupor the alcohol behind it could cause. Something about spiders spinning webs in fanciful patterns. Swirls rather than sharp angles, pleasant faces instead of the gnashing mandibles that so many feared. His first good idea in weeks. 

He smiled. A soft thing, hardly different from his neutral expression at all. “No judgin’ here, ma’am.” Otis’ gaze drifted back to the journal where he made a few notes, and half of a sketch. “...got any… bottles of that there brew? Tap’s fine but–” But he wanted to take it home. Wanted to keep the inspiration nearby. “S’nice is all.” 

— 

With a raised brow, she presses her hand to her chest with the rag in it, aghast by the manners he provides. “Ma’am? You know, I’m only twenty-five.” She’d heard it before, plenty of times here and there, but never while she was tending bar. Maybe it was because The Wormhole’s clientele fell all over the place. Rue looked from his glass, then to the tap that she had poured it from. 

“Mm, I’ll see what I can dig up for you, sir.” With a begrudging smile, Rue retreated to the back fridge where she began to look and see if they had any bottles of the brew, the rabbit staring up at her from its label, tucked just behind a box of oranges. She grabbed the bottle and returned to him, setting it down just next to the freshly poured glass. “Might taste different, coming from the bottle.” She leaned against the wooden bartop, ducking her head low to grab another glass that was tucked away in the corner beneath the overhang. “You a beer connoisseur?” She avoided looking at the notebook he wrote into, not wanting to invade his privacy. 

— 

“Ah sorry, meant no disrespect.” Sheepishly, Otis shuffled in his seat. A thin blush reddening his cheeks. The last thing he wanted to do was offend someone, but the north was so much different than his hometown. Either of his moms would have whupped him upside the head for not calling someone in service by their due titles. But Ah– northern attitudes, right? “Just didn’t know yer name is all.” He added, before realizing that might also sound wrong. Shoot. “Not that you gotta give it or nothin’ I just–”

Before any other misunderstandings escaped his traitor of a mouth, Otis hung his head. Hunched himself into his shoulders and went back to writing, but not before paying for the drink, with a little extra tip for the confusion. But she came back, and she was asking things again. Small talk. The kind he never knew what to do with. Felt too heavy in his hands, too small to shape into something worthwhile. “Truly don’t know much about beer.” He responded, candid, shy. “Sorta just like the branding…” 

— 

“If I’m being honest, I don’t know much about beer either.” Not necessarily the truth– her dad had tried his hand at running his own brewery before failing miserably, and instead bought IPAs from the only other active brewery in town to cycle through the small bar within the lodge. Rue looked over the wrapper and gave a short nod. “The art is good, yeah. I can see why you like it.” She gave him a small smile before returning to shining the glass. 

“You can call me Rue, by the way.” She didn’t look up from the glass she was shining as she spoke, “or Prudence, but Rue is better.” Rue set the glass down, planting both hands firmly on the bar top as she looked up, leaning slightly forward. “Should I call you man who likes bunny, or do you have a name? You don’t need to tell me it, if you want. We can go by codenames.” She paused, a short laugh pulling from her chest. “Or, I guess, you can have the codename. I already told you mine.” It was easier to focus on conversations like these– to ignore the woman behind him, the way her throat was slit– an accident, she thought– something about a linen wire. She’d heard the story before, could hear it now as the woman droned on and on, but she focused on the clientele, leaning backwards to tick up the volume of the song by a few notches. “Love this song.” She grinned at him. 

— 

A notch twitched at Otis’ brow. For sure, he thought, he’d ruined the conversation before it ever really started. A messy mix of misunderstanding and miscommunication. More monstrous than the words he wove through the old microphone at home. This was what he should write his next episode about. The horrors of trying to get to know people. 

Rue came back, Well she sort of had to, it was her job. But it wasn’t necessarily part of the description to entertain surly bears that sulked around the edges of the bar. There was a warmth to her, a brightness. Made him wanna open up more. “Rue is...nice. It’s a nice name.” Otis repeated, accent heavy on his tongue. Committed to memory. She’d already painted a picture in his mind, now it had a proper title. “Fittin’.” Cause she was nice too. Nice enough to keep up with his… lack of expertise in this area. 

