#mk.fic

But it did, and he felt a fear of missing out on the full spectacle as it was starting to set—another carrot dangled in front of him, waiting for him to leap for it, only to fall flat on his face. It was a fantasy he had experienced a few times in the Dark Place but on some level, he knew it was never lasting, which made the hopeful sight of the golden light hard to believe. The last time it did was one of his more memorable attempts at escape. Atop a cliff face, basking in the warm glow that spread a sense of tingling calm. He held…someone in his arms. He felt a twisted knot in his stomach, he couldn’t remember. The credits rolled too fast before he could even register who it was. It had to be someone he loved very deeply, he remembered sharing the relief and calm through the melting of flesh, gripping onto the light between his hands to guide him home. Knowing now that it wasn’t real, he was almost happy that it was splattered with the pitfalls of darkness, an array of bullet holes in his memory, still burning away the branches of his time spent in the Dark Place, until he was left with nothing but the seed that planted him there. For a moment, he almost forgot that there was even a world free and clear of the pseudo-pollution of the twisted version of New York he had lived in for…well, a while. 

Thirteen years , as Agent Saga Anderson said, to be exact. She had helped him up, only letting go of him when she was sure he could stand on his own. He felt as shaky as a newborn deer, knees wobbled but his feet remained firmly planted into the ground as a wave of dizziness threatened to push him over. The setting sun in the distance was more light than he was used to seeing, so he turned away from it to face the tall, imposing wall of the forest. It was the same forest he had run around fighting Taken, looking for pages to lead him to his wife, over a decade earlier but now it was overgrown, almost unrecognizable, and far more intimidating without a flashlight and gun in his hand. 

It wasn’t much longer until he was introduced to Alex Casey, which did nothing to help his already rattled mind. As bright as the world suddenly was, he felt there was a dark cloud hanging over his head. His lungs continued to hoard gasps of air before the next ice-cold wave crashed onto him. But it never came. The expanse of water behind him had shrunken into a gentle slosh, for now at least. 

In the midst of a nudge from the suddenly real fictional character and the uneasy questions that spilled out of his mouth as if their walk into the wood would swallow him whole, he had dared to look back at the lake he never thought he’d see again and felt not necessarily the strangest, as he had been conditioned to treat the strangeness of the Dark Place as a new normal—rather he felt like there was still part of him being pulled into the murky, watery prison, his muscles stretching and freezing in an inconsolable cramp at the idea while his bones had become iron anchors that kept him rooted on the shore. His blood simmered into thinness that made him feel weightless. 

His brain knew on some level, none of these sensations were really happening to him and the odd looks he was getting from Casey just added to the tension of Alan’s pseudo-ownership of the agent’s uncommon name. Maybe he should have gone with the other name he had for his fictional detective, though the uncanny likeness was still exactly the same. The gruff of Casey’s voice reminded him of the cruelty of Alan’s own darkness that killed him, over and over again.

Perhaps it was out of fear he’d somehow hurt this seemingly very real FBI agent, or perhaps it was the desire for the sensory war inside of him to stop, but there was a part of him that almost wanted to follow the siren’s call, dive back into the lake; he forgot something. Something important?

No, not something. Someone. 

Someone was still there. Someone else pulled him out too soon. He felt like a part of his heart was missing. 

He knew he’d look more like a lunatic than he already did if he dove back into the lake, so he took a deep breath, lifted his head and reminded himself that it was okay , even if this was a false sanctuary.

And besides, the air felt fresh. Fresher than any air he’s breathed before. The light felt warm, felt real. He got out.

He couldn’t seem to focus on anything in particular as the control of his body was slowly restored to himself, but in the glaring haze, he managed to hone in on the logo on Saga’s jacket as she almost eagerly split from the group to explore the area. She spoke of flooding that had cleared, maybe as it recessed it had unearthed him from the lake. There was some unease in the three letters on her jacket, distant memories of another agent chastising him, screaming at him. 

Shooting at him.

But there was something about Saga that felt like she was a carrier of true justice and more than that, offered an inspiring relief. As she ducked and weaved through the bramble on the horizon, it was as if she was pulling the unraveling cord that summoned him back to the surface.

He even dared to think he could trust her with the truth.

If he could fucking remember it.  

In his hand was the page that he had appeared with, a single page, a title page. Return. The story that must have brought him back here. But was it permanent or just for another chapter? And worse, was this another horror story? 

He wrote so many stories to try to get out. An impossible amount of pages. Most of them didn’t work. He would even try the most batshit idea he could think of just to see if it would stick. He modified his writing style, tried things he never tried before. Did unspeakable things in his writing—but whatever he wrote in this story, if he was really the author, must have been so horrific that the Dark Presence allowed him to walk out. 

“I don’t mean to rush you, Wake, but the sun is starting to dip…”

“Yeah, yeah, I-I’m sorry. We should go.” He hated how small his voice sounded. 

As they made their start into the forest, and approached a larger than life tree that made him feel like an ant in comparison, he still wasn’t fully convinced that this wasn’t just another layer of the Dark Place. He dove right into a twisted version of Bright Falls, after all. It was the earliest torture, being crumpled like a ball of paper. Flashes came to his mind; reality had gotten bigger as he had gotten smaller, forced to run on a hamster wheel through the small town, hop onto keys of a giant typewriter, fight his way through a furnace room that was as tall as a mountain. Even the skyscrapers of the haunted New York loomed over him, more imposing than what used to be the comforting box of walls that sheltered the city from the rest of the world. Those walls were not entirely impenetrable, and the dread and fear that came with that truth was nothing but a feast for his warden. The sandbox grew in size to match the ocean of the lake, taunting him with an easy escape only for the swirling waves of darkness to shove him back into the lonely hell of vacant streets that should be so crowded he’d have trouble breathing but somehow in its emptiness his breath was still lost, the figurative bars of his jail cell threatened to collapse onto him like the shadows that would toy with him, pushing him down deeper, and deeper towards the facade of a home that was slowly condemned like the love of—

But there were no shadows here, no echoes…so far, at least. Then again, they didn’t all appear at once. The landscape of the Dark Place was always shifting and changing to twist his memories, good or bad. And he knew he had been able to scratch—his whole body violently twitched and a nerve in his head snapped like a rubber band—the scene in his own ways. Messages he either tried to send out, or send to himself. Part of him was also aware that he rarely became physically tattered as he was in this instant; only in the deepest part of the loop did he ever get wet in the waves of the ocean continuing to drown him. Somehow that made the dirt on his face feel real. The grime in his fingernails peeling away in his wringing hands was real. 

The crunching leaves beneath his feet felt real enough, the wilderness somehow feeling refreshingly foreign after being trapped in an endless night in a suffocating city. 

The batting of branches and disgruntled scoffs from the agent, clearly a fellow city dweller, ahead of him were real. Part of him selfishly hoped he could charm the agent with their shared disdain of nature.

And more real than anything, was the snap of a twig that sounded like it came from behind them. 

