A/N: It's a damn shame that there's not more S3 fic in this fandom, especially Wayne & Roland fic.
If you read this and like it, please leave a review, even if it's short. Thanks.
2015
They settle into something of a routine. On the days he's at Wayne's house, Roland wakes up first and makes breakfast. Wayne comes down from the master bedroom after his daily shower, and they eat together at the table. Sometimes, they listen to the radio. Sometimes, they talk about last night's dreams. Sometimes, they're silent while Roland reads the newspaper the way he usually does on the mornings he's home alone, and other times, he'll pick out the most ridiculous stories or lines he can find in the paper and read them out loud. After breakfast, they usually go on a thirty minute walk around the neighborhood and do Wayne's brain homework, which is what Roland calls all the activities he forces Wayne to do to combat the dementia.
"The more you use that raggedy old thing, the better," Roland told him, when he first proposed the idea. He was referring to Wayne's brain, of course.
One day, he showed up on Wayne's doorstep with a stack of jigsaw puzzles. None of them had fewer than a 100 pieces, and most of them were 500 or 1000. They cleared the coffee table in the living room and now there's always a puzzle in progress decorating the surface. They usually work on the puzzle in the evenings, sitting on the floor around the table.
They play chess on Wayne's better days. They keep it in rotation with Poker, Jenga, Scrabble, and Clue, which Wayne brought out from a closet somewhere.
"Seriously?" Roland said with one eyebrow raised when he saw the game. "We ain't solved enough crimes for one lifetime?"
Roland's got a neighbor looking after the dogs on the days he's at Wayne's, but he usually brings his favorite one with him, so that he and Wayne can walk the dog together or play with it in the yard. Roland figures it's a good way to get Wayne outside and focused on something other than himself and his life. That's one reason Roland collected so many dogs over the years.
They go out for lunch a couple times a week. Sometimes, when they stay home, lunch is leftovers from dinner the night before, or they have food delivered through an app that Henry installed on Wayne's phone. Other times, lunch is the two of them grazing through the pantry and the produce drawer in the refrigerator.
They talk a lot, those first few months. That's how their afternoons and evenings pass: catching each other up on the last 25 years. Wayne shares memories of his children and family life as soon as they occur to him, and Roland listens with interest and gratitude, privately wondering if he could've been something like an uncle to Henry and Becca had he been in Wayne's life all along. Roland tells Wayne, only after some prodding, how the rest of his police career went after '90. He has a lot more fun relaying stories of his younger days, when he was a beat cop, before he became a detective and met Wayne. Some nights, after a few drinks, he tells the stories on his feet, animated and entertaining, making Wayne laugh.
They don't talk much about women. That's a subject in the Sad category, along with the last ten years of Roland's life that followed his retirement from the force. They've had enough of sad shit. They silently agree to leave those things alone.
Roland usually cooks dinner, and Wayne's surprised at how good he is at it.
"You sure you were never married?" Wayne says on one of those first nights, over Roland's chicken piccata.
"I'm not the one here forgettin' shit left and right," Roland replies. "That would be you, partner."
"You always liked chasing women. Now I find out you can cook better than half of 'em. I just don't get how you ended up a lifelong bachelor. You're not a bad man."
Roland looks tired in response, reaching for his glass of wine. "You mean I'm not a bad-looking man."
Wayne smiles. "You're all right for a white guy."
Roland snorts.
"But really," says Wayne, leaning forward a little. "All the women you been with, you never met one you wanted to marry?"
Roland looks at him across the table, quiet and sad. "I don't know, man. I guess I didn't, or I would've asked."
After dinner, the two men watch TV on the couch while Roland drinks his night cap. Some days, he reads to Wayne before they go to bed—something Wayne requested because Amelia used to read to him when he had a hard time falling asleep. Wayne finds that Roland, in his own way, has an equally soothing voice. That drawl of his, the thick East Texas/West Arkansas accent. He reads Flannery O'Connor's short stories to Wayne, who's never read them before, and the words roll over him, soft and round, lulling him into a peaceful half-waking, half-dreaming state.
Roland sleeps in what used to be Henry's room. He leaves the door open.
1990
Two weeks after they kill Harris James and Wayne hands in his resignation, Roland's trashed again at another nondescript bar, but this time, he has none of the anger he carried into that fight with the biker. This time, he's just sad. Wayne's gone for good now, never to work with him again, and if the gap between '80 and '90 is any indication of what that means for their friendship, he has every right to despair because they just may never speak again. Tom's still dead and blamed for his son's murder, and even though Roland knows the man was innocent, he can't do a damn thing to clear his name. He's driven past the Hoyt place and the barn where he killed James more than once in the last two weeks, usually at night when he's drunk and stalling the return home. The last place he wants to be is in his empty house, where there aren't even any pictures of people.
