amichan: (Cam)

The first part of the drive is quiet. I stare out of the window as it continues to go dark and Nate just stares at the road, and the radio hums it's way through music that doesn't stick in my brain.

“I am sorry,” he says.

“I know,” I tell him.

“Not about—well, I mean, I am, of course, but I meant about the other day, accusing you of—of being high. That wasn't—I shouldn't have.”

“It's fine,” I mutter, especially as you were right, but we're not. Not going to say anything. Not getting into that.

“Must have been a long trip.”

“What?”

“New Orleans,” he clarifies, “I don't think about what piloting all the way back from somewhere by yourself—and everything. Must be tiring.”

“It is.”

“Right,” he nods, “So, I'm sorry. I know how I get when I'm tired, and it was supposed to just be a blow off steam evening and then I'm being an asshole.”

“Just stop it, Nate, okay?” I turn to him, taking my chin off my hand, “Just--” I wave my other hand at him, “Just—it doesn't matter. It's pointless.”

“Sorry.”

We drive a bit longer.

“Are you sure you want to go...here?” he says. He was probably going to say 'home'.

“I have to. I was supposed to go see him when I got back. Tell him about New Orleans. Surprised he didn't show up at the boat,” I shake my head; but then Simon doesn't come and see you—well, not about things like that anyway. If he comes to see you...

“Right,” Nate says, warily, “What were you doing in New Orleans?”

“Working, Nathan. Then there was a great party...that would have been fun to see you at,” I manage a smile, “I would like to see you stoned some time.”

He shakes his head, “That's not happening.”

“It would do you good at least once,” we're close now, “Relax. I'm not suggesting you take something hard. Just some weed or some peyote.”

He shakes his head, “You know who I live with, Duke. Are you insane?”

“Probably, but fine, fine.” I put up my hands, “Seriously though. If you change your mind it is not like I would send you home right after you tried. You sober up first, my God, Nate. I'm not going to send you home a lamb to the slaughter. I'm not an animal.”

As he pulls the truck up to the door it's apparent Simon isn't home at the moment—the lights not being on isn't a sign but the truck not being there is. Small favors. I grab my bag out of the back seat and slide out of the Nate's truck. Nate gets out and follows me to the door.

“I'm serious. You can come back with me. Dad wouldn't mind.”

“I know, but I have to be here,” I reach into the inside pocket for the keys, “I'm sure I'll have something else to do tomorrow anyway or the next day.”

“No rest for the wicked,” Nate says and looks like he instantly regrets it.

“Something like that.”

“Alright. Well, you know where I am,” he puts a hand on my arm and then gets back in the truck.

 

%%%%

 

I almost call out to Carolina when I open the door, expecting to see her laying there on the couch given I can't hear moans from the back room, auto-pilot to get a response, make sure she's still alive. Forgetting that she's not going to be there. They tried to call her in for questioning too, but not been able to track her down. I dump my bag on the sofa and turn on the lights. Hey, they turn on. The house smells of stale beer. TV works too, but I can't focus on anything on it so I turn it off again.

Then it's aimlessly wandering around the house trying not to think about things, which doesn't work. So, I give myself some help, and then find my way to being pissed at myself and find my way into Simon's liquor cabinet as he's still not home and my brain won't shut up despite my previous efforts, and keeps returning to the inlet almost two weeks ago. What was it they were saying at the interviews today? Should have all their lab work soon. Well, good.

The door slamming open rouses me. I knock a pile of mail off the kitchen table as I sit up.

“What the Hell is this?” Simon demands, “Leaving all the lights on? Drinking my Goose? Have you been crying too?” His hand is raised to hit me but I don't care, “Not to mention this is the first time I've seen you since you got back! Don't think I don't know when you docked, boy.”

Four questions about thirty different answers but the one my brain musters is, “Fuck you,” so then my head slams into the table and I'm hauled to my feet by my hair. The almost empty vodka bottle smashes on the floor.

“You've been crying over the Carr girl?” he demands, “You've wet your dick in how many others and that one you cry over?”

“I didn't--” I try to pry his fingers from my head. Actual effective fighting methods lost to me. Goose is stupid. I forget what I didn't want to and remember what I did want to forget. Fuck you, vodka. Why does he drink you?

He knees me in the chest then, releasing me and I tumble to the ground coughing, “You didn't?” he demands, “Didn't what? You didn't fuck her?”

“No,” I choke out.

“So--” there's a scoff laugh. I feel an iciness suddenly, creeping out from the middle of my chest into the rest of my body, “Wow. So, I got that before you did. Too late for you now then, isn't it? What was so--” and the iciness is red hot rage, and I barrel into him, knocking him over the back of the couch. That he wasn't expecting.

I'm only coordinated by rage for a little while though, and lose the upper hand quickly. He might have a black eye and busted nose, but so do I, and my chest is killing me, as I pull myself into the corner when he walks away.

“Are you going to cry again?” he asks, going to the liquor cabinet, “It's a broken rib at most. It's not like I haven't given you those before. Look at this,” he shakes his head, “I have to drink the Smirnoff now, thanks to you,” he pours some into a glass and then brings the bottle and glass to his favorite chair and flops down.

I don't say anything.

He shakes his head, “So, how was New Orleans?”

I don't say anything.

He leans forward in the chair, “I didn't do anything to your ears or mouth,” he says, a little louder, “How was New Orleans?”

“It was fine,” I answer. My voice is scratchy, “Everything went fine.”

“Why were you late?” he asks.

“I picked up another job,” I pull myself to my feet, using the wall.

“Oh?” he says, curious, “And?”

“That went fine, too,” I lie. I lean back against the wall for a moment, steadying myself. Eyes closed.

“Well, then. Good.” I hear him pouring himself more alcohol.

I walk along the wall towards the door, “Where are you going?” he demands.

“I'm going to my boat,” I tell him, grabbing hold of my bag and his car keys from the table by the door quietly.

“Fine,” he says, “I expect to see you tomorrow by 9 a.m.”

“Fine.” I go out the door and unlock his truck. I'm not going to drive anywhere, but it's somewhere not around him to be. I sit down in the passenger seat and push it back so I can lay down. In a few hours Simon should be passed out drunk and then...and then I'm not sure what I'll do.

There's Nate's voice telling me I should call the police about what he said; but when have the police done anything about Simon Crocker.

 

%%%%

 

After reading half of The Tommyknockers so that I stay awake I figure it's a good time to check on the state of the drunkard. I carefully make my way to the house, stiff, having a hard time moving. Between the bruises and my head throbbing and being dizzy I throw up halfway the front door. This won't do.

“Dad?” I call.

The only response is snoring, and he's drunk almost the entire bottle. Good.

I hobble back to the car and go through my bag for something to help the pains, then to the weapons locker which for a moment doesn't make sense. There are so many things, mostly guns and knives, and one of the knives I do pick up, but he's already gotten the drop on me and I don't—until I stumble back and almost knock a sledgehammer on my foot and I remember him talking about hobbling people.

I drag the sledgehammer behind me into the main house.

“Dad?”

He's still sprawled out in the arm chair, legs out in front of him, not a care in the world. There he is, all relaxed and asleep as though nothing is wrong, as though he was perfectly justified in doing those things to Julia, as though I should be grateful, thankful to him that she's dead.

I swing the hammer up and bring it down on his right ankle. There's a crack and a crash as it goes through his foot and into the tile below as well, and he wakes up flailing and yelling. He tries to come out of the chair after me and screams again, falling over, cursing me. I back up out of his reach.

“What did you say, Dad?” I ask him, moving around to the other side and raising the hammer again. He reaches towards me, desperately, but he's too slow to switch sides compared to my own movement and I slam the hammer down again. I miss his ankle but I hit the middle of his calf and hear something crack. The scream is satisfying and curls him up long enough I can hit him again and actually crush the foot.

“What the fuck are you playing at, you little bastard?”

“Can't let them get away, can you?” I tell him, “Am I doing it right?”

“You asshole. I don't need feet. I have knees,” he's grabbing at the chair, pulling himself up to them so he'll be able to reach me. Panic and I hit him in the chest with the hammer. He does wind up on his knees, but bent backwards, coughing, sputtering, spittle, gasping.

“What's the matter? Haven't you had broken ribs before?” I can feel my chest burning and my arms aching with the exertion but I can't stop. If I stop I'm dead and it's all for nothing.

“Duke--” he says, raising a hand towards me, “Duke,” I slam the hammer down onto that hand, missing though and hitting the floor in front of his face. He smirks at me, but looks wary when I drag the hammer back towards me, “come on. Are you really ready to be the only active Crocker? You think you can do that?”

“I don't give a fuck about that.”

“You will when the Guard comes knocking.”

I slam it on his hand and he curses me up and down again. Rolling to one side, which puts him on his back again.

“Not so funny when it's your hand, is it? You need to be stopped. Your shit,” I raise the hammer again, “Needs to stop,” I slam it down in the middle of his chest. I was hoping for groin but I'm getting wavery. He's not going anywhere any time soon though. I lean on the handle of the sledgehammer as he coughs, spittle turning red, rather than white. I remember seeing this before and Simon getting disappointed that the guy might go too soon but he was coughing up a lot more of it at the time. He doesn't say anything for a moment just wheezes, flailing with the mangled hand towards the ground and gripping at his chest with the other. I bring the hammer properly onto his crotch as hard as I can. The scream is so satisfying given I can only imagine exactly what Julia went through thanks to this asshole. I swipe the sledgehammer back up and smash it in his face because of how he's been moving around with the pain and the writhing I wind up only catching the top of his forehead, not his face full on but at this point what the fuck ever I just smash and continue smashing I mostly hit his face, then I hit the ground which throws me off and I switch to just ramming the hammer into him from above.

He's not...moving...

I realize this slowly that even the twitching has stopped.

The hammer clatters to the ground, smashing through the remains of a lamp and I fall on to the floor backwards. It hurts. I can't look. There's red and pink mush everywhere.

Oh, fuck. Oh, holy fuck. I just...I just...

 

%%%%

 

I know I can't make it to the bathroom before I puke. I wind up puking into the kitchen trash and then flopping down on the floor there because my legs don't want to support me any more. I just...can't any more.

I'm so tired.

I should move. I should...

...but the floor is cool and I don't care so much that it's sticky under my hands I have a nook here in the corner between the cabinets to keep myself propped slightly up so that I don't get my hair stuck to the floor at least.

I'm jolted awake feeling like I was falling. That things tongue wrapped around me, pulling me away from the car. The screaming...it's barely coming light and I don't feel rested. I grab the kitchen counter and hoist myself to my feet.

Everything comes back as soon as I turn around and see the mangled mess of flesh pulp, bone, hair and blood in the middle of the family room. I grab my bag quickly and go back into the kitchen away. I need to do something about the mess but not...right now. Right now I need to not be aching everywhere and to get some actual sleep, be thinking clearly, to scrub things out of my brain, and there's only one thing I have that can actually do that given I'm not doing anything with vodka again.

I have to wash a spoon, but I do find one. Take off my jacket trying not to pay attention to the blood and bits on it and roll up a sleeve and sit back down in the corner. A few minutes later everything disposed of and it's all sliding away, and sleep must come for a while anyway.

 

I'm woken by the sound of a car pulling up by the house, four doors opening and closing but I can't bring myself to move. I realize I left the door partly open given I can hear them talking.

“Yeah, the DNA came in,” someone says, “but it's on us. This is our matter, not theirs.”

“His kid's in town, isn't he? He was in interviews,” voice two.

“Chances are he's on his boat. I wouldn't want to live with Crocker.” A woman's voice.

“Crocker!” There's a banging on the door from voice one, “Crocker, you home?! Teagues needs you! We're here to take you to the meet!”

“If he's passed out drunk our job is easier,” third male voice.

“The door is open,” the woman points out.

I should move. I should move. Teagues. That name. I know it. Why do I know it? I hear the door creaking.

“Oh, holy shit!” the second guy says.

“What?” the first voice, and then it echoes the second guy with a slight coughing sound following it.

The door creaks again and slams shut.

“Fuck me,” the woman says.

“Well, someone did our job...” the fourth voice whistles, “I'm gonna say, with that hammer.”

“No shit,” the woman again.

I hear them moving about the front room. The sound of things being moved about a little bit.

“This was done with venom,” the second one says.

“Simon Crocker brings that out in people,” the first points out. The woman and the second guy agree with him.

“This makes it different though,” the fourth guy says, “Call Teagues. We need to know how to proceed, if he wants clean-up or what we're going to--”

“Moore,” the first voice says in an attention call type way.

“Hm?” the second voice. Must be Moore, I guess.

Footsteps are getting closer. My head doesn't want to turn. Someone crouches down in front of me.

“Hey, kid,” Moore says.

“All the blood and everything—he must have...”

“That's his kid, isn't it?” the fourth voice says, “What's his name?”

“Duke,” the woman says, “but look how beat up he is...”

