At least the sheep's looking at the guy with regent hair. The guy with regent hair, meanwhile, understands that the sheep's also a guy looking at a sheep, from his perspective.
It's surreal, on one level or another, but the guy can suss out another guy underneath the sheep.
The sheep has a head of long brown hair and a red tie. Anything that was just a sheep wouldn't have either, and the man knows a guy who has both. The sheep has a guy's voice. A young guy's, wound-up, weak and tired. It's as familiar as the rest of him; the guy bothered placing it when it sank in that this is more than a dream brought on by too much Rapunzel.
The sheep isn't keeping up.
Somewhere below them, a line of blocks falls away. Fifteen rows become fourteen between them and a fall. It should be another thirty seconds or so before another drop. It seems stupider to stop to time drops than it is to ignore them, for all intents and purposes.
The guy with regent hair gets down and watches the sheep scramble up to the block below him.
"You tuckering out?"
The sheep slumps on himself and presses a wheeze out of his wooly little body as if pressing a squeak out of a failing dog toy. "Nah—I'm not," he says.
"Then you can climb faster."
"I dunno."
The guy with regent hair heaves a groan, smacks his forearm on the edge and top of the block, and waves once inward, a "come on" gesture. "I'll hold back to give you a hand. You got it? I ain't the kind of man who'll leave a guy behind."
The sheep makes a sound to himself. It's certainly not a bleat.
The guy with regent hair's heard it a few times before. It's his employee's voice, and his employee's tie. From where the sheep in the red tie is standing, a sheep with regent hair flicks its ears.
"I'm, uhh," says the sheep in the red tie.
"Tell me anything, as long as you're not jumping."
"No," says the sheep. "I'll—catch up to you, all right? I won't… I won't fall more than two stories behind; I—just think the space'll do me some good."
"You wanna die alone?"
"Well, I'd rather that than…" says the sheep, and then loses the thought, apparently, somewhere in picking at the wool on his arm. He looks back up. God knows with the spacing of his eyes if he's looking at the man. "But that… doesn't matter here, does it. I'll—I'll keep up, all right?"
"You're not gonna convince me without showing me. Hurry your fluffy tuckus up."
"Why do you care so much?"
"You comin' up or not?"
"Yeah. Y-yeah. I'm coming."
The man with regent hair scoots back, and the sheep jumps and scrambles up. The man lifts a hand. "Hang up a sec," he says.
The sheep doesn't do a thing—which includes move, and so all's well.
The man turns, grabs a block, and slides it out. "Thaaat-a boy." He grins at the sheep. "No more than two stories behind, right? We're both heading up."
The sheep groans, but lets his hands fall off his head and follows the man's lead. The man hops up one step. The sheep hops up after. The man climbs another step; the sheep follows.
There's a short wall of two stones at the top. The man freezes, snaps his fingers behind him to keep the sheep from looking off the edge. He doesn't check whether it worked. He peeks around instead, leaning out and around—another wall of two stones behind this one, think think think, c'mon…
"Hold up," he says.
"Roger."
"Yeah, call me Roger Moore, 'cause I'm a regular Bond," says the man.
He pictures the long-haired sheep looking up into the corner of nowhere, trying not to roll his eyes, like a certain guy at work might, and slams himself against the bottom block. One push. It stops against the block behind it. He grits his teeth. Another push…
There's a rumbling behind him. His smoked-out old heart goes bump-bump-bump and he reels around.
The long-haired sheep's back where he told him to stay, spidery black hands up and twitching in the air for something to do, repeats "whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa" as the block over the man starts to shake loose.
The man dashes to the sheep. The sheep slips a step back, careens and tips back on the edge of the block with his arms pinwheeling. The block falls. The man feels a draft behind him, and a crash makes them both jump…
And the sheep falls onto the step below.
The man blows the air out of his lungs—you god-damn idiot!—and hustles over to look down at the sheep, sitting on his tail with his knees up, panting.
The sheep's long black snout points up at him.
The man clears his head with a snort. "That was fuckin' gorgeous," he says.
The sheep's nostrils flare. "I thought you were gonna barrel right into me, man," he says. His voice quakes like that of a startled kid attempting to laugh. "Send me flying."