“Otis.” The bear took a second to reply as the warbling torrent of his mind tried to come up with something better, something about codenames, something clever. Nothing came, just a whisper of half formed ideas clogging up his thoughts. “That’s– That’s me. You can– I’m Otis.” He raised his glass, tilted his head and nodded. “It’s good, yeah. Good song. Don’t think I’ve– heard it before.” 

— 

“Thanks, I sorta picked it myself.” Not untrue, since her dad had tried calling her Prue as a nickname instead. She went by it sometimes, but only for him, due to his insistence.

“Well, I’m Otis, I think you have good taste in beer and music.” It was an old man's name, or at least she thought it might be. But Otis didn’t look old, not in the slightest. Maybe slightly older than her, but not by decades or anything. The woman behind him finally had enough, disappearing through a wall. At least that was over with. Lucky enough for her, most of her family knew not to bother her when at the bar, but there were a few– her great uncle in the chair by the door, being one of them, that never got the memo. 

“It’s by Imminence, it’s called Paralyzed.” She leaned over and grabbed her phone, showing him the screen. “We get to plug our own playlists, so guess I’m sorta… biased?” Rue offered with a laugh. “Might be… a bit sad for a bar, though.” Whatever, she thought. It was just the two of them, anyway. It was uncharacteristic of the bar, but… 

Her thoughts flew out the moment the door slammed open. A man with a woman behind him– translucent, eyes wide with terror, a bullet between the eyes, followed after him. He’s going to kill more, he’s going to kill more. The woman repeated this continuously, rising in pitch as the man spoke, “drink, want a–” His focus shifted as his gaze leveled on Otis, or Rue thought. The drunken expression he wore moments before transformed into something else– determination, maybe. 

— 

Otis’ brow quirked again, before settling into a confused smile. A joke, that was a joke. That meant this was going… well? The bear couldn’t get out of their mind to just talk, everything had to be predated with a mini meditation on the right choice of words. Only to lose them all in translation between thought and speech. He nodded, thankful for the compliment and then again for the song title. Even wrote it down so he could find it on the youtube later on. 

“Somethin’ nice about sad songs though. Feels… more like a comfort when you’re down too. Happy feels broken when you ain’t. Commiseration, like a hand to hold, is better, y’know?” Probably more words in a row than he’d said face to face with someone since he moved to this town. Another sign things were improving. Good, very good. 

He didn’t pay much mind to the sudden slam. Didn’t even turn to look at the stranger who waltzed in already half cocked and clearly looking to add even more to his blood alcohol content. Otis was far and away too preoccupied with Rue, and with the brewing story inspired by the bunny brew. Far more content with sharing his attention to what deserved it, rather than what was demanded. “To be truthful with you–” He started, musing aloud as he wrote a few things down, fully ignoring the newcomer. “Rather have somethin’ sweeter. Like… What's that one soda drink, real red, with the cherries? Summ’n real nice about it. Smooth-like. Perfect for sippin’.” There was no attention given to the rowdy customer, no notice to the way he slinked in close, far too close. 

His breath bounced off the back of Otis’ arm, and the bear barely budged. Didn’t like that much. “Oi. Shitheel. Look at me when I’m–” A hiccup. “–when I’m lookin’ at you.” The man was giving a masterclass in articulation, clearly Otis should have been taking notes. “What’s a beast like you doin’ in a place like this?”  Slurred and mumbled, half the words weren’t really audible. But the man tried to twirl the bear around in his seat. Giving a full attentive audience to his belligerence. 

“...Can I…. help you?” 

— 

Rue would have much rather spoken to Otis about songs and what they meant– maybe not so much how they made her feel, because nobody needed to know that, but this asshole had other plans. He was piss drunk and she could smell alcohol on him as he neared– bourbon, she thought. She wrinkled her nose, gaze passing over his shoulder to the woman who was still repeating the same thing over and over. The blood that dribbled down her forehead, though translucent, was a stark reminder that she had been killed, and it was apparent that the man ahead of her had done it. 