I hear a clicking and then I realize there are fingers in front of my face being flicked the way you would when clicking along with music, “There we go. Are you with me?”

I manage to turn my head and look up at Moore, but my voice—my mouth doesn't want to work.

“You doing alright? You hurt?”

“No shit he's hurt,” the woman moves to touch my face and I push her away from me.

“You're safe, kid,” Moore again, “He's—he's more than dead.”

“I know,” now my mouth works, but my voice sounds all wrong, “I—I know. I...” my hands are shaking against my legs now that I've lowered them back down, “He...”

“It's okay,” the woman crouches down next to Moore.

“Where's the phone in this house?” the fourth voice says.

“Not now, Alan,” the woman says.

“We need to talk to the boss and I can't fucking find it.” Alan snaps, “Do you know where it is?” he bends down towards me.

“I don't fucking know,” I snap back, “This is the first time I've been in the house in over a month. Who knows maybe Mom pawned it for drugs better that than the precious TV.”

“Just page it from the damn base,” the woman says, turning her head around. She stands up then and goes over to the fridge. I hear her rummaging around in there, and then looking in cabinets.

“What happened exactly?” the third guy says, “How did that--?” I'm not sure what he's doing but I can imagine he's gesturing towards the mush in the other room that used to be Simon.

“I hit him with the hammer...” I gesture towards it with one hand, and then grab that hand with the other because it's shaking.

“A lot,” the woman says. She kneels down next to me again. She has something crinkly wrapped in a towel and she offers it towards me, “This is for your head. Though I don't know how much it'll help at this point. This all happened last night I'm guessing.”

“Yeah,” my voice is quiet, again. I let her put the crinkling cold, freezing cold bag, over the side of my face. It must be some sort of bag of frozen veggies or something. I wonder how long it's been in there given I bet it's one I bought.

“No, I mean...”

“Just leave it,” Moore says.

Alan reappears, in a much better mood, “Vince is on the way. He doesn't want anyone to do anything else right now. We're just to wait.”

 

%%%%

 

Tedious. Everyone standing or kneeling or sitting around in that sort of silence that stretches out the way you over pull a rubber band in the hopes you can get it that much further than someone else when launching your spit ball. Eventually another car pulls up and two people get out by the slamming doors. The front door creaks open and closes eventually when people have walked in.

“Well, damn,” a voice I recognize says. That's when I realize who Vince is. I've heard and seen him arguing with Dad quite often, outside on the back porch, in hushed angry tones by the front door, and a couple of times coming to almost blows, slamming against the wall by shoulders and collars before stalking away from each other in huffs.

“Thank God it's tile,” the other guy says, “If all this had been soaking into carpet I don't even...”

“You could have let him shower,” Vince says, “Good grief have some common sense. Come on, lad. Do you have clothes here?” he hoists me to my feet by my arm pit.

“My bag...” I wave towards it.

He grabs that in the other hand and walks me towards the downstairs bathroom which I realize I'm a bit terrified to go into. Who knows what's in there—what Mom was doing last.

“I'm sorry about that,” Vince says, “Sometimes they get tunnel vision with directives. You get yourself cleaned up and then we'll talk about things. You've had a rough go of it I'm sure,” he pats me on the shoulder, “Take as long as you need. We'll be sorting things out here. Don't worry about anything.”

“But...”

He makes sure to look me right in the eyes, “Don't worry about anything. Simon was a murderer. Haven has been done a great service that he's dead. We will take care of everything. Go and clean up. Drop your clothes outside the door right here.” He points then turns the handle on the bathroom door so that it opens but he doesn't go inside he goes back to the front room.

The bathroom is not as scary as I feared. It does smell of mildew thanks to formerly damp towels in a pile behind the door, but nothing is stopped up, and there's no client leavings anywhere. I'm actually able to find two clean towels on the linen shelf above the toilet which is good because I didn't think to pack any of those from the Ursa but I do at least have soaps and things in there. I set the shower running to warm up and stand in the corner away from the mirror to strip then dump the clothes and mildewy towels out in the hallway.

The shower feels good until I start picking bits of Dad out of my hair and having to stomp them down the drain with my feet. It hits me like the wave of the shower itself, the smashing of the hammer into the bone, the red hot rage. He deserved it, but he still—he was—and I—and I'm in the bottom of the shower with one hand partly in the drain, until I realize I'm shivering from the water going cold and drag my ass out of there and into the towels.

I pull on pants after a while and sit. I'm going to have to go out there and talk to them all about Simon and everything. More questions. Like all the hours and hours of questions about Julia from yesterday, and now...I can't face that sober. Fortunately I can cobble something together in here to mix things with, and get things sorted before finding a long-sleeve shirt to put on and stash everything away once more.

The pile of clothes is gone from the hallway and I dump the bag by the end of the corridor towards the front door and look around. The room is brighter.

Alan and the guy who came in with Vince are wearing plastic over their clothes and have garbage bags, a roll of shiny clear plastic, shovels and are working with Dad's body, having rearranged the front room some. I can smell bleach. Vince and the others are at the kitchen table, which they've cleaned off. Papers and books and things have all been dumped in a corner. Not that it makes much difference. I can smell coffee though. Good luck finding mugs. No, wait, one of them is missing. Then he comes back into the room through the front door, carrying a huge thick plastic crate which he sets down in the front room near the other two. He's also wearing plastic over his clothes.

“Over here, Duke,” Vince says, waving me towards them.

Moore at the table gets up and offers me his chair so I can sit in front of Vince. The woman is sitting on the other side of us. After a moment or two of watching her I realize she's flipping through Dad's notebook for a moment I'm angry about that and then I don't care.

“Doing okay?” Vince asks.

I give a slight laugh.

“To be expected,” he answers, “Anyway,” he continues, “We've met even if you don't remember I'm Vince Teagues. This is Toby Moore and Alicia Walker.”

There's a blurry motion that is probably Alicia waving at me with the closed journal. I nod at her. Moore moves to lean against the counter behind Vince.

“Over there is Alan Finch,” he makes some sort of motion. I turn around in my chair, but I can't make out much of their features any now especially with all the shimmery plastic, and he says other names but I lose them in the crinkling and squelching of what they're doing to the goop that was Dad. I turn back to him carefully, “-ing you?”

“What?” I ask him.

“Had Simon been teaching you? There's lots of notes in your school record before you were withdrawn about absences of a week or longer for family matters and so on...” he's got some sort of papers in front of him I realize.

“Hm.”

“That's not really an answer.”

“I don't...” I wave a hand at him, “What are you even...doing here? You and Dad used to piss each other off...not that he didn't piss off a...” where was I going with that? Dad...people... “ton of people; but...”

“You know what your father's abilities were, don't you?” the woman, Alicia, steps in, “You recognized the journal.”

Oh, my God, they're so funny. There's my Dad's body literally being scooped into bags and a bucket of some sort in the other room and they're making coffee and we're sitting around chit chatting about the family job but they're not actually naming the family job is this like the Macbeth thing? Are they afraid if they mention it by name I'll just haul off and kill them all?

“Kid?” Moore's hand on my shoulder startles me and I turn to him.

“I'm nineteen,” I point out.

“That's a kid to the rest of us here,” he retorts.

“Fine. Whatever.”

Vince clears his throat, “If you could focus. I would appreciate it.”

I turn to him, scrubbing at my head with my finger tips, like I'm trying but I don't want things to get clearer. That was the whole point. Things were too clear last night and there are still bits all over. Someone is rattling around in the kitchen. There's water running and crockery clattering off itself. I wonder if anything will smash the sink is a mountain, bound to be silverfish or even roaches.

“-ment?”

I turn to Vince, “What?”

He looks irritated, “What started the argument?” he asks, “I'm inferring, based on your injuries that there was some sort of argument, which turned into a violent altercation which resulted in,” he waves his hand towards the room behind me, “that.”

“I...drank his favorite vodka because I was upset...about...about Julia.”

Vince seems pained for a moment, “And that lead to this--?”

“Ye—yes...” My left arm is itchy, “it was him. He said...he said what he'd done to her,” I feel like they're closing in on me then, so many eyes breathing at me, deep questioning breaths demanding more. I lean forward on the table. I can hear him over and over, and the expression twisting his face and the anger burning through me.

“Duke,” the Alicia says.

“I couldn't—I couldn't. He keeps—he kept, and he did those things—those things to her, and he—he laughed, said I shouldn't be upset,” I can't look up at them, can't see what they're thinking. I keep my fists either side of my head and just stare down at the filthy table top, the dried, what is that? Ketchup? Floating in and out of my vision, “said he did me a favor, a favor...having her, torturing her, and she's not even Troubled. He wouldn't have gotten high from her even and there's been so many others, and I don't...and her hands...” I cover my face then. I just can't. Please let that be enough explanation. Please no more.

Someone is grabbing me. I push back, ready and then Moore says, “No, hey, no, it's okay,” and puts an arm round my shoulders and just holds me so my head is against his chest and shoulder, “It's okay,” he repeats, “It's okay.” I think by the way his head turns he's talking or gesturing to Vince or Alicia or both but I can't hear what's going on and I don't want to. I just want it out of me.

“Toby's going to take you to our local safe house,” Vince declares, “We'll talk more tomorrow.”

Great, “Okay.” I lie and follow Moore, who is carrying my bag, out to one of the cars.

 

%%%%

 

The house is covered in white boards, has fake blue shutters, window boxes. It looks entirely too cute to be sitting out on the road today. When Moore stops the car I'm expecting someone to burst out of the front door to a swell of music followed by birds and animals and some sort of song about shiny, happy people. Maybe with mops.

Nothing happens though.

I get out of the car and find my bag.

Moore leads me up the steps and knocks, pulling up his sleeve and holding his forearm up to the window in the door. After a moment it unlocks and we're invited in by an older couple. Moore ushers me in ahead of him, rolling down his sleeve as he closes the door behind us and locks it.

“These are the Gallaghers,” Moore says, “Matthew and Susan. You might have been in school with their son Mike.”

I shrug.

“This is Duke...Crocker,” Moore explains, “Vince wants him to stay here tonight. We're dealing with his father right now.”

“Ah,” Matthew says while Susan pulls a face.

“You can put your bag in the room on the left over there,” Susan says, “When was the last time you ate?”

“I...”

“Let's get some food in you then, and you can rest. You look exhausted.”

I just nod.

The room is...well, it is. Dresser with mirror. There are tiny little animal figurines lined up against the back of it. Pictures on the walls of Haven scenery. Lacy curtains on the windows, possibly hand made bed spread, decorative throw pillows on the bed, a chair covered in more lacy things I'm sorta nervous to put my bag on it, which was my first impulse, so I set the bag on the floor next to it instead. There are things I would more expect to be in a souvenir shop on shelves on the walls, and a small book shelf by a door that has a weird assortment of books on it, crime novels, romance novels, one sci-fi and a fantasy and some local history crap. This is not a room meant to be touched.

The knock at the door makes me whirl around.

“You okay, hon?” Susan's voice.

“Yeah.”

“I can bring you towels if you want to take a shower...we didn't know you were coming or I'd have stocked up in there.”

“No, it's fine. I—I showered this morning.”

“Alright, hon. I'll give you the towels after we eat. Matt'll have the food ready in a few minutes, okay?”

I nod, but then remember she's on the other side of the door, “Okay, thanks.”

So, there's a bathroom in here. Good. It turns out to be the door by the bookshelf. It's small, toilet, sink and shower, but that's fine.

Lunch is toasted cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. Moore has stayed for it. There's awkward banter about things in town and them trying to establish whether or not I know their kid and trying to act like they haven't heard stories from him about me given we clearly didn't run in the same social circles. By the end of lunch I'm getting a dull headache, but I insist on helping with the washing up, partly so I can palm a clean spoon and then it's not hard to excuse myself to the bedroom given they're pushing me to rest anyway. Moore says he'll be back in the evening to see how things are going and there's teasing from the Gallaghers that he just wants more food. Then he leaves and I hide myself in the room they've given me, which thankfully has a lock on the inside door.

With a small assist, between my toes, sleep finds me pretty quickly and it's blissfully dreamless. Here and there a murmuring voice, but no images, no running. I wake up with a jolt, uncertain in the half light and creepy out of place shadows where I am. Right, “safe house”.

I take advantage of the shower and get dressed again before going cautiously back out into the house. I'm not sure what time it is, but I can hear someone humming in the other room.

“Oh, Duke!” Susan says, as I come into the kitchen. She's rinsing out a coffee carafe in the sink, “Do you drink coffee?”

“Some times. What time is it?”

“Six thirty, in the morning,” she clarifies, “We thought it was best to let you sleep. Moore was pretty sure you hadn't slept properly for quite some time.”

I nod.

“I bet you're hungry too.”

I nod again, “Thank you.”

She allows me to help her make breakfast though: eggs, bacon, sausage, waffles; by the time Matthew is downstairs and Moore is knocking at the door the whole house is filled with the scent of cooking.