A shiver passed through Alan, an eerie sense of someone approaching him, swinging an axe in slow motion—he motioned to duck out of the way but his fear got the better of him, and he nearly fell forward—he grabbed for the nearest branch he could find—the pull of exhaustion had blinded him into this momentary hallucination of a ghost, and after an audible gasp and a brace for impact, he opened his eyes to discover what was really behind them—

Just a deer.

“Uh, Wake? Is there something on my jacket?” 

It was then that Alan became painfully aware that he was gripping Casey's sleeve, in the same exact manner that Alice would when they would venture into haunted houses.

If he wasn’t so embarrassed he would have smiled at the memory of how Barry used to, too.

“What? Oh, sorry…”

“Doing an awful lot of apologizing. Makes me wonder if there’s something else you’re apologizing for,” Casey added in an accusatory tone, though he was smirking as Alan frowned and released his grip on the agent’s jacket. “Relax, Wake. You’re not a suspect…yet. You’re just part of the mystery.” 

“Right,” Alan muttered, hanging his head. “A-agent Casey, I just gotta ask—’

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The answer to your question, did the chicken come before the egg, did I come before your stories, is yes. I’m older than your books, probably older than you, kid.”

“Oh. Small world, then, huh?” Alan tried to crack a smile, an effort to win over the grumpy man ahead of him, but he stiffened and wiped his nose with the back of his sandy hand instead. 

The agent scoffed and continued on.

Alan still couldn’t wrap his mind around it, just how long had Alex Casey been the main character in his fictional fantasies? Longer than he could remember, at this point, and it just intensified an existential terror nagging at the back of his skull that maybe he didn’t surface in the right dimension, if he even surfaced at all. 

“I got out…” he muttered in reassurance to himself. He morbidly wondered if the actor Sam Lake was real too, and not just a “character” he made up to play the role of Casey. Did he create him? Did he create Sarah Breaker’s cousin Tim? Did he make Ahti the odd, wise old mentor archetype? 

He didn’t realize he muttered those thoughts out loud, too. As if speaking to a camera. Not a talking head like on those reality shows that Barry had always declined without even asking Alan about the offer, knowing it would be a recipe for disaster, but rather as if he was some sort of character in a story, too. Was that the “meta” that the mysterious talk show host always teased him about? 

“Hmm?” Casey interrupted, without stopping to address Alan, who just continued on as if nothing happened though his cheeks burned. A habit he picked up while trapped in the writer’s room, with nobody but the invisible camera that captured his spiral into insanity and fed it back to him in each loop, yet it was somehow always a guidance to the next twist in the plot he was trying to weave into an escape.

Just as Casey’s death was always the start of another draft of the story.

He just hoped that this Casey wouldn’t serve the same purpose.

“Nothing…sorry, Detect—,” Fuck, he caught himself. “—Agent.”

Alan halted in a sigh. He forgot how hard it was to be a normal human being. “How, uhm, how much further?”

“Not long now. You okay to climb some stairs?” Casey had paused to size Alan up. Alan nodded back to him. “Good, cause I’m sure as hell not carrying you up there.”

Casey started walking again and Alan took a quiet deep breath before wiping his face, and then wiping his hands onto his jacket. Whatever derailing train—the smell of burnt flesh, echoes of screams of willing victims in a sacrifice for the sacred Word, his words, twisted into actions for mass murder—he was on, he needed to get off. He needed to be lucid, or they’d just lock him up like they did to his ma—

The clicker.

The clicker she gave him.

He needed it.

He NEEDED it. 

He needed it to bring back that lost person from the bottom of the lake. Maybe it was the rest of himself that didn’t feel all there. 

Maybe it was someone else, as his ring rubbed between trembling fingers beneath the crippling weight of an overpowering roar piercing his ears. He hunched over, wildly looking behind him and praying his legs were strong enough to run again.

“Casey, we have to run. Now —” Alan motioned to grab Casey’s arm to pull him along, but Casey lost his patience, swatted Alan’s hand away. 

“Wake,” Casey groaned in exasperation. “What now?”

“It’s—the forest, there’s something there—”

Though he sighed, the agent still pulled out his flashlight, waved it around the area.

Alan’s eyes darted from the darkness to the gun on Casey’s holster.

“I can hold—”

“Absolutely not,” Casey didn’t even let him finish. 

I’m not useless, Alan kept the thought to himself this time, though was damned in the feeling that he was.

After Casey finished the circle of his inspection, the flashlight was clicked off which made Alan’s heart sink. Wordlessly he gave Alan a look to assure him there was nothing there, and gestured for them to start towards a nearby lamp post near an abandoned General Store. 

Alan nodded in agreement, and picked up his pace as he kept looking behind him before his ears wriggled when he heard another roar, and what almost sounded like distant gunshots—he gave up on trying to shoot the Dark Presence very quickly—

His quickened pace became a sprint for the light, feeling guilt at leaving Casey behind but resigning to the fact that he already tried and maybe Casey will see it and start running, too—

But once he wrapped himself around the pole, soaking up the light like it was the last thing he’d ever see in this existence though it was so intense, worse than the sun, this light was burning him alive and he’d explode into smoldering flakes—In a strange and sudden gesture, Casey had caught up and put his arm on Alan’s shoulder.

“Wake. It’s your stomach. You’re just hungry. You see, our bodies do things to tell us when we need to give it a rest.”

This Casey was just as dry as the dead detective in his head, and this ironic spit of sarcasm seemed to trigger a flash of anger in the writer with narrowed eyes and flared nostrils—

That quickly deflated, as Alan knew an outburst wouldn’t help. Not now, not yet. Not until they understood what was really lurking in the shadows between the trees.

Casey cleared his throat, which Alan took as a half-hearted, pitied apology. He could see it in Casey’s eyes, like he was guiding a wounded animal. 

Alan sighed through his nose and followed the agent’s lead until they got to the car, the final glimpses of the sun flickering through the trees made him wince—still as sensitive as he always was to the light, he felt the beginning of a migraine. He was almost happy when Casey nearly shoved him into the backseat of the car to serve as an unlit safe haven, hanging his head as his brain continued to reel out of his ears like a strip of film. He could hear Casey call Saga to let her know they made it back, and within ten minutes she hopped in the car, excitedly telling Casey about the various mysteries she found in the forest; lunchboxes scattered under beautifully crafted weaves, symbols of some Cult that made a shiver lurch down Alan’s spine, an experiment set up by some department called the FBC with dolls and rhymes…

FBI? FBC? What’s next, the FBS, federal bureau of smartasses? He wanted to wisecrack, but there was something about the FBC that seemed…familiar. On their way out of the woods he spotted the lodge in the distance and felt a connection—something about that crazy doctor, Hartman? The man he fed to the dark force that chased him like death, hissing repeated phrases at him. 

He almost felt like that force was still with him now, groping the lobes of his brain in sharp claws, mincing it and mushing it to keep his memories distorted.

Saga assured him that they would let him clean up when they got back to the lodge in town before they could dissect him further, and seemed to take a personal call through her earpiece.

