#lumberjack ryan

-

 The feeling of cobblestone pounds against the soles of your feet. Hard and aching in the cold. Bitter with every slap of your shoes as you run. The orange glow of streetlights trace the path you carve through the town, chasing the shadows you leave behind and playing in your hair. Scampering between your legs and leaping across the stone you bound over. Glinting against the black ice that has already managed to trip you twice, ground kissing the skin it’s left bruised across your hip and thigh.

Ryan’s confusion still rings in your ears. His alarmed expression, of which you had left in the snow as you’d rocketed to your feet and started moving, haunts the darkened spaced between houses and shop fronts.

“What, Y/N? What’s wrong - wait, where’re you going? Y/N, slow down. Y/N-”

He’d snatched out, crumpling to his knees as you’d darted away.

Instead of explaining, you’d thrown him an incoherent response and reminder for him to join dinner that night with nothing else on your mind besides racing thoughts and a need to find Detective Dooley. To hurl definitive evidence at his feet and demand that he acknowledge the grooves that match those found clinging to buildings. To force him to address the links exposed by the timeline you and Michael had slaved over. To make him see, once and for all, that the removal of the head and the slaughter of animals oh so long ago has to mean something. It just had to.

 It had to.

 The skull, minor in its existence, brings the three factors they’d been scratching their heads over together with clumsy a bow. Solidifying the concept of a copycat killer so much so that Jeremy will be unable to argue, and parading the fact that that whoever had been killing livestock hadn’t upgraded to children, but had kept a clear line between those he hunts. One for food, and one for fun.

It isn’t much, but it consumes you. Taking over your being and vibrating in your limbs, stretching tight across your icy cheekbones. But it’s more than the relief of a definitive copycat that spurs you on. Ryan’s comment had stirred something inside you. Flipped a switch and brought blinding possibilities you hadn’t yet considered.

 If the killer didn’t take the skulls of animals because he didn’t need them or want them - he must have had a reason for collecting the heads that he does.

 Your rampant thoughts, along with your being, collide into the figure in front of you. So dizzy in your mind that it takes you a moment to register the shock, the man is already grunting and skirting past. Swallowed again by the night. A shake of your head sees the panic dislodge and recognition take its place.

“Jeremy?” you call, waving a hand above your head and stumbling after him. “Hey, wait up. You’re just who I’m looking for.”

He doesn’t. Instead his head tucks deeper into his coat, shoulders hunched. The quickness of his pace is hard to match, but you manage.

"Slow down, J, I need to talk to you," you plead, catching his arm. But he still doesn't stop, shaking free and powering on into the snow. Recoiling, stung, you jam your hands into you pockets. "Are you kidding me? C’mon man, stop messing around. This is important."

“Then why don't you go and tell Ryan?”

The words burn, lashing out and leaving your skin raw.

“Excuse me?” you demand faintly, “what does Ryan have to do with anything?”

"I just figured," he starts, finally facing you with an expression set in stone, "that considering how close you've gotten, he's all you need."

“I'm trying to talk to you about the case, Detective. You know, the one where kids are dying? And you think now's a good time to go digging around in my personal life?”

"Why not?" he asks hollowly, and you take a step back. “Why shouldn't I treat you like everyone else in this town? I’d be covering all the bases like you want me to.”

“Jesus Christ, Jeremy!” you snap, infuriated at the man who cowers from your anger for a brief moment. “What the fuck is your problem? Just because you fancy Ryan doesn’t mean you get to be an ass to me!”

“Fancy Ryan?” He almost laughs, but stops himself, instead settling for bewilderment. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Stop it.” Your eyes narrow at his defence, in no mood for his denials. A sharp gesture of your hand cuts his confusion, letting it fall noisily to the floor. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.” You’re seething, body desperate to pace and yet feet remaining rooted to the cold, frozen ground. Through the dark you struggle with his expression, equally hurt by his scowl as he is with your own. “Jon already told me that you’re interested in him. Which is fucking fine, and I get that you’re hurting in this situation. But don’t you dare go around being an absolute asshole to both of us, just because you can’t get what you want. We have a job to do, and I’m your friend.”

He’s shaking his head, eyes wide and mouth pouted open. This time he can’t stop the laugh, harsh and mocking in the night’s biting air. “You’re kidding? You think I don’t like you guys hanging out because I’m in love with Ryan?”

You stop, accepting his simple explanation with a tight nod. You resist the urge to shuffle guiltily, uncomfortable with confronting his feelings with such volatile accusations.

Jeremy’s jaw sets, fists balling by his side while he turns bitter. “Oh, you’ve caught me. I’m interested in him, alright? Really really interested.”

A rattling sigh bounces from your lungs, falling flat in the snow. You knew this would be inevitable, and sucking in a breath and as much confidence as possible, you start the conversation you’d rather not have. “Look, Jeremy, Ryan and I-”

“I’m interested in him because he’s a person of interest, you fucking moron.”

The words stop, clinging to your tongue and scampering back down your throat before you can comprehend his vicious growl. “A person of interest? You mean-”

“I mean that you’ve been trying to date a god damn murder suspect.”

“Oh.” The shock expelled from your lips forms with a gentle pop, and with it his expression softens. Regretfully he gathers his apologies, rubbing them comfortingly into your arm. Tears well, but you don’t let them fall, feeling them thicken in your throat. “Wow J. I- I just… I can’t believe this.”

“I know, Y/N, it was hard for me to accept too, but-”

You jerk away, skin stinging from his touch. Recoiling, a few stumbles steps see the fountain greet the back of your knees, accusations like daggers. “I can’t believe you’d think your closest friend could be a part of this. That he could hurt children. After losing his own, for god sakes. What the fuck is wrong with you? It’s like - It’s like you don’t even know him.”

“Yeah, sure, lost his own, wha- you’re not listening, are you? Because you just obviously know him better, huh? All that time you’ve spent together, all those nights stumbling home arm in arm - yeah, I fucking know about that because we’ve got men watching his every fucking move so he doesn’t kill another kid - it must mean that you know him better than me? Bearing in mind, Y/N, you were the one that dated a god damn serial killer and refused to accept it, not me. And it got people killed.”

Your spine straightens, bite so lethal he shrinks away. The sharp breath sears through your lungs, mind reeling from the night that haunts your dreams and forced you to run from all that you love as he jams it into your hands. It’s your turn to ball your fists, clutching your coat close with the enraged whip of wind. It takes all you have not to launch across the space and punch him, to refrain from falling to your knees and screaming like there’s no tomorrow.

When you speak your voice is low, far more threatening than intended, but appreciated all the same. “Yeah, I guess I do know him better.”

Jeremy wants to snap back, but you don’t let him.

“I must do, because I know what type of person he is, Jeremy. And he’s a damn good one. And I also know what obsessing over a case does to people like us. I was too blind to see Charlie for who he was, because I was too busy focusing on someone else. Someone innocent, remember? I chased him to the point where he couldn’t handle the hounds and killed himself. Do you remember that, huh? Remember when we charged into his apartment and found him hanging, then got the call that my sister was dead all in the same hour?”

Jeremy doesn’t speak, as frozen as the world around him. If he could swallow his comment, he would. He’d forgotten the raw hurt, the agony in your eyes whenever you’d talk about your sister - and hadn’t realised it was still as fresh as ever. He can’t look at you anymore, glaring at his fingers as they slowly blotch purple. And you don’t look at him, either. Can’t stand his guilt, can’t stand seeing him the way he was all those years ago, watching your sister’s blood coat his hands after he’d done all he could to save her.

Last time it had gotten someone killed. Last time you hadn’t been able to save your sister or see your boyfriend for who he was around the target you’d painted on someone else's back - but not this time. This time you know better.

A storm is coming, you can feel it. Not just from the emotions churning in the turmoil, but from a glance at the clouds. Their anger so obvious you shy away from the sky.

Trying to put the past out of your mind, you submerge yourself in the calm scattered across Motbury. Taking in what you can of the stars as they guide you along the path you’ve walked so many times. Fresh air filling your lungs and washing away the panic that builds in your chest. Close enough to comfortable by the time the roof of your home stretches into view.

Ryan waits for you on the porch, doused in the light pouring from the windows. Caught in the same rich oranges and warm yellows painting the wooden beams and pooling across the snow. Everything about him screams nervously. Anxiousness set in his expression, knitted with the tug of his eyebrows and worn bags circling his eyes. Even the jitter of his hands, fingers drumming incessantly against his arm, tells the story of the panic and confusion.