“Well,” Matthew remarks, “Aren't we a well-trained house guest?”

“I...had to learn how to cook or I didn't eat,” I admit, carefully, “One of Mom's lodgers taught me some things and then slipped me money if I would make sure there were meals for him to eat, wound up being lucrative for me for some reason guys like to not have to cook for themselves when they come home to crash.”

“I would never have guessed,” Susan comments, dryly, with a look at her husband and then at Moore.

“I'm just here to make sure he hasn't run off,” Moore says, putting his hands up, “It's not my fault that happened to coincide with breakfast.”

“Well, make yourself useful,” Susan tells him, “and clear up the table and set it.”

Moore obediently lays out silverware as he was told as Matthew is pouring out coffee for everyone and setting out milk and sugar and soon after that we're eating and there's chat between them about the local baseball season, and the Labor Day boat race that happened just before I got back. I have to be asked twice before I realize they were talking to me about where it was I'd been off to in August.

“I had to drop off some things in New Orleans,” I tell them, “and stayed for part of the food festival they were having,” so there's discussion of different foods for a while which is a nice, safe, distracting topic but then I'm dismissed through into the front room because I helped cook so I don't have to clean those are apparently “the rules” and Vince will be here soon anyway, Moore says.

The front room is equally full of cute and weird things dotted about on every surface, interspersed with pictures of the Gallagher family in various locations around the house and town. The couches and chairs all have those similar lacy things on the back and I feel so weird being in the room that I just perch on the edge of one of the chairs to wait.

I try to go around the room identifying everything once more so that my brain doesn't wander back into the events of the past couple of weeks and I don't wander back into the bedroom and the zippered pouch. It's probably best to not have another meeting with this Vince while high I imagine with more than twelve hours sleep behind me I don't have as much leeway to be disjointed. No matter how much it's singing to me from in there. No matter. I daren't go in there and get my book even.

It feels as though it's at least another hour though I've only gone through everything in the room three more times and am sitting on my hands by the time there is an officious rap on the door in that same rhythm Moore used. Matthew practically sprints from the kitchen to answer it. I hear him shaking hands with and greeting Vince and someone else, after a moment I recognize the voice as that of the man who showed up with him yesterday and started arranging the cleaning up of Dad's body. I'm standing up when Matthew shows them into the front room.

Vince shakes my hand which seems weird and then, “You remember Don?”

“Yes,” I shake his hand too.

Vince leads the way back into the kitchen and the Gallaghers leave. Moore stays, pouring coffee for Vince and Don. He presents me with the mug I had earlier also, and sits down himself.

“First things first,” Vince says, “Simon Crocker has packed things up on the Cape Rouge and left. You have no idea where he might have gone. The last time you saw him was the night before last when you got into an argument turned physical fight with him and left the house afterwards to clean yourself up on your own boat.”

“Right,” I tell my coffee cup.

“You can tell people that, I trust, because that is what you have to tell everyone.” Vince says.

“We put a lot of work into this,” Don remarks.

“I will tell it!” I retort, “It's in my best interests, isn't it?”

Moore nods, “Well, yeah.”

Great. I shake my head, “So, what's second thing second?”

Vince smooths his hands across the top of the table after setting his mug down, “I know you understand about the Crocker family's Trouble.”

I grip my hands more tightly around the mug, “Simon was very adamant that it was our family's divine duty to cleanse the Troubles from Troubled people...”

“Not exactly.” Don says.

“No, really?” I mutter, feeling myself going cold, “Going around the country killing people for their blood rush? That's not something that's supposed to happen?”

“That was an impressive level of sarcasm,” Moore remarks.

Vince gives him a slight glare but then returns his attention to me, “Well, then, perhaps you'll be interested in hearing what the Crocker family is traditionally supposed to do for Haven and the Troubled, rather than the way Simon...twisted things.”

“I have a feeling you'd be telling me anyway,” I say, remembering Simon's words, “I am the last active Crocker and you're...The Guard, right?”

“Active...” Don says, “Are you sure?”

I just glare at him.

Moore whistles.

“Since when?” Vince demands.

That first hunting trip he took me on he'd told me we were going to Michigan but we actually stopped in Vermont. I got to stay in a motel the first couple of days, and then he picked me up and drove me to a cabin he'd borrowed where there was a beaten and restrained guy...

“October 1989,” I drain the rest of the coffee cup and set it down before my hands start shaking, “He—he took me to Vermont and—and there was a guy...”

“He didn't just activate you with his own--”

“It doesn't work like that,” Vince tells Don, “Otherwise the Trouble would be done now. The Trouble would have been done more than a century ago when two Crocker brothers got into a fight over a woman and one killed the other. Besides I dread to think of the consequences if...” and he trails off then not voicing what it was he dreads to think of.

“He used the guy's blood,” I tell them, “It—it was...” I wrap my hands back around the coffee cup and try to stop myself from fidgeting but I wind up turning it around and around in my hands instead.

“Anyway, you're active,” Moore says.

“Yes.” It's terse, I know, but seriously we've been through this and I don't know how much longer I can sit here and go through this bullshit and my neck is itching.

“The Crocker Trouble is...a control mechanism,” Vince says, “We've only ever sought to have Crockers cleanse Troubles that are dangerous to large groups of people, the town as a whole, or when there's just no other way. Your father will have had a journal somewhere.”

“I've seen it. I had to write the man's name down and what his Trouble was.”

“Exactly,” Vince nods, “but in time's past this has been reserved for things like people who could create cyclones that were destroying, well you can imagine, and they weren't able to find a way to control themselves, or...”

“I got the drift,” I tell him, gripping the mug tightly because I'm shaking againn. Part of me finds it hilarious that if I was high on Troubled blood right now the thing would have shattered.

“Only when there's no other way.” Vince says.

“Right...” I can't. It feels like the empty mug is going to swallow me. It would be nice if it could.

“You want some more coffee, kid?” Moore asks.

“No,” I tell him, “No. I need to piss, actually, is that okay? I swear I'll come back.”

“Fine,” Vince is clearly irritated, but he dismisses me, after all who wants to risk the wayward gypsy peeing on the furniture, might not be properly house-trained. I do go to the bathroom but I also need calm. There's too much and I need the peace, aside from it calling to me all morning. I'm sure my irritability is partly to do with that. I'll be better able to handle the whole thing if I take some edge off all this. It'll be better. It will. I just...this whole thing is just stupid.

I mix everything together in the spoon, taking off shoes and things will take too long, so it has to be back to the arm. It burns a little but then there's warmth, and then as I undo the tie off things start to feel so much better, which was the whole point after all. The pit of unrest eases out of my chest and stomach and smooths it's way through my arms and legs. I allow myself some deep breaths before cleaning everything up and stashing what I don't throw away or flush, rather, before going back to the kitchen and the waiting Guard. I flop back into the chair.

“Sure you don't want more coffee?” Moore asks, waving the pot at me.

I put up my hand, “Nah, no. It's fine. So...” I turn to Vince, “What were you gonna say...before..?”

“When Don and his team were arranging things with Simon they retrieved the Crocker archive and tools that Simon had on his boat.”

“Awesome...” I tell him, still slightly sarcastic.

“We'll help you out of sticky situations here and there, pay you for certain other errands, provided you leave yourself open to fix certain...Troubles when it's needed.”

“Kill people, you mean.”

“We don't ask these things lightly,” Vince says, “The reason Simon and I kept arguing was because—anyway, that's not important. We need you to sign on with us.”

“Do I have an actual choice here?” I trace my fingers over the top of the table, don't lay your head down, don't... “I mean, really?” I have to snicker a little bit, “If I say 'no' what happens?”

There's a moment of uncomfortable silence as a look passes between Don and Moore.

Vince finishes the swig of coffee that he was taking and sets his cup down and then steeples his fingers before looking at me, “You're young. There are a lot of things about this town and the Troubles you don't understand, especially given your father's particular 'take' on things. The fact remains that we did you a huge favor by cleaning up the mess that was made the other night. I think you'll agree. What would you have done if my people hadn't shown up?”

I shrug, “Burned the house down?” something slowly reaches through the fog I injected over my memories, “You were coming to deal with him anyway, weren't you? I really don't think a four person crew was just coming to tell him off and ask him nicely not to do that shit any more—and you didn't have any cops with you. So, didn't I do you a favor?” thankfully right now I'm too blissed overall for that to make me want to puke even if Vince is grating against that.

Vince smooths the table in front of him, “What are you intending to do to live now? You need money to survive, you need jobs. Simon's not here to arrange things for you.” he inquires.

“Simon arranging things wasn't always for the best,” I counter.

“I can see that,” Moore remarks.

Vince shoots him a look, “And what if the Cape Rouge just 'happens' to show up? What then?”

“So, blackmail then?”

“I don't like it, but what the Crocker Trouble can do is that important, Duke. It can save hundreds of lives and more at the cost of just one. We can help support you. You just have to take on these odd jobs for us from time to time and you'll be saving countless people. There, thankfully, aren't that many terrible, horrible Troubles so it'll just be a matter of having a way to keep in touch and other than that you can go about your life at least until the Troubles come back here, and then you'll need to be here for the duration.”

“Lovely. When's that likely to be?”

“2008 at the earliest.” Moore says.

“We'd keep you apprised,” Vince says, “and you'd have a stipend, of course, a retainer, whatever you want to call it and if you wanted to stay in the area--”

“I don't.”

“Fair enough.”

I toy with my arm for a moment, “but the Ursa can make fairly good time being small,” I can't believe I'm saying it—but it goes back to the previous of what choice do I have? And it is what our Trouble does that's been brought home to me for the past five years and then New Orleans...

“Your father had drop box--”

“I know.”

“Of course,” Vince nods, “Moore can drop you back at the Ursa along with your inheritance and we'll see you later today to finalize things. You understand what will happen if you change your mind and leave.”

“I said I'd—alright I implied I'd do it and I will,” I stand up and the others follow suit.

Vince leans over and shakes my hand. His hand feels really cold, “Thank you,” he says.

“Right,” I answer and Moore takes me out to the car after I retrieve my bag.

The house doesn't seem so cute any more.  

amichan: (Cam)

My finger tips and feet are tingling and I'm floating, the powder puff patterns of the clouds and the wind swirling I can see it's trails, all around into the trees, gathering leaves and making birds glitter as they sing. Then something cuts through, jarring red lines through.

“Crocker!” Wurnos.

I turn to where the voice is coming from. It rumbles from a blue shiny box, then there is creaking and slamming and slamming, rattling my ears and eyes and he walks towards me from round the nose of his box—his truck takes shape as I blink and all of his tall brown haired-ness coming closer with angry purpose.

“What's going on?” he demands.

“I'm going back to my boat?”

“You don't need to be out here right now.”

“What? You're...pulling me over for...walking?”

“It's called 'public intoxication',” he folds his arms.

“Seriously?” I fold my arms back at him, and just...what? “I'm just--” I point down the street, turning my head in that direction, granted that does make me a little dizzy but..., “the hell?”

“If you seriously try to tell me you're 'just tired' or something I'm gonna be really tempted to hit you,” he says, “because that didn't fly back in '96--”

“Oh, so you're going to take me hostage again?”

“That wasn't--” he sighs.

“Just leave me alone,” I walk away from him. He's...things...just no.

“Stop moving, Crocker, I order you.”

Order me, right.

“I suggest you listen to, Wuornos.”

Where the hell did that cop come from? Does make me stop for a moment. There's another one in front of me, blue uniform, some sort of something pointed at me. I could probably take him. Probably. Wuornos behind now though. Grabbing hold.

“Don't do something stupid like resist,” Wuornos says, “Stan just got a new tazer and he really wants to try it out.” I feel more than hear the click of the handcuffs as he goes through Miranda and pat down, disappointed that all I have on me is cigarettes I'm sure. Though the gun and knives are met with speculation.

“You know I have concealed carry,” I point out.

He grumbles something.

Fuck it. I let him push me towards the back of his truck and awkwardly stumble inside and lay down. Police Department's not far. Wuornos and 'Stan' get in the front.

“What have you taken today?” Wuornos asks.

I don't say anything; because oh, hey my high re-upped because I killed a chick and absorbed her blood and her Trouble is not the thing to say to two police officers. That makes me laugh. I can't help it.

“Is it still just the Big H with you or have you added anything else to the mix? No speedballs? Moon rock?”

“Don't try to act like you're know what you're talking about,” I tell him, “You just sound like an idiot,” it feels like the seat covers are melting in to me. That I'll be stuck in here when we get to the P.D and they won't be able to get me out of the truck. Some twisted tug of war but at least the handcuffs will have cut my hands off. Guard will probably stick blades in there and expect me to still do the Jobs anyway. The bouncing of the truck is lulling me back into the air, and I can feel the hands of Nicole grabbing onto me trying to stop herself from floating away too, and Ruben I had to drown off New Carlisle so that he wasn't randomly causing peoples' lungs to blacken and char, leaving a trail of destruction...walking lung cancer.