“Jesus, David. Why didn’t you call?” 

A pang of guilt tugged his fingers towards the car door handle. Something within him told him he should get out and run back into the woods, try to sort this all out himself. He didn’t remember just what it was, but he could remember seeing Saga in the overlap, injured, worried. Barking at him with anger, something about…her family? She has a daughter—he didn’t know how young, but knew that it didn’t matter. Something bad must have happened to her. 

Something that was his fault.

“No, it’s…just a weird case, that’s all.”

He doesn’t blame her for it, he gets it, he was just trying to save his family, too.

Except, he failed at that.

“I’ll keep an eye out for him. Love you, Dave…Just tell her I love her. Bye for now.”

He wouldn’t fail Saga. He needed to stop whatever story was unfolding, write the ending to give everyone the happy ending they deserve, even if it meant there would be no happy ending for himself.

They drove past the Bright Falls sign, illuminated only by the beams of the car’s headlights. The sun was gone and the trees seemed to grow taller and taller, its branches waving wildly. He could hear the distant sound; a scream, a roar, a beckoning, a warning. Like he didn’t even stop the Dark Presence all those years ago, and after all, it had even warned him that it would find a new face to wear.

His hand padded the folded title page in his pocket, the scratched words burning through the fabric. He swallowed, hard. Scratch had his face. The Dark Presence had his face. He had almost forgotten the first words he spoke in the fresh air, his lips tingled with the echo. It got out, with my face, Scratch! 

Those weren't the first words, which served as the pressing reminder:

No, it’s my fault.

He followed the thread backwards, digging through the back of his eyes to try and remember what happened before he appeared on the shore. It didn’t have anything to do with Scratch, Scratch wasn’t the one holding a gun to his head as a hostage though he couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was indeed pressing against him. 

He saw himself, dead in a chair. Saw the door to his study painted with a spiral. Heard…a voice. A projector. Stark, terrifying silence. 

Which incidentally, fell over the passengers after Saga concluded her call.

He found Saga’s eyes suddenly staring at him through the rearview mirror. It almost felt like a silent interrogation, as if she had heard him replaying the crime scene in his head—he knew nothing about the one that he and Casey passed, a table with blood and carved triangles, but it somehow felt…familiar.

There was no scrutiny in her eyes but rather concern, Alan wondered if Casey had mentioned their trip through the forest when he called her at the car.

“You must be hungry, Mr. Wake. While Agent Casey gets you set up in the lodge to clean up, I can get you something to eat, whatever you like.”

“N-no thanks, Agent. I’m…not hungry.”

That was a lie. A real grumble in his stomach betrayed him. He was insatiably hungry, he hadn’t eaten real food in thirteen years. Hadn’t drank untainted water. Hadn’t had a real cup of coffee. He was still in disbelief of the passage of time, it had felt both like five seconds and five centuries all at once. He was somehow always and never hungry or thirsty.

He gagged at the thought of what it was that he would eat and drink in the Dark Place, the once rich, warm coffee substituted for thick, black goo. 

“Well, Casey and I need to eat too, so we’ll still get you something.”

“Going to get him a Happy Meal?” Casey mocked. 

Saga glared at him before she took another glance at the man in her rear view mirror, but Alan’s focus was lost. He was definitely out of it. He definitely needed to fill his basic needs before they even attempted to find out what he’s been doing for the past near decade and a half. He’d like to find that out, too. For as much as he did remember, there felt even more that he didn’t, his memories a piece of paper that had been punched with holes until there was almost nothing left. 

It was as if he was just half awake, the rest of him still drowning in the ocean of the lake. 

He didn’t remember seeing the Elderwood Palace Lodge when he entered Bright Falls on the ferry across the street, only the lodge at Cauldron Lake that was a mask for an asylum. 

This lodge was everything he’d expect out of a good old fashioned wilderness hotel; a fireplace with comfortable sofas and chairs in the lobby, log wood panels, quilted blankets, the smell of fresh coffee and locals chattering and bantering on radio. Perhaps if he and Alice stayed at a place like this, or even one of the public cabins on the campground he and Barry stayed at, he’d be back in New York right now with her in his arms. 

Alive. 

Casey quickly guided him towards the hall that led to the guest rooms; it was such a late hour that the tourists must have already turned in for the night, save for one woman who seemed to be distracted in a consistent pattern of knocks on a door, but he didn’t seem too keen on parading the suddenly discovered writer around. 

“Here’s my room.” 

The room was littered with used coffee cups, case files, unpacked vacation items without a semblance of organization. Replace the coffee with booze, and this would have been a perfect recreation of his fictional Casey’s room. 

Casey walked in, after drawing the curtains closed, he flipped open a suitcase and dug out a shirt, socks and a pair of jeans and tossed them into the unmade bed. 

“Uh…mind the mess,” Casey muttered with a small amount of embarrassment, before clearing his throat. “Use whatever you need. Wash up, rest up, and then we’ll talk. Don’t leave this room without me or Anderson coming to get you. Lots of tourists in town and I’m sure you agree we don’t need the extra attention.”

Alan looked into the bathroom. No showerhead, just a bathtub. 

The last time he remembered taking a bath was in his earlier childhood, way earlier, when the only troubles he had were the monsters that plagued him; under his bed, in his closet, behind his door, on his desk, behind his curtains…all easily dispelled by the magical light switch that still click-click- clicked in his ears. 

But sometimes the clicker alone wouldn’t help. He couldn’t fight the shadows alone. 

Nor could his mother put him in the tub alone without him writing on the walls, playing with rubber ducks, playing pretend…doing everything except what he was supposed to do.

“Mama, stop!” he would giggle when she cleaned behind his ears while making exaggerated pipe-cleaner noises. 

“Now then, Mr. Wake, even the mightiest champions need to wash up every now and then. You’ll feel better than ever once all this mud is gone.”

He wished he could remember what she looked like.

“Can Barry come play again tomorrow?” 

Barry. God. He wanted to call Barry so bad. Wanted him to bust in, declaring Alan as his client, drag him away and take care of everything for him as he always did. 

And more than anything, to just have his best friend back. 

The thought was soured with vague memories of a twisted version of him created from Alan’s own self hatred that broke his heart in having to destroy, and of his doppelgänger’s threat to torture and kill the real deal. If Scratch really did follow him here, he couldn’t risk losing Barry again to stop him. He didn’t even ask him to come the last time he was in Bright Falls, and if there was a way he could have stopped him from coming, he would have.

No, that was a lie. He wouldn’t have gotten far without help. Barry helped him. Sarah Breaker helped him. Cynthia Weaver…and now where were all of them? Sarah clearly wasn’t in Bright Falls anymore, so hopefully she was safe. He could only hope Barry was safe, too.

And Cynthia…drowned? 