Guilt knots your stomach, but the feeling doesn’t last long. Ryan drops his discomfort at the sight of you stumbling over to him, quick to smile and draw you close. The pound of his heart works wonders, his heat thawing your skin.  

“Y/N,” Ryan murmurs, his voice draping across your crown, “are you alright? You scared me half to death when you ran off.”

You hum in response, not quite ready to break your own silence. Instead you’re content in his arms until the moment drags on and he pulls back to gauge your expression. Offering him a smile, you lace your fingers through the hand he places against your cheek, the action easing the knot of his brows.

“Yeah,” you breathe, “I am now. C’mon, let’s get inside. It looks as though it’s going to storm.”

-

Lauren beams, brightening the room even more and eyeing your blush as Ryan skirts behind you in the kitchen. With a hand on your lower back, he leans for the tea towel on your left, laughing at the jokes pouring from Alfredo’s lips and soaking in Trevor’s half hearted complaints. You can feel your best friend’s attention, can practically see the knowing grin that adorns her face, but for a moment you can’t drag your eyes from the countertop.

“Those carrots sure seem interesting, huh?”

You scowl at her comment, forcing your gaze upward as Ryan drifts further into the space, smiling broadly before tossing the towel at Alfredo - who fails to dodge it. Lauren’s sparkling eyes meet yours, mischief obvious in the way her head tilts. You look to Trevor, already knowing the direction the conversation is heading, but he offers you an equally teasing expression from his position beside the fridge.

“But not as interesting as the new boyfriend.”

“Lauren, stop-”

She ignores you, and manages to avoid the ‘here we go’ Trevor throws her way as he places a drink in front of you before relocating to Lauren’s side.

“So,” she continues, whiskey cheering her on, “how did you two meet?”

“Oh my god, are you really going to do this?” The blush on your cheeks deepens, and you’ve never wanted to sink into a pot to hide more.

Ryan, however, doesn’t shy away. He moves back behind you, removing the knife from your hands and leading you to the side to take over. You want to argue, but the smile he shares is so genuine and caring that you allow the redirection. Instead you move to stand on the other side of the island, determined not to clutter the kitchen that Ryan and his assistant chef, Alfredo, have taken over.

“You know how we met,” you lecture her, stripping your apron and tossing it to Alfredo’s outstretched hand. He quickly dons it, eager and at attention. “You don’t need to hear it again.”

Lauren’s eyes narrow at you. “All I got from you was screeching and spam texts and ‘I fucked him’ freak outs-”

“LAUREN-”

“Besides, I wanna hear the story from someone in touch with reality.”

Ryan chuckles, warmth jumbling with the vegetables he gathers in his hands places on a roasting tray. “I might not be the best person to ask, then.” He glances up, cracking a smile. His own blush shimmers across his cheeks at the sight of your now beetroot complexion. Golden light fills the room, bouncing off his brightness and shining from his skin in the amber lights overhead. “I’m not good with reality.”

Lauren laughs, watching you direct Alfredo on how to crack and peel garlic cloves. “You’re better than someone I know.” Again, she ignores your playful scowl. “And I wanna hear it from you. What did you first think of Y/N? Did she curse you? Oh, or maybe put a spell on you so you’d put up with her shitty jokes?”

Alfredo snatches the herbs away before you can hurl them at your giggling friend, the cold frustration in your palms shedding from your skin in small flecks of light. They join the ceiling as though they’re snowing in reverse, faint enough to be missed but obvious enough for Lauren’s grin to turn wicked.

“Why are you like this?” you grumble, moving to perch on the arm of the sofa she and Trevor adorn.

“You brought this upon yourself,” her boyfriend muses, pressing a teasing kiss to Lauren’s neck while his arm winds around her. “You were just as bad when we started dating.”

You wait a beat before finally giving in. “I guess I did threaten you.”

“You did.”

“Fine, fine.” You wave your hands dramatically, sinking against Lauren’s side with a huff.

She shakes you off, taking a sip of her drink. “So, Mr Sexy Lumberjack, as Y/N likes to call you-”

“Lol, I swear to fucking god-”

“Shut up, Y/N. Jesus Christ. Let your man tell me the story.”

Ryan is quiet for a moment, contemplating the herbs and oil he swirls around the tray before slipping it into the oven. When he finally speaks, it’s gentle, his words joining the rag he circles across the countertop while he cleans. “I was hooked as soon as she walked into Geoff’s store.”

Your skin heats, sucking your internal temperature to the surface. You hadn’t realised he’d noticed you as he’d entered, remembering the way you’d bumbled your way through the aisles and backtracked to shelves far too many times.

“Shut up,” you tease, “you were not.”

“I’m serious,” Ryan insists, continuing to tidy up to the sound of Alfredo clattering the dishes. “You looked so peaceful when you came in. All rugged up and with this little smile on your face.” He lowers his expression just a little, bashful. “Every time I saw you pass through the aisles I was like, ‘woah’.”

You look away from his intense gaze, the intimacy too much. Lauren’s smile has settled into one of softness, the wicked teasing having soaked into the cushions. Trevor looks equally content, his chin resting on her shoulder and lips occasionally brushing her skin. You can see the fraction of a smile pressed against Alfredo’s mouth, but between the suds of too much dish soap, it’s hard to catch.

“I must have looked like an absolute idiot,” you laugh nervously, a shaky hand running through your hair.

Ryan shakes his head, leaning across the island with a smile that tells you he’s forgotten there are other people in the room. “You looked beautiful.” His eyes dart to Lauren as she lets out a happy, almost cringing breath, and he quickly collects himself. Busying around the kitchen, you can clearly see the red dusting his skin. “Y/N came over and helped me pick out dinner, and we picked on the resident detectives for breaking everything all the time. I made a stupid joke…” Ryan peeks at you over his shoulder, his features so gentle and vulnerable your heart threatens to stop. “And you laughed.”

You smile softly, fiddling with your sleeves. “All your jokes are stupid.”

He frowns, unapologetic. “Harsh.”

“But true.”

“Either way, you laughed,” he points out, “and asked for a job, so it can’t have be that bad.”

“Oh god.” Your head falls into your hand, sniggering at yourself while Lauren giggles. “I can’t believe I did that.”

You get an elbow to the side, your best friend’s expression surprised. “Since when are you that confident, huh?”

“Since he was hot!” you implore.

Trevor nods vigorously, making Lauren squirm beneath his chin. “Hotness beats a lack of confidence. Hell, I’d ask Ryan for a job.”

Ryan laughs. “If a position ever opens up, you’ll be the first to know.”

“It better not open up. Y/N is working for you forever now, no way around it.” Lauren puts on a stern mask, but you can see amusement crack at its edges. “Because if you ever hurt her, I’ll hurt you.”

“Please,” you groan, tossing her an exasperated glance. “No fighting in the house. Take it outside and maybe we’ll be lucky and the incoming storm will kill you both.”

Ryan pulls a face, his cheeks rosy and eyebrows knit. He can’t keep the grin from his features. “I’m wounded, Y/N.”

“Good,” you respond, hopping back to your feet and moving over, jabbing him playfully in the chest. “That’s what you get. Now scooch, I need to get the cutlery and plates out otherwise we’ll be eating like animals.”

-

The storm you’d felt creeping along your back as you’d walked home continues to rage from it’s early moments midway through dinner, and the night quickly fills with laughterm warmth and a surprisingly comfortable silence whenever conversation lulls. Nothing disturbs the peace. Comfort heavy across bodies like thick blankets by the fire, of which chuckles with gentle amber flames in the hearth.

Snow swirls behind the curtains you’ve pulled closed, biting at the glass; but inside it’s as though the idea of the cold has never existed. It has no place amongst the bodies sprawled across the living room and burrowed into comfortable nooks, unable to penetrate the soft stupor a night of drinking and new friends has brought. No stinging memories of your fight with Jeremy, and no aching loss from the digging up of your past. Not even the paranoia of an unwanted visitor, be it the wind or the tentative knocking of whatever likes to lurk on the porch when the weather turns and darkness falls, is able to bother you.

Comfortable, and all together peaceful when the sounds never come.

Pressed into the couch, you and Ryan lounge together in the dying light of the fire. His chest is firm against your back as you settle between his legs, one of his feet resting on the floor while the other rubs lazy circles against your shin. Clumsy and inconsistent, much like the strength of his voice.