The truck stops and they drag me out I'm not stuck after all, but walking is...I can hear sounds with every step, echoing pew noises like shooting a gun in an arcade game and it's making my head heavy as I'm lead to booking. I just want to lay down but something's pulling on me.

“Stand up straight, Crocker,” the voice sounds like it's coming through a glass bubble.

“It's been a while,” another bubbly voice says.

“Well, he just got back in town today.”

“Short work then.”

“I said 'stand up, Crocker'!”

Something else grabs me from the other side and I feel like I'm going to fall instead being pulled every which way. There's scraping as my hands are uncuffed and I feel one being pressed into dampness and try to pull away in case it starts to melt. It's a pile of black ooze dripping everywhere.

“Put your hand on the paper. You know the drill.”

“Chief!” Wuornos sounds, nervous.

“What's going on?”

One side lets go of me and I can hear chittering and whittering, and there's something cool against my forehead. Something wraps me on the shoulder and I swing out against the attack and am caught by another hand and someone else.

“Just get him to holding and let him sleep it off,” a clear voice near my ear says and I feel bending and sliding and colors melting around me before there's another clanging red shattering door.

“No. Keep the jacket at the desk, I said. Who knows what he's got hidden in there. Need to finish searching it. Leave him on the floor so he doesn't fall off the damn bench. Last thing we need.”

That's fine. It's like a cool pool. Red clanging. I try to turn but everything is sludge; but why turn. There is icy cool around, soothing and I can see through the beige to the stars underneath.

%%%%

It's cold on the floor and I'm aching. My head feels like I ate ice cream full of glass too fast, the throbbing dullness but sharp pointy bits scraping inside my mouth. Everything outside myself is cloudy. I'm facing a ceiling and one hand has bashed itself against a bench that's attached to the wall on my left. I grip that to help pull up and push off the floor with the other hand. Then lean against the bench and scrub my eyes until things become a little more clear. It's a cell at Haven Police Department. That's what it is.

Wonderful.

How long have I been in here?

I won't have a phone on me. Things are still blurry every other time I blink so I can't see the clock that should be across on the other wall. I pull myself up again to half standing, leaning against the bench and sit down on it. A small group of timpani drums start up across my sinuses. I lean forward for the moment resting my head on my arms which I've folded across my knees. Deep breaths.

“Oh, Crocker, you're awake.”

“Don't sound so disappointed,” I mutter, slowly lifting my head. Stan, that's his name, he was with Wuornos earlier, appearing out of nowhere. Now he's unlocking the cell with a rattling that jars through my teeth all the way down through my ankles and gesturing me to get my ass out.

“Someone's here to get you out,” he says, “so you don't get to spend the night. Lucky you.”

“I was just starting to get comfortable,” I slide down the bench and pull myself up on the bars on the wall. I'm aware he's watching me closely, probably worried he's going to have to prop me up. The room rights itself though, “Who is the someone? Can you tell me that?” I can't really think of anyone.

“Vince Teagues.”

Well, that's given me enough fuel to walk with; but, of course, can't leave me in there. I might have to off someone else tomorrow. Shit...what time is it? I have a prospective client to meet. I follow Stan up the corridor back to the front desk, and there's Vince talking with Wuornos. All my favorite people. I should be nicer he is busting me out. Makes me feel sick. No, wait, that's just me...down the other side and the spinning head.

“Over there,” Stan waves with 'as if you didn't know' tones.

I go over to where Vince is standing.

“There you are,” he says, mildly.

“You need to sign here to get back your things,” Wuornos remarks, offering the pen over.

My signature is a mess. After it's done Wuornos reaches under the counter and pulls out a couple of sealed plastic bags with my phone and gun and the various other things that they took, and then the folded jacket. When I reach to pick it up my head, my stomach, both roll over.

“Am I allowed to go to the bathroom?” I ask him.

“Yes,” Wuornos mutters, “You know where it is.”

I carefully head over there keeping my head straight, and head into the stall as quickly as I can because my stomach is trying to climb out of my body. I just have time to wrap my hair around my hand to keep it out of the toilet before the retching starts but there's nothing. It's just my stomach fighting to expel things that aren't there. My throat burning as bile comes part way and then back down when I cough and finally manage to get things a bit calmer.

“You okay?” someone asks from outside. It's a fairly deep voice. No one I know. I look around, black shoes, dark pants. Must be some new officer who hasn't been appraised of the evil Crocker.

“S'Fine,” I answer, “I'll be out in a moment if you need the stall.” I pull myself up and flush it.

“No. I just wanted to check...” feet moving away and the door closes.

I leave the stall and rinse out my mouth from the sink before following suit. Vince is impatiently waiting at the desk. That's a more familiar look. My head is thrumming now with the lights in the room. Lovely.

“There are some things to fill out,” Vince says.

“I know the routine.”

“I'm sure,” he says.

“We can't just photocopy an old one and white out the date?”

Wuornos rolls his eyes and taps the form with the pen and then holds the pen out to me, “Your part is mostly signing and initialing and writing out your name. Do you remember how to spell it?”

I glare at him.

“I have to check,” he says, “Earlier you didn't remember how to do fingerprinting and I would think that's like riding a bike.”

“I wouldn't know.” I point out, moving on to the second page, “Simon was more into boats than bikes.”

It seems to be forever before the pages are all signed, but at last they are, and I'm putting on my jacket, stowing the weapons, phone and all the rest of it back in it's various places and getting ready to leave.

“I don't want to see you again,” Wuornos points out.

“It's not on my to do list either,” I tell him.

“Good.”

I really want to flick him off, but it's probably not a wise course of action. Vince is glaring a hole through me anyway.

“Alright, alright,” I tell him, and follow him out of the door.

He turns towards the parking lot, “Come on.”

“What?” I ask him.

“I'll drive you back to your boat.”

“Seriously? I can walk.”

“Previous efforts suggest otherwise,” he counters, “and Nathan released you into my custody which means I'm responsible for getting you back there.”

“Fine.”

“It's lovely to see that you're so grateful,” Vince says.

Grateful, really.

“Me, grateful?” I ask him, “What about you? After what I just did? Considering...I mean. Do you know how long I've been back?” I ask him, “What time is it?”

“One thirty,” he says.

“So, four and a half hours. Four and a half hours, Vince, and you've already had me do a thing.”

“You're ranting about that, but you're not thanking me for getting you out of there?” Vince mutters.

“They would have had to let me out eventually,” I retort, “You didn't have to come get me.”

Vince sighs, “Get in the damn car.”

I do so, “Why did they even call you to come get me?”

“I was the last person in your phone that you'd talked to...”

I snort, “Lucky I didn't have my other phone on me. They'd have been calling Russia,” neither of us say anything for a while but I have to ask, “So, when did the Troubles start back up?”

“When I got in touch with you we'd had confirmation for two days. I wanted to make sure...these things are tricky. You're the one who took your time getting back.”

“I had a job to finish. I told your flunky that when he radioed. I'm not going to bail on a client. That's bad for business,” my head is pounding which isn't making my mood any better. Neither is the fact the fucking client's flunky never actually showed up.

“You know what the Troubles starting back up means for your business.”

I lean forward, trying to focus on something else so I'm not scratching at my left arm but it feels like something is burrowing it's way through the skin, “That doesn't mean I want some pissed off client tracking me back here.”

Vince doesn't say anything for a moment, “Fair enough.”

I try leaning back in the seat but I can't get comfortable. I close my eyes against the sun, where the hell are my sunglasses? but it doesn't help, “I don't want any more of this bullshit for at least a week if not two.”

“That's not up to me,” Vince says.

“You have how many Guard? You can't find someone who can talk people down from their crazy so they don't have to be dealt with?” Why is this chair so fucking lumpy?

“I don't like when we have to do these things any more than you do.”

“Yeah, but you don't have to do it.”

Vince sighs. I swear he is the slowest driver, “If I haven't said it before I do appreciate that you are not like your father though.”

I could get out and walk faster than this. Why is it taking so damn long?

“Whatever.” I can't sit in the car much longer. I am going to wind up ripping my arm off. This chair. His slow ass driving.

“It wasn't a conspiracy to bring you back here and immediately have you—have a job for you. That just happened.”

“Just stop and let me out, okay?”

“We're not back at the dock yet.”

“I can walk. Just stop.”

“I'm not--”

“Just stop the damn car or I'm going to get out right now.” I pull at the lock.

Vince pulls over, “I told them I'd get you there.”

“I know where my fucking boat is, and since when are you beholded to the cops?”

Vince just looks disgruntled, “That's...I'll be in touch.”

“I'm sure you will.”

He drives off. I would flick him off if there wasn't something fucking with my arm. I stop trying to get to it through the layer of jacket and shirt and slip my hand up the sleeve instead as I continue to walk. The docks are...wait...which way were we driving? Left, down the street here. It's left and down from the Police Department, they're always left and down.

Ugh, my head is going again. Fucking marimba band, and the crumbling street, making it tricky to walk. I lean against the wall of the building and it feels as though it's going to come away in my hand, all chalky and sticky at the same time. What do they make these things out of? Is the whole town falling apart? This one crumbles. This one is a sponge.

Maybe if I go this way I can find something more solid? You can get to the docks like six different ways anyway. I can hear the water rushing backwards and forwards close. If my arm would just stop itching I could concentrate more but it refuses to cooperate.

Is this the same street I was just on? The building with blue edging and the round fish sign? No, that's a life saver. Fuck, my head. If only I hadn't been so pissed earlier and smoked all the laced ones might have a better time of it.

Let's just keep going.

There are people, too many, I need space, quiet. I need to be away. The docks are supposed to be quiet. Towards the sound of birds, and away from the other noise and the keening, and keeping my hand against the wall, though it seems to be sucking me in. I can hold myself. If I just wait for a moment things will clear up. It's supposed to be clearer by now, isn't it? Usually? I can't make out the time on the phone. I'm not going to call Vince back even if I could see his pompous face on the sign.

I can stand back up if the wall would let me go but it's too spongy and the floor is sucking me down.

%%%%

There's a feather tickling my head, bee raw mess flows towards me over the waves, as I bob over a gray stormy sea flecked with white swaying back and forth.

I haven't seen it this stormy in a while. Not since coming back from Barbados.

Clouds and cloth. I can feel things battering at me. Pulling. Darkness in and out.

Creaking and clattering.

Thasonyoulltaykeeminther

I'm being pulled this way and that but I can't pull back nothing wants to work. My feet feel light though, and then there's rain, warm rain. So tired. I feel as though I'm resting against something soft and warm, and being massaged.

It's the most pleasant dream I've had in ages.

My head. My hair. My whole body.

Even after the rain ends.  

amichan: (Cam)

 

“You know how long I've been back?” I ask him, “What time is it?”

“One thirty,” he says.

“So, four and a half hours. Four and a half hours, Vince, and you've already had me do a thing.”

“You're ranting about that, but you're not thanking me for getting you out of there?” Vince mutters.

“They would have had to let me out eventually,” I retort, “You didn't have to come get me.”

Vince sighs, “Get in the damn car.”

I do so, “Why did they even call you to come get me?”

“I was the last person in your phone that you'd talked to...”

I snort, “Lucky I didn't have my other phone on me. They'd have been calling Russia,” neither of us say anything for a while but I have to ask, “So, when did the Troubles start back up?”

“When I got in touch with you we'd had confirmation for two days. I wanted to make sure...these things are tricky. You're the one who took your time getting back.”

“I had a job to finish. I told your flunky that when he radioed. I'm not going to bail on a client. That's bad for business,” my head is pounding which isn't making my mood any better. Neither is the fact the fucking client's flunky never actually showed up.

“You know what the Troubles starting back up means for your business.”

I lean forward, trying to focus on something else so I'm not scratching at my left arm but it feels like something is burrowing it's way through the skin, “That doesn't mean I want some pissed off client tracking me back here.”

Vince doesn't say anything for a moment, “Fair enough.”

I try leaning back in the seat but I can't get comfortable. I close my eyes against the sun but it doesn't help, “I don't want any more of this bullshit for at least a week if not two.”

“That's not up to me,” Vince says.

“You have how many Guard? You can't find someone who can talk people down from their crazy so they don't have to be dealt with?” Why is this chair so fucking lumpy?

“I don't like when we have to do these things any more than you do.”

“Yeah, but you don't have to do it.”

Vince sighs. I swear he is the slowest driver, “If I haven't said it before I do appreciate that you are not like your father though.”

I could get out and walk faster than this. Why is it taking so damn long?

“Whatever.” I can't sit in the car much longer. I am going to wind up ripping my arm off. This chair. His slow ass driving.

“It wasn't a conspiracy to bring you back here and immediately have you—have a job for you. That just happened.”

“Just stop and let me out, okay?”

“We're not back at the dock yet.”

“I can walk. Just stop.”

“I'm not--”

“Just stop the damn car or I'm going to get out right now.” I pull at the lock.