Drowned beneath dark water… his own typewritten words haunted him, teasing him for thinking he could get out without them. He’d become like poor Cynthia Weaver, gone mad having lost his lover. His light. But he did that to her, it was all his fault. He drove her away, drove her into a maddening spiral into the dark and it’s not safe without a light, you can hurt yourself in the dark and she did far more than hurt herself, all because of a ghost that kept haunting her—

“Mr. Wake?” Casey’s voice beckoned. As if to snap him out of whatever trance he was in, Casey turned on the desk light and calmness bloomed through Alan’s body.

Maybe he could just wash up in the sink. 

“Hmm? Oh, s-sorry…” Alan nodded towards the clothes on the bed. “Thank you, Agent Casey.”

“Please don’t,” Casey snorted with an air of disdain for the forced hospitality.

The door snapped shut behind him. 

Alan never thought himself to be claustrophobic but being sentenced to solitude in another small room made his stomach churn as the room began to stretch beyond crossing eyes. It felt weird walking on carpet when he was so used to the creaking wood of the cabin. He shook his head to disperse the dizziness though of course, that just made it worse. He closed his eyes, resolved that he should start with washing up before crashing on Casey’s bed for the nap he didn’t think he needed, but then again, did he ever get any sleep in the Dark Place? Such trivial things made him feel like some sort of astronaut returning to Earth after being in space far too long, and it wasn’t a poor comparison. The atmosphere didn’t feel as oppressive anymore, the gravity didn’t feel wrong anymore, no longer swimming through thick mud. 

He stepped into the bathroom and began to undress, nearly losing his balance stripping his pants down in the tight space. He couldn’t even remember when he changed into this suit in The Dark Place, and vaguely remembers other outfits he wore, including what he was wearing when he dove in. He knew if he thought about it too much, it’d only serve to worsen the pain in his head. The tension had become so tight, as if his hair was being pulled with such force that his scalp was being pulled back with it.

As he took off his suit jacket, a piece of paper fell out. Stained with black ink that felt more like a mixture of water and oil, his vision blurred and the words swirled around as his own voice read out:

Standing inside the trailer, at the outskirts of Watery, Saga had seen Wake's fabled Clicker for the first time. In the hands of the Cult of the Tree.

He squinted, focus returned and he zoned in on the following paragraph: Her mind reeled from what the horror story was now claiming about her. Her life. Her past. She didn't accept it.

He resolved to hide this page. Maybe it could spare her if she didn’t read it. 

Something told him that they already had a few pages already, if he had one this far into the story, one that referenced himself, who only just became a player.

He wiped the paper off on his suit jacket before folding it and leaving it on the counter. 

The noose around his neck loosened and fell unceremoniously to the floor, just as it used to after the long press days filled with the same cliche questions over, and over, and over, and over…

He used to feel her hands on his shoulders, wrapping around to undo the buttons on his dress shirt before peeling it off, her thumbs gently massaging his back as the shirt slid off. Murmurs of assurances whispered in his ears. He would look lovingly at her through the reflection in the mirror. 

But he couldn’t make out her face as his own hands reached up to undo his shirt drenched in sweat. The figure on his back wasn’t gentle in its whispers, it was harsh in its echoing sirens. 

He started the tap, his ears pricked up at the sharp squeak of the faucet. The running water made his blood flush out of his skin. A shaky hand was cleansed as he reached out to cup some water into his face, but the water felt like burning ice on his body. He recoiled, a tight grimace stretching his face. He looked up into the mirror and saw—

Wide, piercing eyes dark as bullets shooting out of his skull. Lips stretched into a deranged smile, the exposed teeth speckled with blood completed the puzzle splashed across the pale cheeks, the clenched jaw, the dripping forehead, the flaring nose, painting the branches of a greying beard. Eardrums popped under the thunder of a growl, a lightning strike of terror shrank Alan inwards, drowning him in an oppressive darkness. 

—A monster. Wearing his face. 

He jumped back against the wall, slid down the wooden panels as he clutched his head. He gasped for air, shut his eyes bracing for…something. He didn’t know what. Some sort of impact to the center of his head, bursting through the back? Something washing him out, devouring him into the void of non-existence? 

But nothing happened. The pain started to ease off, and he turned off the sink water, electing to take the bath after all. 

Something about the bathtub instilled a sense of dread, as if he would find a body in it. He would much rather take the massaging rain of a hot shower, the steam masquerading the outward reflections and opening the pores of his skin to new ideas. 

The drain was plugged and he turned the water on. He was reluctant to step into the pooling water as if it were lava. He gripped the sides, baring his teeth as he cautiously slipped in. Soon enough he was half-submerged. He hugged himself as he felt an odd shiver of coldness even in the hot water. His fingers rubbed hard against his skin, before digging in, scraping, scrubbing , but there was something inside of him that he couldn’t clean off. 

Too many hands. 

He let out a voiceless scream underneath a hand that felt like it was smothering him when he got to his hair, the other hand helping the unseen monster pull harder, fiercely scrubbing the dirt out of the hair that kept waving like a pendulum in front of his eyes. He fell back further into the tainted water beneath him, ready and waiting for the dark cloud to come back, tear his brain apart and he’d wake up back in his room, maybe he’d get farther with the next draft—

But the cloud never came, though he still felt like it hung over him like a looming shadow. Watching him, relishing its puppet flounder in the real world, the world he wanted so badly to get back to only to feel like…like this.

Like he doesn’t belong. 

Still, there was a certain comfort having all the dirt and mud washed away. More than a physical cleanse, for a moment all the intrusive assaults ceased and he was reminded of his safety. He closed his eyes and pulled himself deeper, the water plugged his ears and the rushing water became a gentle force around his body. Maybe he was crazy after all, maybe there was nothing in the forest of Cauldron Lake anymore. 

That wouldn’t explain the pages. 

What if he had been on that shore longer than the minute Saga claimed to have seen him appear? What if he lost another week of memory, or more? What if the past thirteen years were just all in his head, and he had been cooped up in another mysterious cabin writing stories that never came true?

What would happen if this “Return” story came true? 

He gasped for air as if there were none left to breathe. His eyes snapped open, he sat up with such speed and force that he almost slipped back again. The water had risen over the lip of the tub, some splashed out as he reached for the faucet. He studied his hands, no more dirt under his fingernails. He let enough water drain out before scrambling out of the tub, looking back at his wavering reflection in the darkened water, like Cauldron Lake had found its way into the water supply and was trying to lure him down into the lake through Bright Falls’ water supply. 

He quickly dried himself off and put the new clothes on, combed a hand through his hair. His eyes fell on the folded manuscript page, which he quickly tucked into the pocket of his jeans. The imperfect, but much needed respite was over and he had to start thinking about this story, how to finish it before Scratch could with whatever horrors he had planned for this small, idyllic town that did not deserve to have another apocalyptic Deerfest.

He exhaled heavily as he leaned against the counter. The once searing hot pain in his head was now as cold as the sharpened icicles stabbing into the most sensitive nerves of his body. He fumbled for a nearby bottle of painkillers that he knew Casey would have. A trait he had self projected onto his fictional character, but whatever he was feeling was nothing like the hangovers he was used to curing with a pair of pills and sunglasses.  