Ryan’s grip on your waist loosens as the weight of exhaustion claims him, arms heavy and secure as they hold you close. His voice drifts, coarse as it catches in your hair, his lips brushing a final kiss against the crook of your neck before he gives in and lets sleep take over. Head falling back, you hear his consciousness slip into the pillows as a gentle sigh leaves his lips.

You smile. Dopey and overjoyed as you give one of his legs on either side of you an affectionate squeeze. “I’m surprised he lasted so long,” you hush to Alfredo with a chuckle, the man struggling to stand from the position he had sprawled out in across the carpet. “He’s never been good at staying up late.”

“Nah.” Alfredo rolls, stumbling with the sudden action while his face contorts into a strained expression. Eventually he manages to find his footing, holding out his arms and bending slightly to keep from toppling. “Dealing with your crap all day?” he teases, “I’m not surprised, man. You’re exhausting.”

“Rude.”

He sways, stifling a yawn. “But true. I’ll see you in the morning, I ain’t bout to pass out on the floor when I’ve got a bed upstairs. Night, Y/N. Night, Trev.”   

Your goodnights follow him up the stairs while your gaze drifts to the only member of your family still awake, Trevor absorbed in the peace his girlfriend wears in her sleep. His fingers work through her hair, lost in long locks of blonde and the comfort the motion brings. Stroking free whatever stresses of the day remain in his fingertips while sunshine presses into his palm. He’s not paying attention to the conversation dwindling into the cracking of the hearth, oblivious to the soft smile and gentle expression he shares with the slumbering woman in his lap.

You leave him in the moment, his skin warm in the light of the fire and the soft glow of the one he cradles close. His eyes churn, molten and rich as he watches her sleeping expression, intent on committing it to memory. Drinking it in as though it’s both the first and last time he’s ever seen something so beautiful. As though there aren’t enough sunsets in the world to compare her to.

“You know,” Trevor says finally, his murmur swept away with the continued motion of his hands, “I’m going to marry her one day.” The statement is certain, so confident that you wonder for a moment if he’s ever seen anything else in his future. If, ever since he met her all those years ago, he’s kept the ring he bought on the first night in his coat pocket everywhere he goes. Your heart squeezes, already knowing the answer. “Then,” he breathes, smile so heavy with adoration that his lips struggle to hold it up, “she can annoy me forever.”

It takes a little longer than you’d like to admit, staring at him as though it were the last time, but you eventually realise that he must have stirred at some point and carried you to bed.

Reaching out, your fingers run through the loose strands hooding his forehead, pushing them away. Again and again, your fingertips brushing him further into a heavy sleep and warming his frigid skin.

The marks lining your skin almost glow in the moonlight, flickering with every motion. The remains of ink mask the scabbed skin that had resulted from when you’d pushed the pen nib down too hard in the early hours of that terrifying morning, marks residing quite happily beneath the runes carved into your hands. Faded but most certainly there. Glaringly so. Littering your body like twirls of wood shavings, charred and fragile. Curling like vices around your wrists, and snaking up your forearms.

The pale, ghostly scars burn guiltily when you take them in through the darkness. Protective charms humming with the palm you place on Ryan, willing for them to transfer to him, too. Hoping that whatever is left of the magic, of your energy, will embrace him the same way you do.

An arm you hadn’t noticed tightens around you, dragging you closer until your face presses into his cool chest. You want to complain, to shove him away and grumble about the cold biting your cheek, but you find yourself settling. Holding your hands to your chest, you nuzzle into him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder before your eyes slide shut.

Ryan’s sleepy hums of comfort are the last thing you hear before you fall asleep.

-

“I’m serious, Y/N,” Michael insists over breakfast, your phone pressed to your ear and his voice barely audible over the loud ordeal every morning has become. Plates clatter, the kitchen buzzing with caffeine fuelled animation.

“You’re gonna wanna get down here,” he presses further, voice rising with excitement, “we got the lab reports back for the markings. This is your baby, too.”

“Funny,” you scoff, dodging the loaf of bread Alfredo hurls to Trevor, Lauren getting caught in the fray. “Last I checked, I wasn’t a Mother or a detective.”

From the corner of your eye you notice Ryan’s eyebrow quirk. He does his best to seem like he isn’t listening, taking his time while buttering the same piece of toast he’s been working on for a few minutes. His expression flickers, something problematic folding his features for a moment before he glowers at his toast.

“You still upset about that?” You can practically hear the scrunched expression Michael pulls on the other end of the phone, his tone dismissive. “Don’t worry about that fuck or any of the bull shit he says. Detective Dooley isn’t in today, so you don’t have to worry about him. Besides, right now you’re a better cop than he is.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, Michael.” You let off a nervous laugh, watching Ryan shake himself and decide that he should probably pretend to be focused on the second slice of toast. He spreads the button, oblivious to how clear it is that he’s let his breakfast go cold. Lauren eyes him, looking offended.

Michael makes a noise somewhere in the back of his throat. “Well, I would. You’ve done more for this case than that obsessive asshole has in the past few weeks.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He lets out a sigh, looking for the words you might not want, but need to hear. “Look, Y/N… He’s a good guy, you already know that. He was doing his job and just got a little, err, god what’s the word that I’m looking for here?”

“Side tracked?” you offer.

“I was gonna say that he just got a little too far up his own ass,” Michael teases, his tone surprisingly soft. You sink into the comfort it brings, relief buzzing through the phone line. “But sidetracked is a good one, too. He’ll come around, you just gotta give him time. He’s been on the same line of thinking for so long, it’ll take a while for him to readjust. While he’s managing, we just have to pick up the slack until he catches up.”

You hum in response, taking a moment to sip on your tea. “Do you really need me there?”

“Need and want are two different things.”

“Oh, so you want me there?”

“Ew. Fuck no,” Michael rejects with more cheek than what’s good for him, “but we do actually need you here. Considering we’re running with a theory you helped work out, it’ll be good for everyone if the mastermind to be in on all the information.”

You smile, watching the domestic life unfolding in your kitchen, willing the images of icy fingers and cold, tiny bodies from your mind. You cling to the warmth in front of you, hoping to stay in the moment. Dragging it out for as long as you can, as though it’ll keep the world and it’s incessant twitching still. That the burning itch at the base of your skull will cease.

“Alright,” you finally concede with another long sip of tea, accepting the plate of cold toast that Ryan sheepishly hands to you, “I’ll head over in 30 or so. Don’t start without me, yeah?”

Michael chuckles, yelling something to another officer while you drown your waiting breath in your tea. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Y/N. We’re a team.”

You grin, picking up a slice and taking a large bite. “Let’s get this bread.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

You grimace, the feeling of unmelted butter greasy against toast crumbs across your tongue. “You got pastries at work?”

“Of fucking course we do, we’re not animals. And don’t change the subject. You’re a fucking animal. No memeing in the precinct or I’ll arrest you.”

-

After ample testing against other animal patterns found in the area, in which the sampled material was applied to a multitude of claw/bite/other markings of both native and outside animals, all sampled markings are deemed to be unbiological in nature.

The plausibility of the samples being created by a creature as opposed to a hand held tool is noted to be unlikely and impossible.

No bear nor other known creature can be attributed to the patterns found on the Motbury properties.

You stare down at the report as relief washes over you. After having read the brief at least four or so times, you still can’t quite manage to take it all in. With a racing mind and a set of shoulders so determined to drop all of the tension you’d been carrying over the past few days, it takes the clap of Michael’s hand on your back to rouse you from the chaos inside your own head.

In regards to patterns and other factors, the most likely result is that these markings were created by a heavy tool with a sharp edge as opposed to an animal. A creature would be unable to achieve the paw splay needed to achieve the patterns observed. Yet to be determined, possible objects include, but are not limited to; axes, screwdrivers, shovel heads, etc. Further testing is required. The results of these further tests will be conducted and relayed to the Motbury Police Department.

“I can’t believe it,” you murmur, following the paragraph with your finger. “We did it... Like, we actually, properly did it. Oh my god, Michael.” You turn to him, his beam as bright as your own. “Oh my god!”

“Take that, non believers!” he practically bellows, picking you up and crushing your arms, swinging you around wildly with a chorus of laughter. “We fucking told you!”