"Well, I didn't." The man feels himself grinning, like he's trying to wring the last drop of something out of a rag. "'Less you broke your ankle in that fall or something, haul ass back up here and spider after me, would you?"
"S—say what?" says the sheep, beginning to stand.
"Grab and hang. You know, shimmy. Along the edges. We got a staircase on the other side."
The sheep's ears flap. But then he nods, says "Sure thing", and climbs back up.
He's going to need room, and so the guy with regent hair drops off the edge of the floor. Kicks to swing his weight and pull himself aside. The sheep slips off to hang next to him. The man does a take next to him; the sheep's looking where they're going. Good for him…
The sheep kicks his legs against the wall to stop. His ears flap and he points his nose at the guy with regent hair again. "There a problem?"
"Nah-ah, man. Just wanted to be sure you weren't freakin' the hell out."
"It's not bad yet," says the sheep, light and blowy.
The man thinks Whaddya mean? but culls it to an "eh", and gets back to the swing.
They round the blocks, the man pulls himself up grunting, and starts up the stairs. The sheep scratches the edge behind him. There are a couple of scrabbles and steps as he catches up and starts to climb after. The man grins again—wringing that rag—and he keeps it up to make the sheep follow.
To the left is a staircase of dark blocks with golden faces. The man hops on, the sheep hops on, and a bell rings.
"We're almost there, bub."
"Sounds that way," the sheep says.
The man hoists himself onto the next block, turns, and scoffs. "That's an awfully dead response."
"Sorry."
"Get up here next to me."
"It's gotta be, like, five minutes till the ground under us starts falling."
"Yeah, man. So let's finish five minutes ahead of the fuckin' deadline. I'm gonna be ticked if I die waiting up on you so close to the landing."
"Ticked…? You'll be dead."
"I will be, huh?" The man cocks a brow. "So you're gonna get me killed?"
"No?" The sheep bites his lip and throws a look down, over his shoulder—is that a wince? If it is a wince, then he's lost any intent he had in the first place to go down.
Again, good for him.
The man with regent hair claps twice. "Chop chop, then, my friend." Chop chop goes an axe, somewhere below—is it even formed yet? "Get the fuck up!"
The sheep sighs and throws himself against the next step up, kicking and pulling. The guy with regent hair gives a thumbs-up. When the sheep straightens up, the man gives him a clap on the shoulder. The sheep shrugs (into it?) and sidesteps out. He gives the man one lengthwise look and then looks up along his upturned snout.
The guy with regent hair scrambles up to the pull rope at the top of the stairs. The sheep sticks close behind. The man lifts a hand to the rope and nods at the sheep, waiting with a black hand squeezing a wrist. The man grips it, drops, releases, and the last flight of stairs drop and suspend block by block.
The last one drops like a red pixel at the spotlighted landing.
The man looks at the sheep again, holds up a hand, pulls on one more grin. "Slap me five," he says. "Or don't."
The sheep's eyes are half-lidded and held past the man, on the landing. He wants to keep climbing now.
"Actually, definitely do," the man says.
The sheep's head dips. He looks at the hand. A huff, and then he indulges.
Clap.
"Thanks, dude," says the man, and he takes point on the way up to the landing. No need to glance back.
They hit the top of the steps and the man collapses on the landing. There's a baa-aa of acknowledgement coming from somewhere or another, and then there's a little voice in a gasp for breath from the long-haired sheep.
The man gives a "whoo!" for solidarity, and again, doesn't check for a reaction. He turns his head and starts to push himself up, hands and knees first.
The sheep pops into his view, ducked down and peering, brown hair and red tie hanging.
"I'm all right, in case you were gonna ask," says the man. "I've worked way harder than that before."
"In a life-or-death situation, too?" The sheep's head tilts one way somewhat—for emphasis, probably. The man swears he sees his sheepy brow slanting.
The man laughs, once, half a bray. He grins like he's already told a joke. "What the hell isn't one, bud? I mean, everything you do's a climb to get somewhere."
The sheep's ears twitch and he looks away. The man stands and straightens. He holds a hand out—leaves it there, so the sheep has time to see it, or not see it. And then he taps it against the sheep's upper arm. The sheep's nostrils flare again. He tilts his head again. Brow probably slants, again.