The man in the mirror looked better, though not by much, than before. Almost human, at least. 

He rubbed his face, his eyes felt like they were sinking backwards into his skull. He still had time to kill in this pseudo-prison cell, Casey seemed to make it clear he wasn’t to leave the room without someone coming to retrieve him. Maybe a nap wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.

He knew there were beds in the Dark Place. In the hotel…Zane’s room. Parliament Tower. He didn’t recall attempting to sleep in any of them, as if he physically couldn’t sleep in them—but vague flashes of sensations inspired by the episodes of his imprisonment on the television told him that he sure as hell tried, whether passed out on top of the desk or huddled into a ball on the hardwood floor. 

He curled himself up on the bed, the pressure in his head was growing again, throbbing and almost paralyzing him. He tried to focus on something in the room to keep him grounded, to remind himself where he was but all he could see was the ring on his finger reminding him of the body that wasn’t lying next to him. 

He wanted her hand to hold. Someone who wouldn’t try to solve his problems, criticizing him, telling him what he should do to fix it all, he just…wanted someone to listen. And that was always Alice.

And one of the more clear memories that live in his mind, were the last photos she ever took.

Something stung the corners of his eyes. He took a few deep breaths but his lungs tickled the bones of his ribcage, feeling hollow but inflated, like he was about to lift off into the air.  

How many times did he go to their apartment? How many times did he burst through the door screaming at Scratch but really, he was screaming at her? Did he ever reach out to her, ask her for help? Did she ever go into the study, did she ever see his lifeless body shot by his own hand? All of the pictures, all of the videos he had seen scattered around were suddenly given a more chilling context. And if all of that was just himself, appearing as a ghost lost and confused but not in a vulnerable way, rather in a harsh, animalistic manner…if all of that was him, he could only shudder to think what Scratch would have done to her. 

But instead all he could think about was what he had done to her. What he drove her to do. 

Alan was the one who snuffed out that comforting light that kept him going even in the darkest times. She was the one on the cliff face at each end of his attempted escapes to welcome him home, and he ultimately pushed her off of it.

He squeezed his eyes shut as they burned, he felt tears teasing the skin of his eyelids, leaking harder and faster as his body shook out in a violent sob. And then another, and another, and another until his face was twisted in a swirl that hurt, and a twin waterfall fully sprouted from his eyes spilling out onto the pillow. 

He could hear the dry remark now, Agent Casey would surely tease him for “wetting the bed.” 

———————————

“You were looking into his disappearance, what’s your read on him now that we found him?” 

Saga stood in front of the case board but the glazed look in her eyes told Casey she was looking at different pictures than what was pinned up. Part of him felt like she wasn’t even addressing her partner directly, but was picking his mind like the crow that was still calling through the forest. An omen, perhaps and while Casey was not a superstitious man, this case was opening a third eye for both of the agents that there was something bigger than them pulling the strings. 

“I’m a little concerned we’re not going to get anything out of him. He seemed a little…spooked on our way back to the car.”

“Well, wherever he was must not have been a vacation. When I woke him up he seemed to think there was something that happened, something that was his fault. He spoke about a Dark Presence getting out of…the lake? With his face? Said something about a scratch? He was covered in dirt, but I didn’t see any blood.” 

“He might need more than this hour we’re giving him. Maybe we should book another room, put it on the card.”

“I’m worried the longer we don’t talk to him, the less he’ll remember. Plus, I don’t know that we want word to get out that the famous missing writer is suddenly back in Bright Falls, then we’ll lose him for sure.”

“Yeah I heard that the waitress at the diner is his ‘Number One Fan.’”

“Aren’t they all…” Saga trailed off, thinking back to what Rose had said to her, how she spoke to her as if she were some long lost friend.

How she said her daughter drowned. 

And then she got that call from Logan. Falling in the shower. 

Lucky I heard her fall, she could have drowned.

Maybe it was just a coincidence. 

She shook her head, went back to her inner file cabinet and pinned up the pieces of what they picked up since she encountered Nightingale in the forest.

“He had another page with him when he appeared. But it was just a single word, Return.”

“So…maybe he disappeared to write his new book.”

“Yeah, maybe it’s the heroic return of your counterpart,” Saga stepped outside of herself for a moment, digging into her partner with a smile much to Casey’s glaring disapproval. “Still doesn’t explain the ones we found though. Unless he was…somehow in the future all this time? Or had some sort of…clairvoyance?” 

“He did say something about the pages, making it seem like we’d find more of them. Insisting that we keep them safe. Maybe they are more important than we thought.”  

“I wonder if he has more on him.”

Saga turned her head towards the bag of extra clothes she picked up for their possible…witness? Victim? Suspect? She didn’t know how to profile Alan Wake until she could talk to him more.

“Think it’d be too much to search his clothes?” Casey asked, picking up the hint.

“No, I think we have to focus on gaining his trust, first. Don’t make him feel like we’re treating him as a suspect. He dealt with…whatever the hell it was that happened in 2010. Maybe he’ll know more about what’s happening to us now.”

Casey checked his watch. “I think it’s time.”

“Let me go grab our dinner and some more coffee while you get him settled in here. Something tells me it’s going to be a long night.”

———————————

He must have cried himself into some semblance of sleep, his mind drifting like wood on water until a loud, singular knock startled him. The painkillers must have finally kicked in, his head coated with a weary sense of calm.

“Wake?” his name was called for in a loud whisper, like someone didn’t want anybody to know he was there. “Are you…awake?”

“Yeah,” Alan sniffled. “Just a minute…”

He rolled out of the bed, quickly making it before taking one more trip to the bathroom to wash his face. His eyes were still weighed down by dark bags, but the crying made them look red. He prayed Casey wouldn’t voice the smart ass comments he would have crafted for his detective to say. 

But then again, his Casey was not necessarily cruel or uncaring. And something told Alan neither was this one.

Casey nodded silently to Alan to follow his lead. The lodge was just as empty as when they had arrived and Casey seemed to hover less this time, though he used a back door labeled “Private” to bring Alan into their makeshift station. A private dining room complete with its own bar that Alan was not unfamiliar with having been to private arrangements in his fame, and not the brutalist setting he was expecting for an interrogation. 

“Where’s Agent Anderson?”

“Getting us food and coffee. Here, she bought this for you. Thought you might be cold. And a pair of boots, better for running around in this terrain.”

Casey handed him a black and white flannel shirt, and a pair of work boots that felt oddly familiar somehow. His outfit reminded him of the desert. The air became tight as he felt caught up in a sandstorm.

But he also felt a glimmer of hope—not that he had a plan for this Scratch crisis but if they were slowly arming him with the right equipment, maybe they would keep him involved.

Casey cleared his throat awkwardly, presenting a tray to Alan. 

“Anderson was right, you know. You should eat something . Even if you don’t eat a full meal.” 

Alan frowned, but nodded and with reluctance he took an apple from the tray, twisted it in his fingers. His mother would always peel them, and without even telling her to do it, so did Alice.