“We were right,” you gasp, not at all phased by the tightness aching in your sides Michael continues to spin you. “We were fucking right! It’s a copycat, it’s all-” you wince as he attempts to pull Jackie into an equally eager embrace while refusing to put you down, “it’s all linked! The markings lining up with the fucking…the god damn killings and the storms - oh my god! They’re all the same person! Michael - stop squeezing me!”

Jackie smiles, here eyes glinting as she side steps Michael’s second attempt at a sweeping hug. Not to be deterred, he shifts his hold on you, pinning you securely to his shoulder while glaring a warning at the lab technician.

“Congratulations are in order,” Jackie offers, placing an office chair between herself and the detective, “this is a major break through. You’ve closed off some serious ‘what if’s’. Now you can compile all of the evidence together and work from it. Get rid of some loose ends!”

Michael eyes the barrier suspiciously, still refusing to let you go. Squirming in his grasp, you wriggle until you can see the report still clutched in your grasp, bent unceremoniously over his shoulder to read the brief yet again.

“It’s a person,” you breathe, winded slightly as Michael lunges for Jackie, “thank god. It’s just a person.”

“Don’t celebrate too soon,” Michael grunts over Jackie’s squeak, his arm winding around her and hauling her into his hug, the two of you clattering together. “Gotcha, you fuck. But yeah,” he sways with you both, uncertain as to what he should do now that he’s achieved his short term goal. “It just means we’ve got a shit load of work to do.”

You gasp, wincing as his shoulder dives into your stomach. “Yeah, well, it’s only a matter of time now. We can start looking at people and matching them to our Window copycat theory.” The floor greets you when you’re released, but your grin never fades. “You ready to deep dive into some townspeople files?”

Michael beams wickedly. “You’ll have to start without me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah, Detective asshat needs me for a trip out. You’re on your own. But hey, none of this would’ve been possible if it weren’t for you. So thanks.”

-

The clutter of the back room has becomes a familiar strain, accompanying your work day as though it prides itself on being such a loyal employee. Paperwork packed into shelves and plastic bags loaded with evidence press in from all sides as you curl over the files on the desk you’ve claimed for the day, eyes scanning the fading ink in the hopes of finding something you don’t already know.

So far you’ve had little luck. The idea of giving up however, is appalling. No amount of begging from your stiff knees and aching limbs can convince you to leave the seat you’re glued to. A box of pastries has become one of your only friends, coffee cups littering the high surfaces that you’d rather not acknowledge as unstable.Every record up to this point has been irrelevant; ruled out with the new connections exposed from this morning.

The nerves behind your eyes throb with every thump thump of your heart.

You’d expected to find yourself running in circles, and if you’re being completely honest with yourself you’d realise that you’re doing just that. A tired hands rubs across your face, ink and mental exhaustion smudging across your cheeks and pinching at temples. A soft groan escapes you before you can stop it, forehead coming to rest on your folded arms. It’s been hours. Hours since you’d celebrated with Michael. Hours since you’d burst into the filing room like a whirlwind, and hours since you’d sat down with every record the police had on the townsfolk.

The lights in the room are still far too bright. Obnoxious, straining and artificial. Your eyebrows furrow.

What exactly you’ve been searching for is still a mystery, even to you.

Which is infuriating, you admit with a click of your tongue and unflattering grimace, and taking far too long.

You’d originally started with the goal of categorising the townsfolk by sifting through suspect lists, alibis, and recent activity; collecting records on the individuals specified as being of interest to the investigation, but it quickly proved near impossible for you alone. Everything seems to contradict, no matter how deep you dig. Your mind paces through the same patterns until you’re left dizzy with your head on the desk, frustrated beyond words and desperate for something to clean the sour taste of coffee from your tongue.

Stealing your remaining reserves of motivation, you yank yourself back into sitting, fingers slipping into your pocket and producing the two small stones you’ve taken to carrying with you. Their weight is reassuring in your palm, warm against the skin and humming so softly that your stresses start to lull almost instantly. Turning them over again and again, the sound of the stones jostling together eases you even further while your attention drifts back to the next record in front of you - one that had recently been ruled out.

The number of suspects for the case had been few and far between, but that hadn’t deterred you from an investigation before. Instead, no matter how much you loathe it, double checking the past leads was the best way to build a foundation for future investigations. Focusing on the page, you grimace at the corners dotted with your clumsy, absentminded scribbles - hoping the police department won’t mind the mindless shapes you’ve subconsciously scrawled.

SCRIPT

Interview with Gavin D. Free (Store Clerk). Interviewer: Officer B. Burns. Supervisor: Det. Insp. J. Dooley.

Additional staff on script record: Dooley & Jones. NOTE: Supposed witness to suspicious activity during storm.

11/12/16 - Suspect reassessment. RESULT: REMOVED FROM SUSPECT REGISTRY.

Burns: Alright, for the record can you please state your name, occupation, and the prepared statement for the dates specified, Mr. Free?

Free: Well, I don’t really have to now, init?

Burns: … Excuse me?

Free: My name. You’ve already said it. Why should I say it if you’ve already gone and told me the answer?

Burns: That’s not the point-

Free: Then what is? Cus if you were tryin’ to see if I was an imposter or summut, then you’ve just gone and given away the name.

Burns: Why would I think you were an imposter?!

Free: I dunno, I gues- oh, for the record I just shrugged there - I dunno Officer, aren’t you supposed to be covering all the bases or somethin’?

Burns: By checking if the local bag boy isn’t-

Free: What if I was wearin’ a skin suit?

Burns: What?

Free: Yeah, like those episodes of Doctor Who.

Burns: Episode… of Doctor-

Free: I could be an imposter wearing my own skin.

Burns: Why would you be wearing your own ski-

Free: Yeah, god what were those big bloated bastard things called? Big and green and bloody ugly… Eccleston was top as the doctor back then. Tennant was pretty alright though. C’mon, what were those fuckin’ things called-

Burns: I’m not sure how this is relevant, Mr. Free. Can we just get back on trac-

Free: Slitheen!

Burns: Excuse me?

Free: Those monsters, init? The Slitheen.

Burns: I’m not checking to see if you’re a Slytherin.

Free: Oi, I’m a Gryffindor! For the record-

Burns: Dont-

Free: I’m a Gryffindor with my boy.

Jones [muffled]: Yeah boy! Gryffindors for life!

Dooley [muffled]: Michael, can you just - shut the fuck up? There’s an interview going on.

Jones [muffled]: Oh shit, right. Sorry boss. Hey, you’re a Slytherin, right?

Dooley [muffled]: Yeeehhhhhhh-

Burns: Now is not the time! Look, Mr. Free, I don’t care what Harry Potter house you’re in, and I’m not checking to see if you’re a Slith-whatever.

Free: Good.

Burns: What?

Free: Good to know you ain’t an idiot or nothin’!

Burns: What the fuc-

Free: I couldn’t be a Slitheen, could I? I ain’t fat enough. You’d have to check Jack for that - OH! Oh and I don’t fart nearly enough. See, you gotta fart to get into the skin suit… now that I think about it, Geoff is awfully suspicious now. He’s always farting… But so’s Michael. [Distant] Micoo, hey Micoo!

Jones [muffled]: What the fuck do you want, asshole? Can’t you see there’s an interview going on?

Free: You fart a lot, right?

Jones [muffled]: Yeah you fucking know it.

Free: You ain’t an alien from outta space, are you?

Jones [muffled]: … What the fuck.

Free: You’d tell me if you were, right?

Jones: Yeah… yeah I’d - Jeremy shut the fuck up you’re gonna break something - yeah I’d tell you, boy.

Dooley [muffled]: For the record, Officer Burns has given up on life.

Free: Thanks, boy.

Jones [muffled]: You’re my boy, boy.

Burns: ALRIGHT. THAT’S IT. I’VE HAD IT. I’M DONE. We’ll do this again tomorrow.

“You’re telling me.” You sigh unhappily, grimacing into a sip of tea. “God, I’m more confused than when we started. It would be so much easier if we were dealing with a normal killer, or maybe something creepy. At least then I wouldn’t be overloaded with all this information that cancels each other out.” You hold out your hands, mimicking your failed efforts to juggle the two worlds you’re tied between. “This fucking sucks. What if it’s not a murderer after all?”