But Otis was still speaking, seemingly unperturbed by the addition to their company. Maybe he couldn’t see him? Was the man dead, too? Spirits could force doors open, could do a whole lot more than just that, but he didn’t look dead, not in the way the woman behind him did. Was this something else? 

She tried to level her focus on Otis, to respond to him. Shirley Temple, she wanted to shout at him, it’s called a shirley temple. Maraschino. Syrup. Sweet. Seedless. 

The man was antagonizing Otis now, and it still didn’t seem as though he noticed him. Rue’s hand tucked beneath the bartop, grabbing the baseball bat that was clipped to the underside. There was another one just behind her, but this would be less inconspicuous. 

“Hey, fuck off– what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” She raised the bat above her head, swatting it towards the man’s head, easily missing Otis in her aim. “Get the fuck out, NOW.” The man looked surprised by her sudden outburst, but his hand was still firmly planted on Otis’s chair. 

“Youa–h gonna make me?” Before he could get the rest of the words out, Rue was climbing over the bar top, kicking over a glass in her attempt to make it towards him. “I said get the fuck out!” The man’s eyes widened slightly as he stumbled back, and the spirits behind him– both the woman and her great uncle, stared at her with equal parts amusement and disbelief. “Get-the-fuck OUT!” Rue swung the bat at his head as she slipped off of the counter, kicking the chair next to Otis forward so that it caught the man’s legs. “I said now!” She swung again, and it whistled through the air just above the man’s head as he sloppily ducked, stumbling back towards the door. 

Otis was lost to her now, all she could see was the way the man had put his hands on him, on the way he commanded attention. Rue hated it– hated the way that he looked at Otis, the way he looked at her. She didn’t like the way that the spirit looked at him either, mouth hanging in a perpetual scream that never came, blood dried to her forehead. 

—

A sudden shift had the bear stepping back. The stranger insisted, getting a little more handsy, and Rue came in like a bat outta hell. Something about the scene sent Otis right back to the ranch. To the ways his moms would run a coyote out of the chicken coop, or how Lila or one of the other ranch hands would scare off a bobcat getting too close to the cattle. A fierce protective bolt of lightning. Snapped at the second the air got too excited. Sensed something, maybe. The intent Otis had missed behind the stranger’s wild expression and drunken slurs. A heat that had somehow been insulated against ever affecting him because the bartender diffused the bomb so quickly. So efficiently. 

The man retreated. The bartender stood there like a guardian. And Otis felt more at home in this town than he ever had since moving there. The bear hadn’t really gone out of his way to make close connections. Hell, wasn’t really anything to say that’s what this was either. Just a hell of a woman protecting the hell out of her bar. Weeding out a wasp before it could sting. 

A low breathy whistle escaped his lips. He pulled the jacket closer around his shoulders. A little stunned, a lot amazed. “...Sent him runnin’ like a rat been caught rummagin’ in the rubbage bin.” Otis’ accent was never thicker than when he felt the need to add a little southern simile to spice up the sentence.

“….You do that often?”  

—

Rue watched as the man disappeared through the door, her own chest heaving. Her head buzzed with electricity– adrenaline fused together with the hatred she felt. The spirit that had followed him inside followed him out, and Rue was left to witness it, the lack of accountability. 

For a moment, she forgot where she was, and she turned to look a Otis. “Only when some piece of shit comes in trying to act all tough.” It wasn’t the first time she’d run somebody out of the bar, and she knew it wouldn’t be the last. If she got loud and aggressive, shrieking like some banshee, then people often cut their losses. People didn’t like when things got loud. She couldn’t blame them. Rue tucked the bat to her chest and turned the corner to go back behind the bar. “Are you good?” 

She repositioned the things that’d been knocked by her eagerness to cross the distance to the man, putting the bat back to where it’d come from. “He didn’t bruise you or anything, did he?” Her skin was still warm and her chest still swarmed with a smattering of different anxieties– what if he came back? What had he done to that woman? 