Vince pulls over, “I told them I'd get you there.”

“I know where my fucking boat is, and since when are you beholded to the cops?”

Vince just looks disgruntled, “That's...I'll be in touch.”

“I'm sure you will.”

He drives off. I would flick him off if there wasn't something fucking with my arm. I stop trying to get to it through the layer of jacket and shirt and slip my hand up the sleeve instead as I continue to walk. 

amichan: (DukeJulia kisu)

 

My shoulders are burning and my head is pounding I'm reluctant to open my eyes, but I have to scrub the “dream” away, when I sit up the room spins. I carefully slip off the bed for the drawer, but the drawer's not there. My breathing is shaky, another one of those layered dreams? Wake up. Wake up. It feels like it's too hot for it to be a dream. My arms are scratchy.

Maybe it's just stuck. I feel around again. Nothing. Nothing. What the fuck is going on? I hit the damn thing and turn around. Scraping my hands across my scalp, hoping that will relieve some of the itch, but it does little to nothing. I can't. Fuck. Did I mix things up? Did I stay with someone? Everything seems...off...in the half-darkness...things out of order.

This can't...

“Baby? Where'd you go? What's going on?” That voice...there's ruffling around on the bed and then a face appears near where mine is. She's crawled to the edge of the bed, looking down where I'm sitting. No, wait. So, this is. This is not the Ursa. This is not. I run my head through my hands, no this still doesn't make sense. This isn't. My head hurts too much, “Baby,” she takes hold of my arm and I pull away, “Baby, talk to me.”

I don't know what to tell her. She'll be so mad with me. If we're here, and it's the Cape then it's...

“I'm still here, and there's nothing here...I can't, I can't think.”

“I'm here. I said I'd help you,” she goes to kiss me but I pull away, standing up and going into the far corner. I shouldn't her expression says that, but I shouldn't be here, “Let me help you!” She sits up on the bed and moves to the edge of it.

“I don't—I shouldn't be here if it's going to be like this,” I tell her. I know she's said that it's clean but I don't feel and I need to make this itching, crawling, fucking head pain ache go away, sitting didn't, standing isn't, “You don't—I'm going to fuck up his body—ruin things, and I--” I can't even hold myself back from picking at the arms even though I know there shouldn't be anything.

“You won't ruin the body. I won't let you!” she sounds closer, “I'm in charge, remember?” She kisses at my arm, but it doesn't do much other than burn, “Remember?”

I give her a look.

“You chose me over heroin, so now you take me in the morning!”

“That's not enough--” she can't understand. There's no way.

“THEN KEEP GOING UNTIL IT IS!” her nose is almost touching mine and I flinch back against the wall and bang my head slightly which makes the pounding worse.

“I can't do this...”

“Yes, you can!” she says, gripping on to my chest, “The body is clean. We just have to get your mind over the need, and you can take that from me.”

“I--”

“You're not getting anything else,” she jabs a finger into my chest, “We made an agreement and you're not backing out on it!” I can feel her pulling at my pants, “Unless you don't want me any more.”

I feel sick like I just got hit hard in the chest, “No, it's not—I do...I jus--” and her hands and then mouth are on my penis. There's such force behind the motions that I'm pushed back against the wall and brace with my hands as she rocks back and forth against my groin. She makes little grunting growling noises as she does and the vibration I can barely hold together as I try to stop myself sliding down the wall as the pleasure washes over me and then I'm overcome and she releases me as I do slide down into a shaky heap on the floor.

She rests her head against my chest, “I want you here,” she says, “I love you. I'll do whatever it takes to keep you in one piece until you stop wanting heroin and can enjoy life again.”

I toy with her hair for a moment. I'm slightly more relaxed but I'm also upset with myself for this whole mess, “I'm sorry,” I manage after a while of us just laying there together in silence.

“No, baby, don't apologize,” she says, “I know it's not easy, breaking that habit, and I'm not angry with you for backsliding a little. You don't have to be perfect as long as you let me help you.”

Before I realize it there are tears sliding down my cheeks and I lean my head back against the wall but stop myself from banging it against it. She sits up and wraps her arms around my neck and kisses each of my cheeks and then gently on my lips.

I cup her chin with my hand and kiss her back, “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” she says, “Any time you're here and you wake up like that wake me up. I'm your drug, you take what you need from me. I said I'd be here for you, and I'd give you what you needed if it meant screwing you every two hours to keep your endorphins up I would and I meant it.”

I cover my face with my hands and lean forward. I don't deserve this. I don't.

“And I want to make sure you know I wasn't angry with you. I'm just frustrated with the situation—that there's not more that I can do to help you.”

“And that I wasn't listening...”

“That's the situation. That's the sixteen years of heroin that have worn a rut in your mind and you needed it, at the time. That's okay. But you don't need it anymore, baby, and it's going to take time to learn how to live without it controlling you,” She kisses me again, “I'm in charge now, not it. If I seem angry, I'm angry at the heroin trying to keep my gypsy when you're mine now.”

Well, she's just reduced me to a shaking mess of woe, which heaves itself out of my body in sobs. She holds me to her tightly, pulling my hair out of my face and petting it across my head.

I feel like an idiot and an asshole after things I've said. This isn't the same body. I shouldn't need it. It's true. He's been clean since he was twenty or something, wasn't that it? And here I was trying to fuck that up.

Her voice is soothing even though I can't always make out what exactly she's saying to me mostly assurances that it's okay and will be okay and that she's here and we'll get through this together and there's the occasional kiss on my temple and on my hand given my face is buried in my knees for part of the time.

I start to feel calmer though. She's here and she's holding me and even though I ache I know I shouldn't be looking for that it'll just make things worse overall, for everybody. That was the pain of a different life? I don't know, but I'm definitely not there right now. I just...I don't want to wake up back there.

“What was that, baby?” she asks, nuzzling closer to my face.

I lift my head up slowly. I must have said that out loud, “I don't want to wake up back there,” I admit.

She wraps her arms around my neck again, “You're not going to,” she kisses my cheek, “You destroyed that time line. You fixed it. You put this one back. It's done. This is the only one now.”

“You were there though.”

“In the past of it. He had to throw us into the past of it because there is no now of it because of you,” she kisses me on the lips, “You won't wake up back there. You'll only ever be here now. You survived that war, baby. It's done. Come on,” she stands up and holds out her hand to me my pants in her other, “Let's get back into bed.”  

She helps me up and leads me back to the bed. I'm shaky and unstable I didn't quite realize that I hadn't recuperated so much until I try to stand, considering I'd calmed down from certain agitations, but there always seems to be some sort of emotion leaking out from somewhere.

“Come on,” she says, gently pushing me towards the bed, “That's it,” and I'm laying down again and she's straddling me, and there's a hand on my penis once more.

I go to say something, but thoughts go away as she jerks harder and then mounts, sliding me within her and then bouncing a few times down deep and there's groaning and any clear thought is blown away in place of more and grinding and pushing holding my hands against her breasts, encouraging me when I squeeze them. She rides me harder until the peak of bliss is found and then back into sweet oblivion.

@@@@

A wave of pleasure is running through me from my groin through the rest of my body. For a moment panic, and then as my eyes focus on Julia riding me each thrust another wave but I...

She puts a finger on my lips, “Sshh,” she says, “I know. Don't worry. Come on, baby,” she takes hold of my hands tightly and then pulls them up her body. I place my hands on her breasts and squeeze. She squeezes her internal muscles around my penis and oh, God. I thrust hard against her and she moans loudly, pushing herself down harder, and harder and then in duet of shuddering moans, me rising up to meet her mouths we both meet each other and then kiss and lay back down.

“Good morning, baby,” she says, after she's cuddled against me for a while. She touches my nose, with the tip of one finger, “How are you feeling?”

“Okay.”

“Only okay?” she says.

“I'm just...words...”

She rolls up so she's laying on top of me looking down at my face, “Yes, you've got them,” she teases, “use them, baby.”

I pull a face at her. She kisses me on the nose and then the mouth, gently.

“I'm glad to wake up and you're still here,” I tell her, “It's still a bit like a dream I might wake up from.”

She kisses me again, “No dream, baby. It's real. You're here. You're not going to wake up anywhere else.”

I nod, trying to keep my eyes from welling up again.

“It's okay,” she says, “It's okay.”

When I close my eyes she kisses my eye lids. I hug her and pull us up into a sitting position, wrapping her tightly in my arms to verify to myself that she is here, that I'm here, that this is the place. It's brighter than it was before and around us I can see her trinkets on walls and the dresser and shelves. I remember some of the stories she told of where they'd come from. This Julia got to go places and experience the world. This Julia survived. And I'm crying again. God damn it.

She tightens her arms around me, and after a while runs one hand down the back of my head as I cry into her shoulder, “You're safe here and it's real,” she says, “tiny mistress has you.”

“I know,” I tell her, “I know. Thank you,” as I calm down I tentatively kiss her shoulder where I've been resting my head. It's salty, which is my fault, and I look at her wanting to make sure it's okay.

“Why are you stopping?” she asks.

I carry on, kissing up her neck and moving to her cheek. She turns her head so I meet her lips instead and pushes her tongue into my mouth our hands run over each other and grasp at each others heads and shoulders. We grope at each other and while it's fervent it's also gentle, and builds the arousal. She moves my legs and then shifts herself so that she can take a seat on my penis. She holds onto my hands and leans back to deepen the connection between us and wraps her legs around my back. I shift myself down a little which drives me just that little bit further home she lets out a moan as I do and gripping her legs around me pulls up slightly and drops down on me. I'm fairly sure my eyes roll back in my head, especially when she grips on to me and does it again. When I look back at her she's got that devil-minx smile and I have to kiss it, which sets us both grinding and bouncing against each other like it's a race to see who can drive the other to the max first.

She wins. She's just too good to me and I'm soon afraid I'm going to tear a chunk of her shoulder off with the sudden inability to hold off any longer that has a kiss turning into a groan and then almost falling backwards. She holds on so that she tumbles to the bed with me, but I don't know that she's actually finished. She rolls onto her back next to me on the bed one arm at her side, the other on my chest.

“You're lovely and adorable, you know?” she says.

“What?” that's not the sort of thing I expect to hear from anyone.

She leans slightly up to look at me, “I'm sorry,” she says, looking pensive, “You're probably not used to that, are you?”

I pull a face. Is she reading my mind now?

She brushes one hand down the side of my face, tracing the line of my jaw, “You are though. You're so tentative and cautious and gentle when you start things off at times. I'm never going to say no to kisses from you,” she leans over the line tracing turning into holding my chin and kisses me, “especially when we're naked in bed together. Seriously. We've done what together now.”

I do feel sheepish at that, but still...

She takes my hand, “It's okay,” she says, “There's nothing you can do or say that is going to make me change my mind about anything we do together or have done together in either universe. Especially not the table. Good god that was hot.”

I feel my cheeks heating up red as I try to remember the table. I'd wanted to do the table, and then there was table in the morning...? Yes; and then...bracing against it, and pulling her down hard on to me...oh! That, and then down onto the floor...

It is easier to just...with some random stranger who is paying you...because it's just about money and not emotions; but she knew—she knew it was me and I looked like me and she still...I lean over and kiss her. The thoughts of the table had already spurred some arousal, but remembering the fact that she wanted me as me.

I carefully push her backwards onto the bed her head against the pillows. She looks up at me, mild curiosity on her face and cheeky expectation. One hand traipses it's way down towards my crotch and finishes the work the memory had started and I kiss her some more as she works leaning down over her as I do so that and toying lightly with the opening of her vagina.

“Hmmm,” she says, breaking away from the kiss, “Yes, come on, I want you on top.”

“Tiny mistress wants me on top,” I say as I've said before and then move her hand away from my crotch and spreading her legs more so that I can push my penis inside her and drive her wild. She groans and moans, louder and louder as I thrust against her, pressing herself against me using the wall or my own shoulders as a brace, demanding more from me and harder and faster her voice a verbal whip spurring me on more and more and I comply because I must comply with tiny mistress. Harder and deeper, further and further until she cries out one last time, digging her fingers deeply into my shoulders, pulling me into that explosion of joy along with her.

@@@@

As Julia hands me my pants my stomach feels so strange, and my hands are shaking.

“Are you okay, baby?” she asks.

“I...don't know. I feel weird but it's not like the lack of drugs weird. It's just...my stomach...it aches, and I think I'm dizzy?”

She laughs and leans down touching her forehead against mine, “Considering how I feel right now I'm gonna say that you're hungry,” she rubs our noses together, “We didn't eat very much last night, and there's been a lot of exercise,” she laughs again.

I give a slight laugh myself, “Ah, right...my usual morning routine is more of an appetite suppressant after all. Not usually hungry.” 

“I remember,” she gives me a kiss, “It's why I kept buying you food. I hoped if it was there you would remember to eat.”  
I pick myself up carefully and find the shirts from yesterday given I have no idea where his other clothes are, keeping my head as still as possible because of the dizziness.