Lauren makes an apologetic noise, reaching over and giving your hands a squeeze. “Can’t really tell Detective asshole that the Lumberjack of Motbury might not be a real person. Can you imagine? ‘Hey, the man you’re looking for could be something even worse than a person because there was a witch here once, which means the entity doorway is pretty strong. Weird, right? Irrelevant, possibly? But I just wanted to you know that it’s looking more and more like a monster is killing kids, so you can’t actually do anything about it.’ See?” She frowns, returning to tracing the rim of her cup with an unhappy finger. “It wouldn’t go down well.”

“He doesn’t even believe in witches,” you grumble, forehead bending to touch the table, faintly aware of Alfredo patting you comfortingly on the back. “What are we supposed to do?”

“Well,” Alfredo offers, “maybe all ya gotta do is rule out the paranormal bit? Maybe find out what the thing you shot in the woods was, and if it’s involved. Go from there or sumthin’?”

Trevor agrees. “That would work. Look, you’re trying to divide yourself between realities. It’s too much. Try and rule one out, rather than bouncing back and forth? Prioritise and all that.”

You look up, taking in their help with welcome relief. The counter taints the underside of your chin, cold seeping into your jaw. “That… makes sense.”

He smiles like he knows. “Where do you want to start?”

“What?”

“What makes this killer a person?”

Thinking, you try to fight through the haze of leftover whiskey and a semi sleepless night. “The knocking, um… and the fact that the kids go willingly with the person. Like they trust them?”

“True, true,” affirms Alfredo, nodding, “I ain’t goin’ with no monster even as a grown ass man. I ain’t into that kinda weird creepy shit.”

Lauren narrows her eyes. “You’re best friends with witches.”

His eyes widen. “Oh fuck, you right.”

Shaking your head, you try and keep the conversation on track. “But whoever it is... they’re smart. It’s almost like the whole abduction thing is planned out.”

Lauren jumps on board. “What about the paranormal bit?”

“The markings,” you reply immediately, “we don’t know what makes the markings. On the bodies or the houses.”

Lauren quirks an eyebrow. “You don’t know what makes the markings yet because the lab report hasn’t come back. Stop jumping to spooky conclusions.”

You ignore her, stuck on a paranoid trajectory. “And the creature from the forest-”

“Nope,” interjects Alfredo, “don’t think about that. You don’t know if it’s important yet, you know? Could just be some hairy good boy wanderin’ around.”

You falter. “Well… okay. Um… there’s the fact that whatever it is attacks during a snowstorm that people generally can’t survive.”

“That’s possible, I guess,” Trevor allows, “but they could always be someone dressed up really warm. So, which do you think is more likely?”

“I don’t know,” you admit sullenly, “you’re making me think I’m paranoid for considering paranormal shit…. but the major factors of the case could have been carried out by either. Kids are turning up without their heads, for fuck sakes. Serial killers do that all the time, but it doesn’t make sense for a monster. And it started out with livestock, and killers have been known to take their anger out on animals first. But… Ugh. It just-” You make more violent gestures, screwing up your expression and hands forming fists, trying to force your thoughts into something that can be remotely understood. “None of this sits right with me. So many have gone missing and no one has seen anything. No tracks, no glimpses of a person - there’s no way a person wouldn’t make some kind of mess in the snow.”

“You won’t know until you get more information, Y/N. You’re running yourself in circles. I’d focus on the human aspect, honestly,” says Lauren, finishing her plate before filling it up with more bacon. She sucks on her fork thoughtfully. “Most of the horrors against mankind are committed by man himself.”

Silence falls across the table, everyone watching Lauren in awe. She doesn’t seem to notice, returning to the plate she’s already emptied as though she’s forgotten, frowning. Trevor almost laughs. His arm falls across her shoulders, pulling her close. “Thanks for that, Ghandi.”

She scowls. “Fuck off.”

 -

 The morning dwindles into lazy chatter. Plates clatter quietly together, cups clinking as they’re juggled to the sink. A sleepy warmth settles over shoulders, heavy until people slip from their seats and start to move. Limbs creaking like the branches outside, battered by the wind. Running water washes away the hangovers infesting the room, the gentle scrape of a cloth against dishes following the bodies drifting to the couches. No one seems to notice when the voices stop. The crackle of a stoked fire takes over the silence, the sound of socks shuffling into the living room the most sound anyone is willing to make.

Faces bury into cushions not long after. Bodies curling into balls and tossed in blankets. You make sure Alfredo is as covered in a fleece as he possibly can be before burrowing into the small nook by his knees on the other side of the sofa. Your temple hits the arm rest before you register Alfredo sitting back up, repositioning his blankets over the tight bundle your limbs form and settling back down. Weighted eyelids bring darkness, a mumbled thanks lost in the fabric brushing your lips. The feeling of Alfredo’s foot rubbing against your calf only makes you sleepier, your response clumsy but appreciated.

You don’t see Lauren - your eyes are already closed. You can, however, hear her crossing the room. You most definitely hear her bump against the coffee table, the soft cusses falling down her front and littering themselves across the rug. The sound of a blanket scratching across the armchair makes you smile, her clothes catching as she brings her legs up. Knees to her chest, a foot hanging across the arm, and a cloak of warmth tossed across her front. It doesn’t take long for her to drift.

It takes you a little longer. The smell of stewed apples still clings in your hair, the scent of cinnamon scattered across your skin like freckles lulling you into a world verging on sleep. A place where every movement is soft and slow, warm and tight as it engulfs you in it’s arms. Trevor clattering away in the kitchen soon fades into the background, lost in the wind and snow thumping against the window and dancing on the the sills.

 -

 The knock pounding against the front door is overwhelmingly rude, your mind being pulled towards consciousness after what seems like no time at all. Strained eyelids flutter, greeting a fire that has smouldered into silence and a room caught in the light of afternoon.

The other bodies around the space stir, but not enough to seem willing to greet whoever is hammering a fist against the door. You let out a groan, feeling it push against the couch cushioning your cheek. A stiff neck sees you wince, glaring at the entrance to the lodge before another knock sounds. It takes some convincing but eventually you stand up. Carefully detaching yourself from Alfredo before wobbling forward and slipping on a pair of boots, a gust of cold billowing around your ankles as you crack open the door and slip outside with a coat.

A familiar lopsided smile catches you off guard. Bright against the crisp snow, the snigger curling across Ryan’s lips encouraging one of your own. He draws you in almost immediately, the dampness of his red flannel clothes a worthwhile sacrifice for the warmth of his embrace.

You can feel his smile in your hair. “Rough night?”

You laugh, sluggish in your retreat. Your limbs refuse to cooperate, clumsy as you force them through the extra layer of clothing. “You could say that. Whiskey and wine results in a killer hangover.”

Ryan pulls a face. “You poor thing.”

“I don’t need your sympathy.”

“Good,” he beams, “because you’re not going to get it.”

“Oh?” Your eyes roll, sleepy mood defrosting the longer you stand with him on the porch, Ryan at the bottom of the steps while you adorn the top. It’s pleasant, giving you the opportunity to see eye to eye with the man. Your forearms come to rest on his shoulders, fingers playing with the hair curling at the nape of his neck. “Then if you’re not here to look after me, what do you want?”

“I thought I’d visit to invite my dear girlfriend to come with me and see something impossibly cool before dinner tonight.” Ryan leans into you, hands on your hips and a dopey smile on his face.  He savours the title, as though the term was endearing in of itself, coming closer to press his affections against your jawline. “If she’d like, that is.”

You grin through the heat dusting your skin, brushing away the stubborn lock of hair that always seems so determined to fall into his eyes as he pulls back. Resting your palm on his cheek, it stings with the cold he’d picked up on the walk over, warming with your touch. “Is this a sex thing?”

“Nope.” He presses his hand against yours, fingers lacing together before he’s suddenly moving. Dragging you down the steps towards his truck with surprise being his only leverage. “C’mon, Y/N,” Ryan practically sings, “come and see, it’s in the forest.”

You’re laughing. Breathless and stumbling to find your footing and catch up with him. “Are you sure this isn’t a sex thing? It sounds like a sex thing.”

“It sounds like you want it to be a sex thing.”

“Would it be wrong to be kinda disappointed if it wasn’t?”

He grins back at you. “Yes, now come on. I found it yesterday and I really want to show you. We’ll cut down some supplies while we’re there.”

 -

 “See!” “Why… why am I looking at a stripped animal skull?”

Not that you mind in the slightest. On the contrary, if you hadn’t come across such a thing in your travels, having clambered through the snow determined to swallow trees one section of trunk at a time, with moss taking over the world and an unsettling silence making the dark spaces of the forest it’s home, you’d have been disappointed.