The man tips his head down a little, for a look above from below. "What're you giving me that look for, eh?"
And the sheep shakes his head. "Nothing. It's, uh—nothing."
"My ass. But how're you feeling now?" The man thumps his fat chest with his free hand. The long-haired sheep sees it hit wool. "Got a little of your will back?"
The sheep nods and mumbles "Thanks".
"Thanks fo-o-or…?"
"For, uh. Helping me out."
"No problem. No problem at all." And he sizes him up. Preemptively. He checks the sheep's ears, eyes, mouth, all of it with a raised brow and a screwed-up eye. Hell if he knows what he's looking for; an acknowledgement, perhaps? He smiles, anyway—he better knows what he wants the sheep to find. "You know, you remind me of one of my employees. And more men gotta look out for their own."
The sheep's rectangular pupils slide aside. His brow definitely tightens.
The man slicks his hand along his hair. "You recognize my pomp?"
"Yeah," says the sheep, low, and adds, "I knew it."
"The name—I dunno, Bozeman?"
"Yeah." The sheep nods. "Yeah, it's my boss's last name. It's your last name, Todd. Shit."
"Well, Archie? You don't sound all that stoked to see me here."
The sheep makes a dry spitting sound and his ears go batting again. "'Cause I'm not. What the—just." His eyes lock on the man. He leans in a bit. "Why would anyone be stoked to see a guy they know going through this?"
The man's smile is bigger, wider, and whiter than any of the previous. "You heard all that witch talk, did't'ya?"
"What?"
"Remember? When we were heading back from lunch. Down the…"
"Yeah. Yeahyeahyeah." Shaky nodding. The sheep, again, pulls his hair behind his ear. "That—chick in those huge earrings. She was talking about the whole cheating men thing."
"If it's true, heck. You shouldn't be surprised I'm here."
The man's brow skews. Archie said he wasn't after women. Had said, back in the bar.
He doesn't ask. Not a good time. Not his business.
"Guess not," says the sheep. He turns around, counts the other sheep on the landing in a series of nods. Todd folds his arms, and leans back in an invisible chair. The sheep's mouth drops open. "Um. Hey. The—you know that guy, the… sheep with the fuzzy black hair?"
"What about 'im?"
"He isn't here yet. Should, uh—"
"Should what?"
"I. I don't know."
"Hey—the hell are you so jittery for, man? It's… well. It's not like you off the clock."
"I'm not looking forward to going one higher, is all," says the sheep, turning his head up. He shudders and oohs; his eyelids tighten without closing. "The monster. It's next."
He's got a point—hence, it occurs to Todd, the nearby baa-ing over something coming up from below. Routine or something in the air, bearing down or up; everyone knows it's next, and he didn't even have it consciously in mind until Archie said it.
His heart goes boom-boom again. He strains it out wrinkling his nose at the sheep.
Calm down, boyo. Calm the fuck down…
"We're not one higher yet, are we," says the man, grabbing the sheep's shoulder again, giving it another shake. "We're at the landing, man. Sit down somewhere, all right? Take a deep breath. Or as many as you need."
"Are you telling me to go on break?" That's fringed with a laugh. Or maybe hysteria.
"A-yup." He gives the sheep a faint shove, nodding between him and the pews by the confessional booth. "I might join you in a minute or two. 'Kay?"
"Whatever you say," says the sheep.
"Good man."
The sheep staggers forward, looks over his shoulder once. Todd gives him a thumbs-up. The sheep ducks his head—a distinctly dead nod—and goes on. Todd watches him find the group with the flashiest markers—cophat sheep, shades sheep, glasses sheep. They start talking.
And within not one minute in, Archie has given Todd two long, sideways looks.
It's not an invitation to join, and Todd doesn't plan on it.
He plops down on the edge of the landing, stretches his arms, folds his hands behind his head, and watches.
Archie had recognized him from night one—heck, how couldn't he have? That's why he was all hot and bothered about following along.
It's not for him to do anything about it if the guy can't recognize when someone's not trying to be the boss of him.
He'll just watch. Go back to watching.
Boss by day, watchman by both.
Maybe he can't tell yet—no, not maybe. Definitely can't tell yet.
But so far, the two of them are doing good.
Cross-posted to AO3.