“We can heat up a little bit of the leftovers from last night while I make some waffles,” she says, “You liked the chicken, right?”

I nod, which was a bad idea, thankfully her dresser was close.

“Yes,” she says, “definitely chicken. You go sit down, tiny mistress orders.”

“Yes, tiny mistress.”

She kisses me, “Good,” she says, “There's not much you can do to help with waffles anyway.”  

I'm not very far up the corridor towards the main cabin when she appears behind me given I was taking things slow. She links arms with me teasing me good-naturedly about being a dizzy gypsy and then I'm sitting down in the booth like dining table facing towards the kitchen and she's rummaging around and setting the microwave going, and presenting me with a glass of fruit smoothie while munching on a spring roll.

“You do like waffles, right? Before I make them...I was sort of assuming.”

“Yeah. They're good.”

“Okay,” she nods, “and bacon?” She goes into the kitchen to retrieve things from the beeping microwave and comes back with a few chicken skewers and some more spring rolls on a plate.

“Yes.”

She takes one of the spring rolls in a paper towel blowing it and muttering about it being hot and goes back towards the kitchen area, “Good. Good.”

“Are you sure there's nothing I can do?”

“Stay over there and eat chicken,” she says, “That's what you can do.”

“Okay, tiny mistress,” I tentatively touch a piece to see how hot it is, and then pull a piece off and eat it. They are good. The spice seems like it's a bit hotter this morning than it was last night. I drink some of the smoothie: orange, mango and maybe some pineapple I'm not quite sure.

Julia blows me a kiss.  

There's quiet for a little while as she goes in and out of the fridge and cabinets assembling ingredients and tools and I pick apart a skewer and finish it and wait a little while before starting on another one not sure what I could start a conversation about to break the silence.

“I was wanting to ask you,” Julia says, sounding slightly nervous, “on your own body you have—well you and your other self have different tattoos. Maybe you've noticed?”

“Some...” I admit, “I don't have the one here,” I point to my chest. She looks a little uncomfortable at that, “and then my arm—I'd had plans to get one there,” I point to the skull, “but then it was bandaged up...and I couldn't at the time.”

She puts down the tub of whatever it was she was adding to the bowl she just put the flour into and wiping her hands off comes round to where I am, “Was it a cut, or a gunshot wound, or...the...reason you got on heroin in the first place?”

Hm...but then I remember how she said she remembered some of the things my other self had done to get drugs when he was on heroin, all those not quite parallels. Such as them having the Cape Rouge instead of Simon. Simon was dead long before though—so he wasn't active, right? Surely he wouldn't have been sent to New Orleans after...oh, man but Jody and Gavin—they stumbled across it accidentally. He probably took that job too. I lean forward one hand to my temple shaking my head and giving a slight laugh.

“Baby?” she asks.

“No, I was just trying to sort out how he might have run across the same thing if it was the reason he got hooked and that's why you were asking...because there was no Simon to send him after it; but,” I give a slight cough, “if you've heard about the 'skinflayer' which I'm guessing you have, that was it, yes, it got—she got part of my leg with her tongue too before I...ended things.”  

As Julia wraps me in a tight hug I realize she's gone slightly pale, “Baby,” she murmurs with a slight shake in her voice. She keeps hold of me and I put one hand on her arm and pat it. I'm not entirely sure what...why...she's so upset. It reminds me a bit of the one Guard...after Simon only with more intensity. She lets go and smooths my hair a bit but she's shaky, and I want to hug her and I suppose that's part of why she did it, because I was recounting something horrid and I wonder what he told her about the skinflayer what he experienced with it.

“I saw a lot of shit out in the world. I'm okay with most of it, but there is nothing okay about...that...and you...faced it...oh god, baby...” she hugs me again and takes a deep breath, “You survived. You're okay,” she pets my hair, and lets go of me, “You're okay. You're alive,” she takes several more deep breaths and I look at her, worried, “I'm okay. Sorry, I just...heroin is a completely justified response to that, in my opinion and I'll kick anyone who disagrees.”

I'm not really sure what to say to that, “Thank...you?”

She gives the briefest of smiles, “Not used to anyone defending you, I'm betting?”

“Especially not about that.” I shake my head.

She goes back to prepping the waffle batter in the kitchen, briefly mixing up the flour after sprinkling some salt in and then separating eggs, after the eggs are separated and butter is set in the microwave she continues, “I'm not a sheltered little waif who did the tourist thing for fourteen years. I killed my first man before I was legally old enough to drink, shot him dead in the forehead with a hunting rifle. I hunted prehistoric boars in the Black Forest, and they were delicious. But that...no. That nearly gives me nightmares, and I didn't even get more than a vague description.”

I get up and move towards the edge of the kitchen area and lean against the counter but make sure I'm out of the way, sarcastically toasting with my smoothie glass, “Well, things we have in common, killing before drinking legal drinking age anyway. She had killed a lot, a lot of people that's the one solace on Madame Skinflayer,” I set the glass down.

Julia pours something from one bowl into the main bowl and slowly mixes things together and then looks over at me and then offers me the bowl, “Hold this?” I take the bowl, “Thank you, baby,” she kisses me, and then sprays down the waffle iron and is checking the temperature, and then looks towards the stove, “Actually can you handle the bacon?”

“Sure.”

We work as quickly and quietly focusing until there's about an inch high pile of bacon and a stack of about a dozen waffles which she takes to the table, and then goes back for plates and silverware and a glass bottle of dark amber syrup.

The waffles...I can't even describe. There's a crisp, but they're still light, and the syrup makes them...

I close my eyes with each bite trying to make them last longer, but it really doesn't matter because there are more. They put any cafe waffles to shame for sure. I realize Julia is watching me with a bright smile on her face.

“These are amazing,” I say around a bite.

She just laughs.

I've eaten half a waffle and am chewing a piece of bacon when she asks, “...will you tell me about the piece on your back?”

He has no reason to have it, does he? She's right there. I'm sure my expression is grim I try to give a smile around it. It's better to talk these things out I'm realizing and she at least will listen, “Hm...I don't suppose he would have that...okay.”

“You don't have to,” she puts in, “It just seemed like—like something that shouldn't be forgotten with the rest of the wish timeline.”

“No,” I assure her, “It's okay. I appreciate that. I...started it...” I guess it works out I couldn't do the thing on the arm, “Well, tattoo plans changed after the other you died, and...” I wind up waving my hand, for a moment it looks like she's going to say something but then she doesn't so I plunge on, “...so memorial piece. If you—well, obviously you saw it. It was an inlet I saw when I was in the Caribbean and I had her...she's a falcon, if you saw the bird.”

“Then I'm glad I took a picture of it.”

She... “I am too. Thank you,” and all those other people...before...let's not get into that depressing.

“If...if you don't mind,” she says, “What had your tattoo plans been before?”

“I hadn't fully planned things out,” I admit, dissecting the remaining waffle piece, “It was going to be on the shoulder before things in New Orleans happened. I...was trying to come up with something to remind myself I didn't have to follow Simon...” not that that worked out so it's probably good in a way I couldn't get that tattoo would have been sanding it off.

“...and then Uncle Vince chained you to Haven anyway,” she mutters.

“Well, I did turn the only other active Crocker into paste,” and he warned me the bastard but he couldn't stay alive. He couldn't.

“He deserved it,” she says, venomously, “I still don't like that he made you do all those jobs.”

I'm fairly sure she means Vince. I twist my mouth to the side, “Well, at least he didn't want to just purge Troubled...” I can't finish that line of thought I stab bits of waffle onto my fork instead, because either Vince or Simon people were going to die and the fact that with Vince they were only people who might cause more death is...some shitty consolation prize, “...yeah, still sucked.”

“I made sure he was miserable until you took care of Pearson.”

“How?” I ask before I put the fork full of waffle in my mouth.

“Told him it was all his fault for activating Simon and not seeing that he was a monster that needed to die,” she continues calmly eating the piece of bacon she'd been working on.

“Ah,” I say, not sure what else to say for a moment, “But here or there he gets activated by Vince, right? So...” what difference does it make doesn't get said but I'm sure she knows.

“Pearson's wish wouldn't have changed much if Vince had cleaned up his own fucking mess. So...I pointed out that it was his fault and that Haven's only hope was you, and the only thing he could do to help you was to fuck off, and left him to stew in his guilt.”

The various meetings after Nicole's that were at the park or at the cafes instead of the Guard office come to mind, and with Gallagher or anyone else other than Vince, “Maybe that's why I barely saw him after I came back. I thought I'd really pissed him off.”

She smiles, “By proxy, maybe? I told him I was married to your other self. He turned purple and his eyes bulged out. It was great.”

“Wow,” is all I can say for a moment.  

“I kind of want you to be there when I tell Uncle Vince everything that happened yesterday, just to see him squirm at being confronted with how shitty things were and how his other self acted and that you're right there, living proof of it all. But only if you're comfortable being in the same room as him.”

“He's not the same Vince,” I tell her and remind myself, “He didn't do those things. I'm...I want to see what he says and does.”

She looks very excited and happy, “Breakfast, shower and then debriefing here?” there's some anticipation there.

“Debriefing?”

“Well, I guess reporting, but not in the sense of reporting to him? I mean, I am reporting to him but only because his responsibility is to maintain the archive.”

“Oh. I...thought it was a...” I let the sentence trail off because I was wrong and I feel dumb.

“A what, baby?”

“Euphemism,” am I blushing?

She gets a wicked look though, “So...breakfast, table sex, shower, and then sitting Uncle Vince down at the table to tell him what happened without telling him what happened on the table?”

I drop the fork I'm holding.

“Is that a yes? Or do we need to clear the table right this second because you need to fuck me on it right now?” she asks far more sweetly than the phrasing suggests.

“I...” am not able to finish my sentence because the idea of table sex is incredibly hot. I remember thinking about it earlier, but...

She tilts her head at me full of questions and I lean over the table to kiss her gently because tiny mistress loving and wanting me, and volunteering—suggesting that is just brilliant and then that tentative kiss just lights everything on fire and I want things to go further right now and it seems like she does too because she breaks apart briefly enough to scrape everything she can grab down on to the bench next to her off the table top. I grab the few remaining things and shove them down on the bench as she climbs up on to the table and spins around so that she can grab hold of me again, pulling my face towards hers to start another kiss just as hot as the other one had become.

She pulls me closer by the top of my pants unfastening them as she does so and deepening the kiss which I hadn't imagined was possible. I'm afraid I might rip her pants as I tear them off and plant myself inside her. She pulls herself tighter against me using my shoulders and wraps her legs tightly around my my back and then leans back stretching with the full length of her arms and I thrust against her, and run my hands down her back as she lowers herself down to the table, and I lean down following her kissing down her chest and moving my hands up to her shoulders as I stop kissing her chest and go back to her mouth.

Our kiss intensifies once more and I thrust into her. She grips the sides of the table and pushes down against me which sends an shock through my body from crotch to brain and me thrusting harder, driving against her intent to send her over the edge before I go myself this time. She pushes back ramming down and down managing to time against my thrusts for maximum depth and moaning with each hit. The sound is intoxicating.

“Yes,” she tells me, “Right there, baby. Keep going. Keep—there, yes-yes,” and her hands are twitching against my shoulders and with a few more sharp thrusts I'm gone myself and carefully rest on top of her while she kisses my forehead, “See,” she murmurs, “really fucking hot.”

She rubs her hand through my hair for a moment and then pats me on the butt. I pull out and stand up carefully, lifting my pants to fasten them.

She sits up on the table, “Shower, yes..?”

I nod.

“You go ahead in,” she says, “I'll be in in a minute or two. I showed you where it is last time, didn't I? You remember.”

“Yeah.”

The bathroom is right near Julia's bedroom but she pads off in the opposite direction, which I suppose is his room or maybe actually their room, considering this is their boat.

I feel wonky going into the bathroom, I realize it's the last thing I remember from before I was in the cabin with them last night. The shower is on the wrong wall and there's another moment of disorientation like I had in the kitchen and I brace myself against the sink cabinet for a moment before turning on the shower to let it heat up and then I strip off the clothes and look for soap. I wonder if he uses shampoo or has aloe mix for his hair. This is...this is so strange, as I open the cabinet and rummage around looking at these arms which are not my arms. They're darker, blemish and scab free and I can't see the bones. This body might be healthier but it's not mine. How do I even know I'm really here? The warm water, the steam. This could be a methadone dream—doped up in some cell somewhere for killing Pearson and Simon.

That...doesn't seem likely—but being here...this room isn't right. Why am I on Simon's boat? The Guard got rid of it. Hung it over my head like...but she said it was hers, said she fixed it up, but really they must have fixed it up. She and him; because this is their boat, and I shouldn't be on it.

“Baby, what's wrong?” I hear her voice, but I don't know how to answer her. I hear the water stop running and feel her hands on my shoulder and in my hair as she shifts me closer to her and then I'm sat down on something. I slowly register it must be the closed toilet and my head rests against her breasts and one hand runs through my hair, “Feeling disorientated again?”