He bit down on a trembling lower lip before another whimper could escape him, and he could make himself even more of a fool in front of the more intimidating doppelgänger of his fictional detective. It was bad enough he didn’t realize he left Casey’s room without his old shoes. 

His stomach was also tangled in a bramble of nausea, perhaps from the upset of his meltdown but he knew he needed to eat. 

Alan remained in this stalemate as he settled into the seat facing a wall pinned with pictures and maps, drawstrings connecting what he assumed were victims based on their happy, innocent faces. His head felt heavy in the reminder of what was at stake and fell into his hands. 

Saga must have entered the room, the smell of coffee creeped up behind him, and he heard a hushed exchange between the agents behind him.

“Hey, I tried, okay?” Casey was barely audible and a new emotion throbbed with the pressure in his head; yet another pang of guilt. They were just trying to help, and here he was, still the stubborn asshole who didn’t want anybody’s help.  

The concept of light and darkness had always been a part of Alan's life from a very early age.

There was still the scared child within him that was plagued by assaulting shadows birthed from the darkness, so much so that he still carried around a childhood trinket that he'd fidget with when the familiar sense of drowning pushed his insides to the ground.

And yet there was a comfort to the dark, a silence that eased the sharp, noisy pain in his head whenever the light was too overwhelming. Sunglasses were not just a style choice for him, it was a survival mechanism. He grew more nocturnal as he grew older to avoid the constant battle with the sun which ultimately helped him land his job as a night watchman which served not only as great inspiration, but allowed him to meet what every aspiring artist needed.

A muse.

The idea of going to work became less about his job and more about getting those few moments where he'd see her, and suddenly words would spring into his head. He'd jot them down on a notepad in between rounds and camera checks, on week's worth of words added up to more than he had written the year before.

Barry, impressed by this sudden surge of writing, encouraged him to talk to her. Ask her out. Quit being such a creep just looking at her from afar.

It wasn't that easy, their only interactions ever being the socially obligatory polite wave of acknowledgement as he kept a close eye out for their ID cards—she was always with someone.

Well, almost always.

She caught him off guard in more ways one night in particular, which wasn't the first time he had seen her walk in alone, but it was the first time he had gotten some proper night guard action during his routine rounds.

It had been at least an hour and a half, maybe even two since she had walked in. The modestly high end complex she lived in had a winding path through a fancy indoor courtyard that was usually visible from the inner perimeter path he'd take through the brick laid arched halls, brightly illuminated by garden lights and lamp posts.

But that night, all of the lights were off. Not just the courtyard, but even the halls, too. He swore they weren't on his first round. One light seemed to still remain on, stuttering with varying widths of its reach, but as he got closer he heard winding whistle-like sounds and clicks that made him put a cautious hand on his belt as he called out:

"Hey, someone there?"

The flashing stopped for a moment, before it aimed towards him.

"H-hello? I need help!"

Just as quickly as his anger and adrenaline had flared at the possible danger of the situation, his heart melted when his flashlight found her.

He wished he knew her name as he called out, "Are you hurt?"

"N-no..." she blubbered. She was on the ground, clutching her ankle.

"Are you sure about that, Miss...?" he shined his light on her ankle, nothing seemed twisted in the wrong place so at worst, he hoped it was a sprain.

"Alice. I'm Alice. I'm fine, it's just—" she huffed and while she started to get up, he found the source of the flashing. A camera in her hand. He grabbed her arm to help her up to sit on a nearby bench, and she didn't protest, instead focusing on a few deep breaths still laced with hyperventilation. Streams of tears shimmered in the glow of his flashlight.

"Easy now, what happened here?"

"I was heading to my apartment, over and up there," she blindly pointed in all directions, conducting his flashlight until they found where she lived, "and suddenly the...lights went out. I, uhm. I tripped."

She looked down to the rest of her belongings on the ground that she must have dropped when it happened. While he wasn't the detective that seemed to haunt the pages of a budding series, he didn't like the picture this painted. Lights go out, woman gets scared. She panicked, tripped, and was using her camera to try and find her way out of an ocean of darkness.

"I saw you come in earlier...have you been out here since then?"

She laughed humorlessly, with a sheepish admission, "Yeah."

"It's so stupid," she added after a beat, and wiped her face.

"No, no, it's definitely not," he reassured her. He bent down to start gathering her belongings. "C'mon, I'll walk you to your place."

She winced as she stood up, and before he even asked she insisted, "Just need to walk it off."

There were nagging voices battling in his head on what sort of small talk to make, but nothing felt appropriate. He knew the embarrassing feeling of fear all too well, having caught himself flipping the switch in his jacket pocket as they walked up the stairs to her floor.

For a writer, he didn't have many words of comfort to offer.

"Well...this is it. Thank you, uhm...?"

"Alan. Alan Wake. No thanks needed, it's my job," he smiled warmly, but his face fell and he quickly added with blushed cheeks, "And pleasure! It's my pleasure to help."

She gave a half smile before crossing the threshold. He was getting ready to walk away, cursing the small flub when she called back out to him:

"You know, I, uh...I was gonna go back out in an hour or so to meet up with a friend for a drink across the street. If...if the lights aren't back on by then, would you mind...?"

"Of course not. I'll be there."

"Thanks, Alan."

He continued his rounds and called maintenance on the radio to figure out what was going on with the lights. They were trying to determine if it was sabotage by rats or dumbass teenagers, but he didn't appreciate the answer that it wouldn't get fixed until morning.

And more than that, didn't appreciate how that answer wasn't good enough for the fear that Alice experienced—he had half a mind to go on a hunt for the culprit, but the other half had an idea in mind.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She opened the door, half hoping that the lights would have been restored, and half hoping to see the hot security guard again that she had always had a small crush on. She tried to assure herself it was a win-win either way, but she didn't expect to get the best of both worlds.

Alan was already outside, leaning against the railing in a cool, nonchalant fashion though his cheeks were still an adorable shade of red.

Behind him was a colorful lake of light decorating the courtyard, hastily arranged and probably a level of overkill that threatened to cause more damage to the power with the tangled extension cords that were snaked from the main entryway, presumably plugged into any outlet he could find.

"Thought Christmas wasn't for another three months?" Alice smiled as she leaned forward against the rails, marveling at the renewed sense of safety. He turned around to stand with her, though she could feel his gaze more concentrated on herself rather than his decorations.

"It's not, but my patrol does allow me to dip into the basement, and since the lights aren't going to be back on until tomorrow at the earliest, figured I'd improvise. Not that I didn't mind escorting you, of course," another quick, nervous addition though she didn't doubt his sincerity in the slightest. "How's your ankle?"

"All better," she smiled with a playful, rhythmic tapping of the foot in question to the bottom of the railing. "Is that...is that Rudolph?"

Alan laughed and nodded for them to start walking, slower than before.

"Well, he's always the guy to get Santa through the storm so I figured he'd be a good beacon for us, too."

The panicked, frigid air from before had settled into an almost intimate crisp peppered with friendly small talk as they walked towards the entrance, where they parted ways at his office.