Everything was still from the moment you had first stepped foot into the trees. Past the line that divided the civilization of Motbury from the tranquil calm of another world. Icicles like spindly fingers cling to tree branches, moving ever so gently with every gentle push of the wind. Creaking joints with sharpened nails that catch in your hair and tug on your clothes, begging you you to stay with them. To keep them company and listen to the tails they weave in their unusual chimes. 

Bark soldiers surround you on all sides, husks blackened with rot, skin peeled back with the scurrying of insects working tirelessly on its surface. Moss patches the gashes torn in their bodies, padding the wounds with deep greens and the occasional flash of thriving fungus flourishing in the little sun that filters through the inconsistent canopy. Gnarled knots of wood breech at odd angles, distorted in the swirl of snow and pull of age. As though even the trees can’t bear the weight of what they hide, shoulders popped from sockets and knees swollen.

Stones and debris break free of the blanket of snow like islands out at sea. Froth crashing against their shorelines, surfaces slick with ice. Leaves, crushed and trampled, shipwreck on the ocean of white, some frozen and others already lost to decay. Sinking in the tide that continues to pile hungrily atop whatever lies in its path. Devouring all evidence of life to leave the world with nothing but a large, empty and blank slate.

Ryan stands to your left, a step or so back from the position you’ve wandered to. His eyes burrow into your back, nestling between your shoulder blades while you consider the structure of bone. Clean as it is, the incredible size of the skull stands out against the stark white it sits on, creamy and warm despite the life it lacks. Sharp angles and deepening holes work together to form something familiar, but its alien presence in such an ethereal place nags at all those who come across it.

“Cus it’s cool,” Ryan mumbles in response to your question. You don’t have to turn to know a hand works through his hair, fingers rubbing worrisomely at the back of his neck. “And, well… Jeremy isn’t talking to me, and I wanted to show someone.” Your lips tug into a broad smile, one that you toss at Ryan’s apprehensively waiting figure, nervous for your response. “Sweet.”

“Hey Michael,” you call over your shoulder, fanning out the photos of the tiny body covered in blood and curled in the snow. “I think I’ve found another one.”

His head pops up over the stack of files he’s working through, eyes encased in growing bags. Sat cross legged in the evidence locker, he’d long since abandoned the confines of a desk. “What’s the date?”

“She was found on the 17th of December in 2015.”

He whistles, glancing down to the timeline at his feet and following the numbers with his finger. “Got it! Gimme a name.”

“Megan Pottsman,” you read off, peering at a shot of her on a medical table. Body bloated, skin crossed with blues and bruises.

“She’s an early one.”

“She’s the 3rd we’ve found in 2015,” you murmur, bringing the photo you hold closer. “Happened before Jeremy moved here, too. He arrived in 2016, I think? This victim was put down as a bear attack.”

Michael perks up, shuffling over to you and sifting through the file. He stops on one of the same set of photos you’re trying to make sense of, lost in the line carving across skin. “Doesn’t look like a bear.”

“Bears rarely attack people, too,” you add. “Get this: her dad said in an interview that she went out with someone that knocked on the door. He thought it was a friend, and look at the lacerations. They’re not quite like the ones on the victims we’ve got, by they’re a damn lot closer to the markings on entryways of Pottsman’s home and the neighbours.”

“You’re right!” Michael exclaims, “this is the third body with similar markings. And his testimony puts the knocking and the scratches in the same timeframe as the missing person.”

“Is there a photo of her from behind?” you ask, rifling through the contents, urged on by the burn smouldering at the base of your skull. Irritation thick around your throat. It takes a moment for you to find, but eventually the gloss of the image you’re searching for sticks to your fingers.

“Here,” says Michael, plucking the picture from your hand and lining it up with the other 2 photos of the 2015 victims, all presenting their necks.

Drawing closer it gets harder to breathe. With an uncomfortable constricting sensation that tightens your throat - of which you blatantly try to ignore -  you take in the wounds. It’s not hard to recognise them anymore. The tell tale signs are obvious after having witnessed them so many times. The slightly blacked curl of the incision located at the base of the skull. The raw irritation circling the neck. Sure, their skulls hadn’t been removed like the later victims, but they matched the earliest cases you had, clumsy as the wounds may be.

“This is fantastic. That ties our killer to the body!”

Michael doesn’t even question you with a funny look, equally excited. “Perfect in the worst possible way, but absolutely awesome. We’ve finally got an undeniable link between the Widow ghost story knocking bullshit and the killer. Meaning analysing the scratches on doorways and comparing them to the body lacerations will help with determining the murder weapon!”

You’re nodding, compiling the evidence into a seperate box and pointing to Michael with a determined finger. “You got Jackie’s number?”

He rockets into standing. “You bet your ass I do!”

“Then call her, damn it. With this information she’ll be able to confirm the correlation between the new victims and the scratches, prove that we should be looking into the possibility of a copycat killer for the Widow of the Woods. We’ll finally prove to Jeremy that he’s a fucking idiot for not listening! We can do this.”

“We can fucking do this!”

“I’m absolutely exhausted! I’m going home.”

“Me too!”

“Nope,” you reject, beaming at him and handing over the box, “you’re going to face the beast.”

“How dare you call Jackie a beast?”

“Jackie? Hell no. I’m talking about Jeremy. You can tell him he’s wrong, I value my life.”

-

The walk home is everything you could have asked for. Cold enough for the wind to nip at the skin lining your cheeks, to gnaw on your nose until it’s red raw; but warm enough in the burrow of your clothing. And isolated enough to gather your thoughts into something you can almost excuse for a pile.

Because as the snow starts to dance, the streets clear. Families giggling with eager children into shelter, doors closing with audible snaps and warm orange light flooding from the windows. Even the distant figure of Ryan, of who you raise a hand to wave to as he sits stagnant on his front porch watching the white caught on the wind, stands to head inside. You don’t blame him. Continuing past until the store disappears behind you.

It’s quiet, which is nice. A welcome change to the mayhem that’s been inhabiting your mind so frequently. Chaos causing havoc and a constant stream of uncontrollable chatter. Hands buried deep in your pockets, it’s with every turn of your charmed stones that you realise just why it’s been so loud inside you head. Why you haven’t tried to instate some silence.

Because, if you had, you’d remember her.

Which, honestly, isn’t ideal with an open serial homicide case running rampant through your priorities.

And again, now that you’ve mentioned honesty to yourself, you can’t avoid the reason why you’re so frustrated with Jeremy. Why you want to take him by the shoulders and shake, desperate to hear the rattle of common sense. Of a failure you’ve both shared, and the experience you seem to have taken away while he’s remained as stubborn as ever. If he keeps going the way he is, refusing to explore a potential lead because it seems implausible, or silly, or pointless, someone else is going to die.

The crunching of snow beneath your boots works wonders, sound enough to ease the panic bubbling just below the surface. Every few steps draws in a deep, freezing breathe. Calm with every recount of ‘left foot, right foot, repeat’. Doused in the glow of happy homes and flanked by snow banks, it all starts to make sense. There’s an uncomfortably misplaced relief at the prospect of connecting the things you knew to be related all along, the links between the scratches, knocking, and missing children now so solid that people can’t ignore it.

So solid that you can’t question your sanity anymore, because the evidence is clear as day. Paranormal or otherwise. The Widow of the Woods, or the story at least, had a role to play. Of that you were sure.

The lodge comes into view after a few more minutes of quiet walking, nothing but the wind accompanying its breech above the snow. Through the windows comes the compassionate glow of Lauren’s summertime; of warmth and comfort and family as she spins in Trevor’s arms, the pair laughing and dancing in the firelight. The hum of music trembling into the snow. Wrapped in the intoxication of togetherness, of the overwhelming love they have for one another - that same love that greets you at the door as you ease off your shoes and unravel from your layers.  

But you don’t bother them, not yet, anyway. Instead watching them claim the living room as a dancefloor, Lauren’s sunshine caught in Trevor’s gaze that looks as though he can’t thank the stars enough for the beauty he holds in his hands. Can’t tell the woman with shining cheeks and a smile that brightens the room just how wonderful she is. How she glows whenever he so much as throws her a glance, or fractures into rays of gold when he smiles. Her happiness so warm and inviting that it throbs around her body, casting those she loves in her own light. And as he looks at her now, it’s like words won’t be enough.