I nod slightly but that's just the tip of it, “Am I real?”

She hugs me tightly, “Oh, God, yes, baby. Yes. Yes, you're real. You're just as real as me.”

“I don't...this isn't—this isn't me.”

“Okay,” she says, “Okay,” she lifts my face up to hers and kisses me, “Here's the plan. We'll go ahead with that shower, get cleaned up and dressed and then I'm going to show you what happened with the Pearson timeline and why you deserve to be here every bit as much as your other self does. Okay?”

“Okay,” I tell her.

She goes and turns the shower back on and sticks her hand under the water. Then she pulls me to my feet and leads me over to the thing.

“Come on,” she says, “Get inside. I'm pretty sure you know how to bathe,” she smacks me on my ass and I step into the shower and shove my head underneath the water. I can feel it hot on my scalp and rub it out of my eyes. I feel her hands on my shoulders, fingers digging in slightly massaging, “I'm going to have to get your kinks out later,” she says, “You're all full of knots.”

“Hm,” I wash, though she washes me too and I return the favor, and then she works at my hair, which is...for a while my fears and wonders at unreality are forgotten as I lose myself in her instead which is a much better feeling overall, and she definitely doesn't seem to mind.

@@@@

There are clothes laid on her bed for me when we go back into her room. A pair of jeans, tank top and a soft flannel over-shirt. I sit for a moment on the bed after putting on the jeans and tank. The flannel must be fairly new to be so soft. I can't remember the last time I'd bothered to buy new clothes.

“You okay, baby?” she asks. She's got on panties and a bra now but she's going through other clothes of her own.

I nod, and pull on the shirt then release the hair trapped under the collar. It throws me off for a moment, given it's too short. I remember that from last time too now and not wanting to ask why he would have cut it. It didn't seem a thing that would have been done because I wouldn't have, but who knows? We're not entirely the same after all and it's not my body and it's...

No, she said she was going to explain the timeline and things.

She takes one of my hands from where I have it clenched into my knee and pulls at it, “Come on, come back through here,” in her other hand she has a notebook of some sort. She leads me over to the couch. I sit in the corner and she puts the book down on the table and then gets her phone, but then stops and sets it down on the table, “No, that can wait for right now.”

“Hm?” I ask.

“Calling Uncle Vince. It won't take that long to get here from wherever he is, so...”

“Breakfast is still...”

“That can wait for right now too,” she says, and sits down next to me, pulling a pen out of the binding and flipping to a blank page in the notebook, “This, you, more important.”

I can't help but give her a questioning look, I'm sure.

She shakes her head at me and kisses me on the nose, “Okay,” she says and draws a line down the length of the sheet of paper, “This is the timeline we're in, see? Here's 1983,” she draws a dot close to me, “and here's the moment Pearson made his wish,” another dot towards the opposite end of the line, “Now, when he did that, imagine that a railroad switch flipped and another timeline came into being, splitting off that moment,” she draws a diagonal line coming off the 1983 dot and then makes it a line that goes parallel with the original straight line until it comes level with the wish dot, “and it had to go all the way to the moment the wish was made, so everyone got...rewound, and lived through all this,” now she draws a line from the wish dot looping back to 1983 and then following the parallel line until it's even with the wish dot.

I lean my head against her shoulder.

“So, then there was about four hours where the wish timeline was the “real” timeline,” she extends the parallel line a bit, extends the “everyone” line a bit, “and then you killed Andrew Pearson and absorbed his Trouble which ended the active effect of that Trouble—the wish timeline. Since the wish timeline didn't exist anymore everyone else snapped back and the rewind got...rewound,” she reverses the “everyone” line all the way until it reaches the wish dot again and then continues it forward to where the parallel line got extended to, “so for everyone else the wish timeline never happened; but you, baby—you took in that Trouble, you couldn't be rewound. You got snapped back to the moment just after the wish was made,” she draws a short line going from the end of the parallel line to the wish dot, “and since the wish timeline was gone and this one was the “real” one the part of you that lived that timeline got bundled up and...well, your other self is red on the Lightscape, and you're blue. It looked like the Pearson Trouble was wrapped in thick blue, and it took you a while to untangle yourself from it.” She sets the pen down and turns.

I lift my head off her shoulder and look at the tangles of lines. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to follow when she first started drawing things, but it actually makes sense as much as it is a mess of lines and is making my eyes burn again.

“You're real, baby. You're every bit as real as your other self, and you do deserve to exist, to be here, to be happy, see?” She stabs at it with her finger, “You're both “my” Duke because you are the same Duke even though you're different people and there's no way...” she looks close to tears herself when I look up at her, but she has an almost vicious expression. I'm reminded of is tiny Jennifer going to have to choke a Vince but much more seriously, much more her threatening last night to beat anyone who acted like I was a consolation prize, “There's no way I couldn't love you just as much as I love your other self.”

I feel my own tears coming though.

“Because you are “my” Duke and you went through all of that and came out a broken and hurting mess, but you're alive and you're here now, with me, and I'll take care of you. I'll clean you up and put you back together, and that hell you suffered through? It's over now, baby. It's over, and you survived, and you don't have to be that person anymore.” She hugs me, tightly. She's crying too.

We sit holding each other for I'm not sure how long, but until we're calmer. She breaks away from me but only a little and wipes her eyes with her hand.

I kiss her cautiously and she gives a slight laugh.

“You're so cute when you get nervous,” she says.

I shake my head and get up to go find something to blow my nose with.

“You are,” she says, following me towards the kitchen area, picking up some of the breakfast things on the way, “We've done so many things and then you get shy, like I might not want to or want you to, like I've said before I do, and after what I just told you...and showed you. I'd hoped you'd feel better about that.”

“I do,” I tell her, cleaning myself up, and actually blowing my nose on a piece of paper towel, “that was mostly just snot.”

“Oh,” she says and laughs again, “So, you do feel better about things?”

“Mostly.”

“Mostly?” she sets down the plates in the sink, “What don't you feel right about?”

I wave a hand, “That's...just adjusting to differences,” I indicate the body, “at least I'm the same height. It'd be weird not being able to reach things all of a sudden, but little things...and every once in a while here,” I can't help but look around the room. At least it's not painted the same.

She purses her lips, “Did you—did you spend much time on the Cape that was...Simon's?”

“Not so much. A couple of...trips. Most of those were on land though. His Cape wasn't nearly so well taken care of.”

“Not surprised some how,” she kisses me on the cheek, “Help me clean up?”

“Of course.”

“I better call Uncle Vince.”

I nod and go back over to the kitchen table, picking up the leftover waffles and bacon. She makes one call which apparently doesn't turn out and then I hear, “Hi, Uncle Dave!” after a moment the conversation continues with, “Yes, actually. Dwight and I sort of spent a day in the Pearson wish timeline and I know Uncle Vince is going to want to hear everything, but I've got Duke's other self here with me so if he--”

I feel my chest tightening a little but this is not the same Vince. This is not the same Vince.

“Yes, Uncle Vince,” Julia's voice continues, “but you have to come to the Cape right away. Okay, see you soon,” she puts her phone down, “Still doing, okay?”

I nod, pointing to the food I brought over, “I don't know where the storage things are.”

“You wash the dishes then. I'll do that.”

I gather the rest of the things from the table and set them down so she can put them away and set to with the dishes, warm sudsy water, and stacking things on the drainage board. She dries and puts away once she's done with the leftovers, occasionally bumping hips with me or stealing kisses. Then she rinses the sponge and takes it to wipe down the table once the water has drained out of the sink.

Between the shower and the dishes the band of hearts around my wrist has started to bleed off I realize when I go to look at it. She notices too when she comes back with the sponge, and goes for the sharpie again, after scrubbing it off the rest of the way we sit back down on the couch and she puts it back on.

“We'll have to sort something out more permanent,” she says, kissing me and ruffling my hair up and then smoothing it back down, “That way you'll always know that you're okay when you're here even if I'm not around.”

That's not entirely up to me though.

“Don't worry,” she says, “I'm sure he'll be fine with it. He wants you to be here and feel comfortable here just as much as I do.”

“Okay.”

She would know more than I would. It's not like I can talk to him. Maybe I can...write a note?

I wonder how long before Vince gets here, and now I wonder what I was thinking. I know he's not the same Vince. I know it, but it's nagging at me now which is probably because normally I deal with Vince with a certain substance pumping through my veins. I sit on my hands.

“You doing okay?” she asks, running a hand down my arm.

I nod.

She slides closer to me, “You don't have to push yourself. Remember what I said? If you're getting agitated...I'm your drug. Let tiny mistress Julia relax you, like I did early this morning. Remember?” she has her hands on my fly before I even realize what's going on, “If you don't want me to, tell me no right now.”

I'm definitely not going to say no, but I can't bring my mouth to actually open either, so I just look at her pleadingly. She unzips my fly and reaches in for my penis, massaging it with her hand as she pulls it free of my pants and then leans over to take it in her mouth and I groan almost immediately from the sensation of her mouth and feel myself hardening as she sucks up and down the shaft, head bobbing faster and faster. I lean my head back and grip the back of the couch as she continues deeper and deeper until I'm gone.  

@@@@

After I'm readjusted Julia closes up the notebook she drew the timeline on and puts it away somewhere and we clean things up. She checks her phone and I sit myself in the right hand corner of the couch so my back is to the wall and I have a good view of the door.

“He should be here soon,” she says, and then there's a realization that crosses her face, “Oh, right he's never been here,” she gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, “I'll be right back. I need to fetch him from the dock. He knows the rules and wouldn't come up.”

A little while later the door opens and she leads Vince inside. He's less severely dressed than the Vince I've dealt with. His hair is not as tidily cut and he's not wearing glasses. He's carrying a notebook with a chocolate cover under one arm.

“O-oh,” he says, looking around the cabin, “So this is—it's very...cozy, and that's...” he nods in my direction.

“Yes,” Julia says, “Baby, this is Uncle Vince. He knows about you already. I told him about the Pearson wish timeline and what happened the last time you were here.”

Vince looks slightly uncomfortable as he looks around for a place to sit which is sort of amusing. Is that me? Or is that he's Julia's older relative and he's picturing sex things? He finally sits down in the chair Julia and I were cuddled in last night, “Duke...Crocker...I presume? I, ah, understand that my...counterpart--”

Julia cuts him off, “Other self,” she corrects.

“Other self,” Vince repeats, “was...somewhat more involved in your life than has been the case here.”

I can't help but feel snarky at that, “Understatement,” and there's some satisfaction at the alarmed look that crosses Vince's face. He looks to Julia who is sitting herself down next to me it's as if he's questioning her on whether or not he should say something which is so weird; then I remember tiny mistress talking about how she's considered the authority on Duke Crocker, “I'm guessing the Guard runs different altogether here...”

“I think it will be best if we start by going over what happened as it happened,” Julia says, “and then go into whatever explanations you're comfortable with, okay baby?”

“Sure.”

“We all got tossed into the past, into the Pearson wish timeline shortly after the Troubles started. Duke, Audrey, and Nathan got merged with their other selves, while Dwight and I wound up on our graves,” she pulls out her phone and looks through for something, “I have pictures if you want,” she offers the phone to Vince. I put up my hand and shake my head when she glances at me with a questioning look on her face. I know what her grave looks like. I've seen it enough, “If I don't outlive you, Uncle Vince, I fully expect the Carver Maze to be on my gravestone. I lived my whole life under a lie, I don't want to die under it like she did.”

“Of—of course,” Vince says, shakily.

“Audrey was still in Boston,” Julia continues, “Nathan was still in denial, so naturally our first stop was finding you or Uncle Dave. We found Dave, but he didn't recognize either of us so I asked him to point me in the direction of Duke and then we went to...secure the funds with which to hire him.”

Vince frowns at that, but then nods as though he's worked through whatever was troubling him.

“When we did find Duke, though,” she squeezes my hand then, “he was on his way to talk to your other self when he got a...job...that had to be done right away.”

“Oh dear. Was it,” he winces, “necessary?”

“That...was Nicole Meadows,” I explain, “Your other self deemed it so. She was...triggering illness in...people, each time more people and more deadly.”

“Meadows. I can see where...but killing her? There wasn't an alternative—no one to talk to her?” He looks very uncomfortable and guilty.

“Apparently not,” Julia says. She's browsing through things on her phone again and then leans over to show something to Vince. He squints at it for a few moments and goes pale, almost as though he wants to throw up and shoves the phone back towards Julia very quickly. He looks like he wants to say something but then he doesn't. He just shakes his head and looks down at his notebook.

“I took care of what I was supposed to,” I shrug, “That was the deal.”

“Deal?” Vince leans forward, angrily, “What deal?”  

An uncomfortable noise escapes my mouth before I can stop it, “Working with the Guard—for the Guard? I don't know which was is the right one, but being the last slash only active Crocker and...”