"You're really sweet for doing this, Alan. I, uh, wanted to give you this—"

She took out a polaroid from her jacket pocket and handed it to him. It seemed to take him a moment, but a smile spread across his face when he realized what it was.

Warrick.

Seriously, what was he supposed to say? “Hey bro, I’m stuck in a box can you come get me?” “Where are you?” “Help me, Warrick Brown, you’re my only hope.” “Are you guys even looking for me?” “Help me.” “Get me out of here.” “I’m gonna die down here.” “I need to tell you—”

The text came almost immediately, leaping across an expected lag.

Who is this, and where is Nick?

In quick succession, trying to type and send his thoughts to ease the panic Warrick was likely feeling, but also express what is happening, Nick responded:

Warrick, it’s me.I’m here.Somewhere.

Nick didn’t know how to ask for help. He never did. Made him feel…small, somehow. And especially here, and especially now where he was trapped in an endless ocean of dirt, stagnant. Unforgiving. In a way it was almost better to see it with the light on—The world was still as harsh and paralyzing as the sudden bursts of light were, but it was at least knowable. Now without the light, as the glowstick started to fade, all he could see were the cracks in the earth around him daring to pull him further into an uncertainty of what was real, and if he was still alive. His own reflection, distorted and shadowed behind all of the scratches.

I don’t know where and this is gonna sound fucking crazy but I’m trapped in a box underground.Got a fan giving me air but don’t know how long it’s gonna last.

He didn’t know how long it was going to last. He didn’t know how long it was going to last. 

I don’t know who did this to me. I don’t know why I'm here. 

He wanted to admit it. But not yet. Not now. 

He had kept track of time since he woke up, testing his mentality by checking with his internal clock that one hour was one hour, one minute was one minute. 

Because it felt far longer than the fourteen hours than it had been.

Or was it fifteen? Or more?

We can see you. 

His ears rang as his body quaked through a new wave of drowning terror. 

I’m sorry.

Sorry? What’re you sorry for? 

The light.

I shot the light. Connected to fan.

We were the light.

His breath hitched. He squeezed his eyes hoping the tears that mixed into a cocktail with a fresh shower of sweat was not visible to however they could see him. 

It was the only way we could see you. There was a

Nick waited. The sentence never finished.

Was a what?

There was a ransom. We paid it but didn’t get told your location. 

Who did this?

We don’t know. He blew himself up. 

Did anybody get hurt?

Gris got banged up a little. He’s okay.

Ok.

Shit, that didn’t make sense.

I mean not okay that he got hurt but okay that he’s fine.

I knew what you meant, buddy.

Sorry i’m just hungry

Bet you are. 

Bastard took the jerky I had in my pocket.

He had only joked it. He needed something to cope with, and the thought of getting a smile out of Warrick had given him hope that maybe things would be alright. They’re on their way.

I’ll get you a nice juicy steak over at the strip-o-rama when this is over

Nick smiled too, he somehow felt safer knowing that Warrick was watching him. 

---------

Nicky, it’s us. We’re coming to you.

He could hear them. He heard the thudding of a shovel, felt it hit the box. 

He started to get greedy with the air, took a few long, relieving sighs that he’d get out of this hell. 

He had lost track of time in this wave of euphoria, but it felt long enough for them to have reached him by now. 

He cracked open a new glowstick, screamed to let them know he was there, they were close, just come get me

Attacked by panic he started typing shorter, as short as the breaths he was taking.

Where r u

I’m here. I’m right here

He started singing his song out loud. His voice cracked out over the first inklings of the physical cracks forming around him. 

RICK WHEREHELP

I’m sorry.

Those damn words again. The earth split around him, a new level of pressure compacted down onto him, squeezing the air out of his chest. He forgot to turn caps lock off. 

I’M SCARED.

Me too.

---------

He paused the tape recording. A new incoming text. The ID was Grissom. 

You never did. 

The last three words he saw before he had to shut his eyes through short screaming bursts of pain, and shut his mouth to keep the ants from eating him from the inside out.

---------

The phone kept his mind alert with constant alarm, countless messages he couldn’t look at without having his eyes gouged by hundreds of tiny pincers. 

He knew someone must have been asking, prayed he was pressing the right buttons as he typed out

HurtsFireFuckingAnts

Hopefully it’d give them a clue. He remembered they weren’t as common in Nevada. 

The phone twitched out of his fingers in a sudden exploding spasm. 

He also remembered he just had to keep still. It won’t hurt as much, don’t bother it and it won’t bother you. 

What a load of bullshit, but he had to do something. 

He buried himself further, plugging his frigidly cold but burning body. He had to hold on just a little longer.

---------

He didn’t want to tell him. Didn’t want to get his hopes up, not like before.

Because now if there was a sliver of doubt that they chose the right X to follow, he’d never forgive himself if they made the wrong choice. He refused to accept that they didn’t. 

Catherine delivered the news through the pipe. They knew Nick couldn’t hear them.

He’s nearly six feet down when the phone beeps, and within seconds a haunting text that came with the same calculation they both arrived to on their own, refusing to accept the reality. 

It had been 90 minutes.

It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t a warning. It was an apology.

TIME’S UP

---------

Sara brought him his phone when she got to the hospital. He had thrown it down when Grissom told him to get out of the hole, to walk away from his dying best friend who had been holding a gun to his own head—something that he’d have a hard time forgetting for years to come. He knew Nick would send a message accompanying the sheer horrific screams that were louder than the sirens around them.

He scrolled past it. He wanted to take this relief for what it was, and put off the crushing weight of truth off for a little while longer. He knew Nick did, too. 

They would never directly talk about it anyway. The deep cuts were rare in their relationship, and he’d do anything to help Nick forget as he fed into his subtle signs of repression of the impossible trauma that happened, that probably nobody else on the planet could even relate to. 

---------

He had gotten a new phone out of a random panic attack of paranoia that it wasn’t Walter Gordon that had kidnapped him and buried him alive, but his stalker Nigel Crane. A completely irrational, annually celebrated conspiracy that would keep him awake for days straight, gun at his side even while taking a shower. 

Maybe if he had gotten one night’s sleep before, he could have stopped what happened. 

Maybe Warrick would still be—

He had scrolled through Warrick’s phone record, desperate for anything that could indicate who murdered him. 

He found his deactivated phone number still in his messages. Whatever vein in his heart that was still left stopped pumping, a cold deep flatline shot as a looping arrow through his head. 

He’d stay strong. He knew the breakdown would come. He didn’t think it would be Grissom’s eulogy that would trigger it. 

He’d whisper the three words to the casket, echoes of the missing piece of him that was still buried six feet under in that last message he sent from that version of himself.

Desperately, you want to call out to him. You already tried texting him, and got no response. From a tactical standpoint, the element of surprise is more apropos in this situation but your heart doesn’t give a damn. You just want to see Nick.

And you do see him, when your flashlight passes over the aisle of canned goods.

He’s there, on the floor. Face down. His face striped with blood. Cans are littered around him and one is broken near his head. 