“Oh really?” You laugh, watching them traipse through the garden on unsteady feet, wobbling with every hole they slip into. Knees hitting the ground, forcing laughter from their lungs and smiles across their faces. “What a generous offer!”

“You fucking know it!” yells Trevor heroically, beaming back to the lodge, “don’t forget the sacrifices we’ve made here today!”

“Welp, they’re gone and I hate you.” Lauren’s voice doesn’t waver, certain in her statement as she closes the door after a moment, your friends having been swallowed in the night. “I hate you so damn much, Y/N. Do you have any idea how hard it was to carry all this shit back from the library?”

You smile, settling in the firelight cast across the livingroom floor, tea warm against your fingertips. “You made it home though, didn’t you?”

Lauren follows your lead, sighing into her seat. “Barely,” she snorts, “I nearly died.”

“Really?”

“Not at all. Right, where do you wanna start?” She motions to the left of you, battered books clinging to life and enough dust that your throat burns. “Over there we’ve got the handwritten journal of our ghosty friend, and over there we’ve got town records right the way up to the time her son ran Motbury.” She directs your attention to a collection of binders, surprisingly small in comparison to the amount of information you expected. “Not much, right?”

“Yeah,” you frown, flipping through the closest folder, only to be met with architectural plans and a few lackluster excerpts. You could take better notes in your sleep. “Lots of stuff about how he protected the town… That’s kinda really fucking weird. There’s nothing after that.”

She nods, hand running through her hair before she taps her cheeks a few times, determined to stay awake. It’s only once she’s settled and finished rubbing her eyes that she realises her coffee sits on the counter. She frowns. “And the night just got worse.”

“What are you talking about?”

She motions to her cup, your gaze following the saddened expression she throws across the room. A flick of your wrist sees her mood brighten, concentration burning your palms and static in your fingers while the mug rattles excitedly against the bench. Another smooth motion sees her drink lift, your hand pulling the air like a long string until it reaches you. Across the carpet, threat of spilling mounting to an uncomfortable peak before gently coming to rest in front of Lauren.

She grins, relieved when plucking it from your control and taking a sip. A sigh escapes into its depth, rumbling happily. “Oh yeah, that’s the good shit.”

“You’re welcome.”

She peers over the rim, already brightening. “Your Granddad would be so disappointed. ‘Kids these days and not using their legs! Grumble grumble, I’m so old’.” You cackle, her impression knitting her eyebrows together and flattening her lips into a thin line. The short, sharp jerks of her shoulders punctuate every grouchy exclamation, and a finger jams her glasses up the bridge of her nose so roughly you can practically hear them clatter against her skull. “What next, huh? ‘Back in my day we punched each other for fun. Burnt women at the stake for friend-zoning us’.”

“Stop,” you wheeze, putting your tea down before it can spill. Between laughter she flicks a spark into your cup, contents steaming once again. “Granddad was so old.”

“He knew Jesus, right?”

“He probably cursed Jesus for trespassing on the footpaths. That old fucker was the worst.”

“The worst,” she agrees firmly, snatching at a page and bringing it up to a settling expression. “Speaking of the worst, you got a light?” Lauren asks, straining at the handwriting she attempts to scan for the third time, squinting through her glasses.

“I mean… you got health insurance?”

“In this country?” she scoffs, “hell no, why?”

“Well,” you start, rubbing your hands together, “I could give that light thing another go.”

Her eyes narrow critically, and Lauren shuffles further away. “That crap from the other night? That you scared the bear thing off with?”

“Almost bear, yeah.”

“No,” she rejects, “no no no. You’re gonna fucking shoot me.”

You roll your eyes, offended but completely understanding her lack of faith. “C’mon, it’ll be fine.”

It takes her a moment to reply, but she doesn’t seem any more convinced. “Have you been practicing?”

Your slow response doesn’t fill her with confidence, her groan ruining your attempts to get her on side. “Nope. This’ll be a great time to practice.”

“I’m going to die,” she laments, slipping further in her seat.

“You’re not going to die.”

“Yes I am, oh god. This is it. This is the end…” She sits back up, beaming eagerly. “Well, go on then. Least I’ll die cool.”

“Gimme a fucking minute, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Oh, right. Sorry. In your own time, but soon cus we’ve got shit to do.”

“Don’t make me curse you out,” you murmur, attention already drifting.

Staring at your hand, tracing the curves of silver scars and lost in the clusters of ink staining your palm like stars across a night sky, you start to remember. It’s small at first, the feeling. Gentle and timid, pinching in your chest. But warm, surprisingly. Nothing like the searing cold that has surged through your fingers and buckled your elbow. Nothing like the freezing desperation that’d seen seen it fountain from your being like a burst damn.

Because you’re not afraid this time.

And why would you be? Clinging to the sheer fact you’ve done this before, on an admittedly larger and uncontrollable scale, is all you need. You can feel it. Like the light is trapped between your ribs, uncertain, but undeniable. Almost like the warmth of the first sip of a hot drink after walking through the snow, comfort pooling in your chest and stretching throughout your limbs. The thick blankets that come along with winter, or the roaring of a well established fire.

“You’re glowing.”

Glancing up, Lauren is watching you attentively. Eyes glued to your shoulders, her expression caught in the moonlight emanating from your skin. You smile, and airy laugh accompanying your excitement. “I can’t believe this.”

“You’re a night light.”

“Does it help?” you ask, shuffling closer to her to ward off the shadows the night is chasing across the documents.

She nods. “A little.”

The motion happens before you realise you’re doing it, focusing on the redirection of the light. It burns as it follows the lines of your veins, stinging at the wrist before it glows so brightly in your hand that you’re left squinting. A quick flick of your fingers disperses the light, scattering it towards the ceiling where it clings to the air. Suspended and glittering like stars caught by the roof.

“How about that?”

“I - holy fuck! Y/N, this is amazing! You know what we should do?” You can’t quite tear your attention away from the small balls of light, questioning her logic through numb lips. “We should order dinner!”

You rock back, your smile so broad your cheeks hurts. “Fuck yes we should.”

“Can I get HSP?”

“Nope.”

She slumps, groaning in a lackluster flail of limbs. “Ugh. What even is life?”

Tossing a journal at her, you grin. “I’m fucking kidding! Do you really think I’d live somewhere without HSP? I’m not a monster!”

“I want wine.”

“We can get wine.”

She thinks for a moment. “And whiskey.”

“And whiskey.”

-

“Looks like Ryan was right,” Lauren says eventually, feeling no need to hide her disappointment. She slumps in her seat, head resting on the couch while she shares her grievances with the ceiling. “We haven't learnt anything new. Gotta admit, your lumberjack lover is thorough. You and Michael may have figured out that the story is linked to all this, but this Turner person is useless.”

The weight on your shoulders grows heavier, anxiousness scratching against your ribs. Frustration clinging to the hair your force from your face, scalp lined with the effort to sooth yourself. A swig of whiskey doesn’t help. “There has to be something, Lol, there’s a truth to every story somewhere. We can't just give up.”

She bristles through a sip from her glass, though barely. “There's only so many times we can read about some woman and her rambling tea habits. I mean, fuck, who drinks this sort of shit?”

“I do,” you reply, offended and rosy cheeked.

“You're the only one.”

Then it hits you, knocking the air from your lungs with enough force that, if you were standing, you'd buckle into the realisation. Lauren sees the shift, watching the energy that had been draped across your shoulders dissipate. Breaking away and fracturing into golden shards as you rock onto your knees.

You're eager, enough to have her waking up from the sleepy alcohol stupor she's almost ready to let take her. “You're right, that's it!”

“What’s it?”

“The tea - the bloody tea thing! You said that I'm the only one that drinks that sort of shit.”

Her brow furrows, struggling to follow as you start rifling through the pile of information. “You and Turner, yeah.”

You emerge beaming, clutching the journal Lauren had tossed aside in disgust. “And what did you mean by shit?”

“What?”

“Type of tea, Lol. What makes up the tea?”

“Herbs and weird flowers and that kinda gross stuff.”

You nod, not even bothering to correct her on the subtle act of tea making, or calling out her strict reliance on camomile or sugarless coffee. Instead you're smiling, flipping through the pages. “Why?”

“Why what?” She pulls a face. “I swear I am going to kill you. It’s too late for this shit.”

“Why do I use those ingredients?”

“Cus they're fucking awful and you hate yourself? C’mon, Y/N. Just tell me!”