It's weird to me how horrified Vince looks given him sitting across a table making demands was how I got into the situation in the first place, “You...were asked to...but what did you get out of it?”

I remember the plastic wrapping and the comments about the sledgehammer, and breakfast, the safe house. I realize after a moment that I'm drumming my fingers across the table top.

“That falls under questions you can ask later,” Julia says, sharply and then leans over and nuzzles my neck and kisses me.

“Simon's body could show back up at any time,” I mutter under my breath and laugh sarcastically.

“I'm sorry,” Vince says, “Please. Continue.”

“Once Duke had left to...do that...Dwight and I went in and I introduced myself to your other self. Loudly. And pointily. Had to explain the timeline physics and show him some pictures before he'd accept everything, and then I asked him about the Carver diary, which he also knew nothing about. But my father was still alive, so he sent one of the Guard to drive me there and...” her voice drops, “...I got to talk to him. His glaucoma was pretty bad, but he could still see me a little,” she squeezes my hand before turning her phone on again where it's sitting on the table surface and flipping back through the pictures, when it first turns on I could swear I catch a picture of a page full of hand-written list that looks very much like the journal I had to keep. The pictures scroll through quickly until it's one of her with an older man who has a hand on her shoulder and looks super proud of her. Clearly her father.

“That's awesome,” I tell her.

“Yeah,” she says, her voice shaking, “Only time I got to see my father and I got to tell him everything worked out okay. He told me that he could die in peace and that he was proud of me,” she's crying quietly now, and I lean over to kiss her and hug her. She leans against me.

Vince looks decidedly uncomfortable again, “You know why--” he starts.

“I know,” she says, sharply, cutting him off, “That doesn't mean I have to like that it was necessary,” she takes a deep breath, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, “When I got back, Dwight told me the Chief had called and had a shouting match with your other self because he knew the apparent suicide wasn't a suicide because Nathan picked Duke up and brought him in and he was crashing in the holding cell and he wanted your other self to come pick him up to make sure no one put two and two together, but your other self didn't want to do it, so I yelled at him. A lot,” when she continues her recounting she sounds extremely tired, “I pointed out that the Barn was gone and Lucy had only been Lucy and that if Duke didn't kill Pearson after the wish was made, Sarah would never come back and everything would stay horrible and the Troubles would never end and that he had to make sure Duke didn't die and to not try to get him off the heroin because it was pretty much the only thing keeping him from just laying down and not getting back up,” Vince's guilty look turns on me then but he looks away again soon after and focuses back on Julia. I lean my head against her shoulder, “Then I told him to take us to the police station so we could talk to the Chief while he picked up Haven's only hope and brought him back to his boat. Chief recognized me. He felt something right from the moment we arrived and, it turns out, he had the Carver diary.”

“Garland had it?” Vince asks, “But why didn't he ever tell me?”

“He didn't know what it was,” Julia explains. She kisses my hair and murmurs to me asking if I'm still doing okay. I nod, and she continues addressing Vince, “Remember what the box says? 'Give to the one who sees'. Wuornos just holds the for Carver; it's not for anyone else to know what's inside. So, that's why I couldn't find it. From just past the Troubles returning to yesterday afternoon, it literally didn't exist to be found. But I have it now, and yes, it can help us, and we'll discuss it later.”

She messes with the phone again and pushes it towards Vince.

“Oh,” he says, “Garland.”

“Yes,” she says, then she whispers to me, “You know the Garland here gave me permission to be your other self's friend in high school,” she turns back to Vince holding her hand out for the phone, “The Garland asked me if in this timeline, Duke was treating me right. I told him he was treating me so well you'd stopped grumbling about him.”

Vince looks embarrassed again. It's amazing how satisfying that is though I remind myself this is not the same Vince.

“Then I threatened Nathan a little, and he recognized me, and I got him to agree to watch out for Duke, too,” she sighs, “...and then my mother saw me.”

“Oh, dear.” Vince remarks.

“I explained to her I didn't want to be a doctor, that in this timeline she'd died, and I was married. She was...initially unhappy with my choice, but I set her straight on a few things and she came around. So, all in all, probably the best talk I've had with her since I graduated, but apparently when your dead daughter is visiting from a happier timeline, you're more willing to let go of things and approve, however implicitly, of her choice in men.”

I shake my head, trying not to focus on the fact that she approved of this timeline's Duke.

Julia kisses my head, “The fact that you turned Simon into paste helped a lot, and so did hearing what you would do to Andrew Pearson. Dwight told her that he would have been proud of and grateful to you if I'd been his dead daughter.” Dwight has a dead daughter?

“If only she could have known about that earlier,” I mutter, “but Simon fled town though.”

“That's what you got out of the deal?” Vince's outrage surprises me, “I—my other self—knew what happened and never told her? Julia, my dear, whatever you told him, however harsh it was, he deserved it.”

“The Guard took care of Simon's body,” I explain, “But he might show up at any point. That was some of the “discussion” we had when—Simon disappeared after a big fight we had and that's the last time I saw him. That's what you have to tell everyone. They were coming to do I don't know what anyway. Moore and Alan and—I don't remember.”

“Whatever it was it would have been too little, too late,” Vince remarks, “I can't say that I would have done any better in his shoes but I can say that I'm grateful Julia took it upon herself to champion y-your other self. I was wrong, and now that I know what could have happened I'm very glad it did not.”

Julia has a very satisfied and smug smile on her face as she hugs me.

I can only muster a “Hm” in response.

“So, after all that we went looking for Duke because I know the stages of death crashing and I suspected your other self might not have been able to get him back to his boat, and I was right, so we found him and brought him back and cleaned him up because you'd really done a number on your left arm, baby.”

I pull a face, looking at my arm, remembering half way through doing so that it's completely not the right left arm, “I remember the...bandages.”

I get kissed, “I hoped you'd leave them on long enough for things to heal a bit.”

I try to remember how long they stayed on. I remember Brent asking about them.

“After he woke up we finalized paying him for his help and he made a few calls, one of which being to Uncle Dave's other self and I strongly suspect he called your other self afterwards because the next day he was at the Historical Society with copies of things I'm pretty sure were in the archive and I know he likes his creature comforts, but he seemed a bit too invested in helping us find the Heart of Haven.”

“I presume you found it because you're here,” Vince remarks.

“Yeah,” Julia says, “It's the lighthouse.”

Vince's expression goes through a series of phases the biggest one being the look of being the biggest idiot in history, “The lighthouse! OF COURSE! Why didn't I think of that?”

“Julia seemed to have a similar reaction if I recall,” I say.

“Yeah,” Julia nods, “In retrospect it was really obvious.”

“And you were able to “summon the Door”?” Vince says.

“Just like calling an elevator.”

“Huh.” I expect him to say “well fancy that” but he doesn't.

“So when Dwight and I got back it pulled everyone else forward too. We arrived at the moment we'd left and I sent the bastard on a six-month trip to Boston. So, we'll see, but it looks like we've got some breathing space.”

“Boston?” I ask.

“Remember your other self got lost for six months?” she says, “When he finally got spit back out into the world it was in Boston because...I didn't know what I was doing or how to tell the machine to just spit him back out here.”

“Ah, right...” they were talking about that last night too. Nate said something about doing it repeatedly.

“Uncle Vince, I'll bring the Carver diary with me to work and we can go over it then, but that's what happened. You can ask questions now, but Duke's not obligated to answer them, got it? And if you upset him too badly, you'll have to leave,” she nuzzles my ear, “You can ask questions, too, baby. If there's anything you want to know...”

“Well, it sounds like there's no such arrangement here, from what Julia's said, and the way you've acted—there's no “Here, Crocker, this person needs to die for the safety of the universe.”

Vince looks nervously at Julia and I shake my head but then here she's in charge when it comes to things about “me”, but it's just so weird seeing Vince looking to someone else, “No. After Simon turned out the...way he did...I thought it would be better if your other self never...became active. Unfortunately, that didn't happen, but she's been quite informative about the downside of the Crocker Trouble and has made it very clear that such a drastic measure is only to be taken when all other options have failed.”

“Hmmm,” I say.

“Duke, I know you haven't had the best experience with my other self and I know that your other self and I haven't exactly gotten along, but I'm old enough to know when I've been wrong and...well, Haven owes you a great debt for killing Andrew Pearson. If there's anything I can do...”

I stare at him.

Julia giggles quietly.

Vince continues a little awkwardly, “Well...just think about it. The offer is open specifically to you. Your other self is more than capable of making his own demands,” he adds grumpily.

I have to laugh at that one but I can't think of anything to ask for. I can only imagine what Duke might come up with himself. He'd be trying to get Vince dressed like Carmen Miranda singing in front of people at the bar.  That makes me laugh more. Vince looks slightly worried.

“It's okay,” I say, “but no I...I can't think of anything.”

He nods, “As I said, think about it.”

I nod in return.

“If there's nothing else,” he says, “I must get back so we can sort out the paper. I'll see you at work, Julia, tomorrow, perhaps? Depending on how things are,” he stands up and Julia does too. I follow suit. Julia moves so that she can hug Vince before he leaves. Then Vince puts his hand out offering to shake mine and I carefully accept.

He nods at me, “I'll see myself out,” he says and disappears.

I flop back down on the couch and exhale slowly.

Julia leans down and kisses me giving me a good view of her breasts down the neckline of her shirt, “You did really well, baby,” she says.

“Hm,” I tell her.

“No, you did. How do you feel?”  

“Weird,” I tell her, “A little tired. Confused?”

“Well, that was a lot, and Vince...” She kisses me again.

“Excited,” I add.

She laughs, “That definitely seems like you're feeling better about where you are.”

“Things have been helping a bit with that,” I nod, “I just...it was strange seeing him like that. Tiny mistress all in charge of Vince.”   

“Only when it comes to you and your other self,” she corrects, “Tiny mistress is in charge of everyone when it comes to the subject of her gypsies.”

I hug her. My head nestles into her breasts. One of her hands wraps around my shoulders the other wends it's way into the hair at the back of my head and scratches away there an easy rhythm. If I was a cat I would probably be purring, as it is other things are getting excited that aren't just my mood. I kiss her chest through her shirt and rub my head from side to side. She giggles and pushes me back slightly and then kisses me. I kiss her back and then lift her up so she can sit in my lap which is a little awkward with my position on the couch and we kiss more, running hands through each others hair, over each others bodies, and then clothes are off once more and positions shifted slightly more so that I can slip myself inside her and once more that glorious ride.  

@@@@

“Baby?” Julia asks, as I finally track down where the flannel shirt got tossed and put it back on.

“Yeah?”

“I'd been going to suggest more breakfast but there's a text message from Nathan,” she holds up the phone, “he was wondering if we were up for getting lunch with him either here or maybe at The Gull?”

“Huh.”

“Is that a good 'huh' or a bad one?” she crosses the cabin towards me.

“It's a slightly perplexed one. I wasn't—lunch invites weren't something I expected. Are you sure it's for me?”

“Yes, baby,” she tugs on my lapels, and holds up the phone.

If Duke still here today you two want to get lunch? I would say Gull but not sure he'd be up for that. Feel free to say no. I understand.

“If that's not you he's talking about then I don't know who that is.”

I suppose.

“You okay?”

I nod, “It's just adjusting still, but it would be good to try and go out, right? I just...”

“The Gull isn't far,” she says, “It's right across there,” she points out of the front of the boat, where the empty Second Chance would be if this were the world I was born into, “and it's safe. Technically you own it. We can eat upstairs out of the way, or take a section of the patio for ourselves and ask to be given privacy, it's not unheard of if Things Are Going On. Don't have to go into town though and deal with hundreds of people to eat some place there, and see some place different than these walls.”

“That would be...nice.”

“Well, then,” she presses a button on the phone and puts it to her ear, “Nathan, hey—if you're still able to do lunch we'd love to. The Gull is fine,” I look around wondering where shoes or socks might be. They're probably back in his bedroom, “We'll maybe do the patio like we're having a Trouble Meet or something upstairs have a little bit of privacy. See how things are when we get over there,” there's another pause, “Well, it'll take us not even five minutes to get over there so just let me know when you can be there,” another pause, “Okay, cool. We'll see you then,” she turns to me, “About fifteen minutes.”

“Alright,” I nod, “So...socks and shoes?”

“I'll get them,” she says, “Sure you're okay with The Gull?”

I nod again, “One step at a time, right?”

“Right. Now, if we can't get around there without encountering anyone there are people who're gonna be calling you Boss-man and such, but they wear name tags so that'll help. I'll field any stupid questions though. If Shelley says anything call her Shell.”

“Alright...”

“There are ways to get to tables with minimum person encounter. Just ordering and things.” I can see she's getting hesitant. I am a little too but I need to learn how to be around some people at least and be out of the boat, what if we switch somewhere out and about or something?

“It is just Nathan, right?”

“Yes,” she says, “No Audrey. I'll go get the shoes and such.”
 

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