“Nick!” you gasp, and run over. His body rises and falls ever so slightly, and he softly wheezes as you kneel next to him, wiping strands of hair out of the way of fluttering eyes and your shaking fingers are becoming sticky with the blood pouring out of the pulsing wound on his forehead. 

“Help….her…” he whispers to you in a strangled voice. His eyes roll behind their lids, falling victim to a void of consciousness.

Grissom, who was standing nearby during this time, transfers a bit of the radiation of his concern with a hand to your shoulder, in agreement to Nick’s request.

“We need to move,” Grissom tells you. “I think he’s close.”

“Uh-huh,” you nod shakily, and become Grissom’s heel, after quickly taking your gun out because Grissom doesn’t have his; just a flashlight and a white knuckled fist.

The chase continues down another long, dark aisle but the sound of squeaky wheels carrying weak-wired mesh grows louder. Your heart pounds harder, and faster. 

You turn back to look at Nick, and in those few seconds you somehow lose sight of Grissom.

Swearing under your breath, you pick up the pace and quickly shake your head between the rows, finding nothing but fallen items and shadows of fellow officers, but you nearly run into the sliding door that leads out into the garden section of the store.

“So…what are you making?” Grissom’s voice, a disguised disgust with equal intrigue, per his  norm of course but you wince as you worry he’s getting too close to the killer—

“Soup,” a strange voice answers simply. “You see my ingredients in the cart here…”

Speak of the devil, the killer is still shopping and throwing items into his cart…

That’s carrying a hopefully unconscious and not dead woman, her arms and legs hanging outside of the cart with various vegetables and meats and packets of flavoring and for some odd reason, large sacks of soil on top. She has a similar wound to Nick’s on her head, though you have no time to wonder what a Nick-flavored soup would have tasted like, as the conversation that you stopped paying attention to goes south, and both the killer and Grissom are suddenly gone—

You whip your head and hear splashes of water, your flashlight locates the source of the struggle below, in a large display of filled ponds and pools for backyard enjoyment, Grissom wrestles the killer and your instinct should tell you to either jump in and help, or draw your weapon and fire but—

BANG-BANG!

Grissom stops and you see the shock on his face in the handheld spotlight that traces the trajectory of the bullets that pinned the killer into the water, and also punctured the walls of the pool that drains away. 

Catherine stands breathless, a wordless exchange with Grissom and a side glance to you, freeing you from obligation as they begin to talk out loud—

“I’m going to check on Nicky,” you tell them, and run back towards the love of your life.

The main aisle seems longer than ever, the lights are flickering on and the eerie silence is replaced with chatter, radio chirps, and distant sirens that give you and odd sense of relief—you’re near the end of the story, the day is saved and more importantly—Nick is safe, for the second time in a far too short of time and this time it’s not dirt you’re sliding on to comfort him, but harsh, unforgiving lamination that you know you’ll feel in your knees later.

“Nicky, I’m back, she’s safe…” you half-lie because shit, you forgot to check on that victim and instead chose this one, but you do hear calls for an ambulance to take her.

You tap his cheeks, clammy and pale and still sticky. He’s not responding, and your heart stops beating. You look around the aisle, a halted shopping cart happens to have a case of water that you cut into, and pour onto Nick as if it’ll bring him to life—fortunately, it works; he sputters and rolls over onto his side, propping himself up and you sigh in relief. 

“What happened?” a new voice asks, feminine and Sofia’s behind you, ready to relay anything you tell her to the rest of the team.

“We found the perp, and the victim. Cath got him after he tussled with Grissom. Nick here, well…I don’t…” you start bumbling your words, Nick scrunches his face and wipes blood out of his eyes.

“I tried to stop him,” he says in a strained voice, one arm cradles his stomach. “Asshole rammed me with that damn cart and a stupid can fell on my head…”

Nervously, you mutter, “Guess you really got cantripped, huh?” in attempt to lighten the mood. You’re not sure if Nick actually heard it.

“Heard you were the one who caught him in the act, that true?” Sofia asks. Nick nods and your heart pangs. As if the both of you don’t see enough dead horrors as it is, it’s harder to witness live ones.

“Found him cause he was the only guy who didn’t run out of the store when I triggered the alarm.”

“Alarm? There’s nothing ringing…” 

“Yeah, cause I used that intercom to tell everyone to evacuate,” Nick clears his throat and adds a bit of deep authority to his voice, “‘Attention shoppers, please get the hell out of the store if you want to stay alive.’”

You can’t help but laugh, “You did not!” 

“Course I did. How else would you get the shoppers out?” Nick almost smiles himself, before he reigns himself in. “That’s when the bullet hit the poor John that fell onto the panel, and I took off towards it.”

You stare daggers into Nick’s avoiding gaze, both admiring his bravery but admonishing his stupidity for running towards danger. But he’ll get that earful later. Or sooner, as Sofia puts away her notepad.

“Thanks, Nick. I’m gonna check in with Gil and Catherine. Make sure you get checked out, okay?” Sofia raises her eyebrows and points at Nick’s forehead.

“I’m fine,” Nick waves off.

“You’re not!” you harshly whisper as Sofia walks away. “The hell were you thinking, running towards the gunfire?” 

“It’s our job, baby,” Nick tells you. 

“Nuh-uh, their job,” you point to the uniformed officers. “We’re supposed to come after.”

“But, they can’t always—”

“Neither can you!” you interrupt. You stand up and Nick takes the opportunity to pull your arm and lift himself up with you. 

“Alright, alright, I get it…”

“I don’t think you do, but before we lay this to rest…what if a bullet hits you?”

“Then I’ll just walk it off, like I’m walking this cantripped bullshit off.”

“You’re not invincible.”

“I know that,” Nick tone become sour and frustrated and you feel his muscles tense up. “And you know that I’m damn well aware of that, too.”

You sigh, but notice that he isn’t shrugging you off just yet. You can see a shimmer in his eyes and feel a wave of guilt wash over you. 

He’s hurt more than he’s willing to admit.

I wasn’t strong enough, you remember the broken words amidst tears that fell onto your chest, soaking into your clothes. 

You know it’s gonna take a hell of a lot more than a small head wound for him to get to that point again, but feel the need to comfort and lighten the mood nonetheless.

"You know…it’s a good thing you shaved that stache," you say, once again stroking loose strands of hair out of his reddened, dampened eyes. "Make you look like you're a redhead, at least in facial hair."

"Well, I am attracted to redheads..." Nick smiles coyly and you playfully swat his chest, before he reels you in for a tight hug.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” he whispers.

“It’s okay. I know you don’t give up that easily,” you tell him with a soft kiss to the side of his face. 

“And neither do you,” he reminds you with a kiss of his own.

You both stand there for a solid minute of silence, and you lean further in, but the slight movement of your body seems to scare him, and he somehow grips you tighter.

“Don’t let go,” he asks of you. “Don’t let go, please…”

“I made that promise to you a long time ago, Nick. I love you.”