Fingers drum against the file, incessant while you stare. When she doesn’t respond your eyes roll. “Witches drink tea.”

Lauren’s face goes blank, eyes widening and eyebrows disappearing beneath her unruly bangs. Her mouth opens with a small pop, hands starting to flap as excitement sees her bouncing. “Witches drink tea!”

You smack the folder to punctuate the point, rocketing to your knees and shuffling over to her as fast as you can. Thrusting your file under her nose, you tap at the margin lined with tea recipes. “Exactly! Witches drink tea. This is the type of stuff I drink when I’m feeling paranoid.” You pull it back, flipping through the pages. “Look, she’s got teas for calming, teas for sleep, teas for cleansing, teas for all emotional healing-”

“That’s crazy!” Lauren exclaims, yanking the closest free journal over and scanning for herself. “The tea shit is everywhere.” She snaps the book shut, moving on to another that’s exactly the same. “Holy fuck.”

“Ugh, I can’t believe it’s taken us this long to figure that out. It all looked normal to me,” you manage, lowering the text into your lap and sitting back down, fingers tangled in your hair while you stare out the window. The cold screams back, faint whispers of snow caught in the lights glowing outside. “It’s kinda sorta really fucking weird. You reckon she was a proper witch, or that she was just really good with tea?”

Lauren makes a weird noise, shrugging. “I dunno, I’m going with no, though? Tradition carries a lot of weight, and recipes and tea properties are used by people without magic all the time. Turner hasn’t done anything remotely witchy that I’ve noticed. Shame the son didn’t keep any journals. There’s nothing from him in this pile. You’d have thought that if your mum was actually a witch you’d want to write some cool stuff down.”

“Moira was incredibly thorough... Her whole life up until her disappearance is here. All we’ve got on the son - oh god, what’s his name?”

“We don’t have a name.”

“Great,” you groan, “brilliant. Fucking fantastic. All we’ve got on no-name-Turner is stuff from his mum and the other crap from the town plans before it all just stops. There’s not even any mention of markings on doorways and stuff.”

She nods, frustrated and exhausted. “Great. We’ve got tea recipes and a man that just disappeared along with his record keeping skills-”

A loud crash cuts her off, the rattle of a lock and smack of a door knob hitting the wall followed by a quick succession of frantic footsteps pounding down the hall. But it’s nothing in comparison to the roarious laughter. Alfredo and Trevor stumble through the door arm in arm, tripping over their feet and bouncing against the entryway. Silly beams split across their faces when you and Lauren glance up, Alfredo breaking away and collapsing on the couch, somehow managing to shove his hand cheekily across your face in the process. The surprise has your concentration shattering, along with the orbs of light you’d managed to keep strong up until this point. Though the alcohol had seen them lower, most of the light having hovered around your elbows rather than dusting the ceiling as they originally had. They dissipate quickly now, dropping the room into the firelight.

Trevor wastes no time in launching forward, letting his momentum carry him into Lauren’s lap despite her half hearted protests, curling up in her arms and determined not to move. “Hey there baby,” he muses sleepily, lost in the smile she presses to his forehead. “Did you miss me?”

“Miss you?” she laughs, running her fingers through his hair, “not at all.”

“It was actually really nice,” you confirm, leaning against Alfredo’s shoulder, “I haven’t had peace and quiet in a long time.”

“Nahh,” Alfredo groans into the couch cushions, turning to face you. His expression crushes, balling into something so comical that you can’t hold in the sniggers. “You missed us. You always miss us.”

“Shut up,” you groan happily, batting away the hand he uses to mess up your hair. “You shut the hell up Fredo, or I’m kicking your ass to the curb.”

“Fine,” he exclaims, sitting up suddenly, “but we made friends, Y/N. New friends. Better friends. One of them was a cop-”

“A drunk cop!” Trevor chimes in too close to Lauren’s ear, causing her to bite back a wince.

“A drunk cop!” Alfredo agrees, swinging his arm around. “And there was a coffee man with this… this beautiful hair. And a British person! I’ve never seen a British person more English than he was.”

“Made up words,” coos Trevor, flailing in Lauren’s arms, “made up words he did!”

“He did! You know what?” Alfredo glares, the expression not quite holding the same accusations they would if he were in the least bit sober. “I’m gone go stay with Gavin. Ma man will look after me.” He moves to stand, swaying as he swipes one of the journals from the top of a pile, squinting at the spidery writing like he’s forgotten how to read. “Maybe I’ll take him this damn book as some firewood, huh? Huh, Y/N? How’d you like dat? Fucking kick my ass to the curb, you animal. You… wait - what is this? This thing that I’m holding?”

Lauren doesn’t miss a beat, smiling sweetly into his confusion. “Alfredo, that’s a book.”

He blinks hard at her, leaning into the motion and holding his eyes closed and eyebrows together for far too long. “I know what a book is.”

Trevor nods into the crook of Lauren’s neck, nuzzling into her like he’s desperate for warmth. She spares him an unsympathetic pat on the head, giving his hand a firm squeeze. Trevor can’t hide his grin. “Sauce can’t read.”

“I can read!” Alfredo wails dejectedly at his drunk friend, offended. Returning to the page that seems to have insulted him so much, he jabs a finger to it’s margins. “I’m talkin’ bout this crazy chick. She’s as weird as you. Yes, you, Y/N. Look. Look, are you looking? Looky. C’mon, just look! See? She’s does the same crazy shit that you do!”

Only minorly outraged, you press a disgruntled frown to your face. “Crazy shit? Rude.”

He pays you no mind, continuing to sway while he fails to grab your hand - not once, but twice - before pulling you unwillingly to your feet. Gripping his elbow to ensure he doesn’t clatter to the ground, you make sure he’s steady before peering at the passage he keeps indicating too. “Well, look,” Alfredo starts, “this bitch be doin’ these weird ass symbol things that you do.” A clumsy finger drags down the side of the page, gliding over ink splattered and familiar illustrations. “See? You see dat? Look at dat… you looking? Dawg, just look-”

“Yeah,” you reply, cutting him off. “Yeah, I’m looking. I didn’t, wait - how didn’t I notice these? This changes everything.” Your attention breaks away from the page, settling on Lauren. She watches you, equally shocked. “This means that Moira was a witch.”

“Course she was a witch!” reprimands Alfredo, “your lumberjack man even told you it was a witch hunt.”

Lauren scowls, struggling around Trevor until eventually standing. He doesn’t want to follow, but reluctantly does; gripping the couch like a lifeline. “Yeah, but the people in witch hunts weren’t actually witches. They were just poor women that we’re caught up in stupid superstitious bullshit. And Turner didn’t do any of the usual shit people used to accuse witches of.”

“So that means she can’t be a witch?” Trevor questions, paling slightly with the churn of his stomach. “How closed minded.”

Alfredo nods eagerly in agreement. “You two see this shit every day, so course you didn’t recognise it as weird. Us normal fucks don’t. This bitch is a witch!”

A hand you can’t deem to be excited or nervous shifts through your hair, brushing away the exhaustion of a long night. You stare at Alfredo, watching him vibrate proudly. “You’re kidding,” you manage around an incredulous laugh, “we spent hours doing this. Hours! We found the tea thing, but we couldn’t pin that to a witch properly. And then you come stumbling in here and do it in 2 minutes?!”

Lauren grins. “That means I can go to bed!”

Your face falls. “It means we’ve got a lot of stuff to do-”

“Bed!” she reiterates, snatching Trevor’s hand and making her way towards the stairs without a backwards glance. “C’mon, Trev, we’re celebrating.”

Alfredo watches them go, offering a clumsy wave to his friend before turning back to you. He looks awkward, pleading. “Please, I don’t wanna celebrate.”

“Hurtful, but mutual,” you agree. His face brightens in relief. “You want a hot chocolate with marshmallows?”

“Yes!” he exclaims, scampering towards the couch and curling up on the cushions. “By the fire with blankets.”

“Done,” you laugh, collecting a bunch and unfurling them over him, watching his face gleefully reappear from beneath the throws. He’s grinning, cheeks threatening to split. Childhood innocence oozes from the expression, eyes sparkling in the light. “We’ll watch Brooklyn Nine Nine?”

You didn’t think it were possible, but he smiles even wider. Wiggling in his spot, he can’t hold in the excited squeal that follows you into the kitchen, sound lost in the sound of the kettle and clatter of cups. “Y/N, you’re my gurl!”