—

Not knowing the context was a blessing that coupled with the security Otis carried himself with. He hadn’t gone to pieces at the aggressive display. Hadn’t flinched even when the man’s touch spun him around in a way that maybe he shouldn’t have been able to. The bear was of the mind that if he ignored the problem, it would usually sort itself out. Generally, things tended to. A stalwart confidence in his own ability to withstand whatever the world had to throw at him. 

“Yeah, sure ‘m fine.” Otis assured her. An apologetic smile crept in, as if he’d somehow caused the trouble by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. As if the drunk wasn’t going to cause issues no matter who was on either side of the bar. Maybe the man was having a hard time, Otis thought to himself, staring out towards the door where the stranger had made his exit. Maybe he’d been through something and was dealing with the grief it caused him. It never even occurred to the bear that maybe the man was predisposed to hate someone like him, something like him.  

“Wish some fellas wuddin’t make their sorry hearts a problem for other folk.” A huff of air filtered through Otis’ nose, noting how this was something the north and south had in common. People who’d been filled with hurt, hurt other people. Just a fact of life. “My mamas always told me to keep compassion for folks like that. But also to pay them no mind.” Easy for the one who didn’t have to see the specter of a woman with a hole in her head. “How ‘bout you, Miss Rue? How’s the ticker feelin’ after a fright like that?”  

—

Rue hid her shaking hands on the other side of the bar top, fingers now tangled in a rag. She checked behind Otis, towards the door, but he didn’t come back through. Her great uncle continued to stare at her, his own gaping wound obvious to her from where he stood. She gave him a look that she was half-sure Otis wouldn’t have noticed. 

“As long as you say so.” Rue offered him a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She pressed her hands into the rag, willing the trembling of her fingers to cease. She’d seen a lot– had done a lot, and no matter the anger that coursed through her for the sake of others– the bullet between the woman’s eyes, the dried blood– all of it, it made her feel ill. 

The lack of urgency that Otis showed had upset her in a way she didn’t want to address. It wasn’t her responsibility. Her gaze lifted up to meet his as he spoke and she let out a breath that matched his. “It’d be easy to do that, right? Pretend it doesn’t exist, the hurt that they cause.” It’s said before she can stop it, but she shakes her head as if to dislodge the thoughts that continue on as her words fall into the air. “Oh, I’m fine. I’ve thrown a bat around a time or two.” Another smile, and it still doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s an odd thing, knowing how each family member has died– of being able to trace them back, accident or not. To have this capability, of being stuck with this capability, it’s a responsibility she wouldn’t wish on anyone else, certainly not Otis. “But uh, yeah, I’m good.” Another breath, before Rue is balling the rag up and tossing it to the side. “How about that shirley temple?” 

—

There was a clear tension tightening between the woman’s chest and the empty door frame. A palpable string, struck out from a chorus of ethereal violins. Her words were comforting, her demeanor less so. Haunted. If Otis had to put a word to it, that’s what it would be. The pools of her irises held depth that her age betrayed. She’d seen things. Seen the could-have-beens maybe. The ending of stories that didn’t stop at the end of a bat, quelled by a thread of threats. 

Otis stared, held his gaze a beat longer than maybe he should have. Trying to convince himself that he was embellishing again. Treating life like it was a story. Like everything was a play that just needed a narrator's touch. Maybe Rue was just tired. It’d been a long shift. He’d been there for a good majority of it. Nursing half-enjoyed beers, and wishing for the sweet little drink he couldn’t recall the name of. 

But she knew. Of course she knew. Otis knew fear, Rue knew drinks. The presence of the stranger hadn’t riled up that undefinable essence that the bear had always needed. He hadn’t gotten sick from accidentally drinking it in. Probably wouldn’t mix too well with whatever made it into his stomach so far. Sort of a relief, honestly. Meant he could stick around for a little while longer. Maybe figure out what kind of life made a person so steely. Meant he could enjoy that fruity little drink.