So he gets too drunk to drive home, slumped over the bar at The Pigsty Saloon, and the bartender asks him if there's anyone he wants to call to pick him up. He gives the woman Wayne's number without even thinking about it because it's one of the few phone numbers he has memorized besides his own. He barely registers the bartender having one half of a conversation on the phone, and when she hangs up and tells Roland "Your friend's on his way," he doesn't believe her.
He goes outside to smoke a cigarette, figuring he should be polite enough to puke in the dirt instead of on the floor someone's got to clean. He sits on the step outside the saloon entrance, smoking in the eerie white light that casts a cone across the walkway without touching the pitch darkness of the parking lot. He's drunker than he's been in a long time and feeling so low down, he almost can't stand it. He smokes without thinking much about what he's going to do after he's done.
"Roland?" says a familiar voice.
He looks up and sees Wayne standing there in front of him, wearing jeans and a jacket, frowning at him. For a second, Roland wonders if he's hallucinating.
"Jesus," says Wayne. "Can you even stand up?"
"What are you doing here?" Roland replies, slurring his words and stabbing the cigarette butt into the concrete next to him.
"I'm taking you home."
"I didn't ask you to. I don't need anything from you now. I don't need you."
If a flash of hurt passes through Wayne's eyes, Roland doesn't notice it.
"You can't drive yourself, and I'm already here," Wayne says. "So let's go."
Roland makes no move to get up off the ground. "Don't you fuckin' tell me what to do," he says. "I don't answer to you. You're not even a cop anymore. I don't know what you are."
Wayne lifts his hands to his hips and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "Roland. It's almost one o'clock in the morning. I got out of bed to come down here for you. And I'm not leaving without you. So get the fuck up and let's go. Now."
Roland reckons that's Wayne's dad voice. Roland fucking hates his father, despite the fact he never knew him.
He lifts his head and looks at Wayne, who's not so clear to him. But that's not any different than usual, is it?
"You're not doing me a favor," Roland says. "You're just trying to avoid being guilty for something else."
He finally moves, shifting onto his hands and knees and turning his back on Wayne. He pushes himself up one leg at a time, then turns around to face Wayne again and leans against the saloon wall. If he's going to finally fight his old partner, he should be on his feet.
"What are you doing?" Wayne says, looking at him. And something about the way he says it makes Roland think he's not just asking about this moment. "What is this about?"
And there—there's that anger, rearing its head again in the pit of Roland's belly. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he says. "What is it about? You gotta ask me that question? Are you really that fucking oblivious, Wayne? You self-absorbed motherfucker."
The hinges on the saloon door creak when someone walks out, and the two men pause their conversation, Wayne shifting his eyes to the stranger as he passes and back again.
"You wanna curse me out, you can do it in the car," Wayne says, reaching for Roland and lightly taking hold of his bicep. "Come on."
Roland shrugs him off, swaying on his feet before stalking past Wayne into the dark. "Don't you fucking touch me, asshole," he says, though the warmth of Wayne's fingers might as well glow on his arm like a brand still hot. He doesn't know where he's going, so he just picks a direction and puts one foot in front of the other, until Wayne catches up to him and steers him to the passenger side of Wayne's car. Roland doesn't snatch himself away again or struggle against the taller man as Wayne deposits him into the passenger seat.
Once they're on the road, the two men are silent for a few minutes. Wayne doesn't even turn the radio on. Roland stares into space, even more miserable now than he was before. This is the first time he's even spoken to Wayne since they parted ways after burying James. Wayne didn't bother telling Roland himself that he was quitting the force. Roland had to hear it from his supervisor, after noticing that Wayne's desk had been cleared. Not once in the last two weeks has Wayne called or dropped by Roland's place to ask him how he's doing with the weight of a murder on his conscience, much less apologize for being the reason Roland's guilty.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Roland says, his eyes welling up without his noticing. "After everything I tried to do for you, after everything we been through, you just fuck off without so much as a goodbye? I saved your life, God damn it! All I've ever done was try to be your friend and look out for your career and this is the way you fucking treat me?"
Wayne stays quiet, keeping his eyes straight ahead on the road, his jaw tight.
"Fuck you," Roland continues, tears rolling down his face. "Fuck you for leaving me to carry all this on my own."
"Roland—"
"I don't want to hear it, Wayne! If you got anything to say other than sorry, shut the fuck up!"
Wayne obeys.
Roland sits there in the shotgun seat, his elbow propped on his windowsill and his hand covering his eyes as he weeps. He's all mixed up right now, especially about Wayne. He hates the asshole and loves him too. He wants to get as far away from Wayne as possible and he wants to beg him to stay friends. He wants to hold his grudge until the end of time, but he'd forgive the bastard right here and now if Wayne would just apologize sincerely.
"What happened to your face?" Wayne says, after a couple minutes. "You get into a fight?"
"Like you fucking care," says Roland, sniffing and trying to dry his eyes.
"If I didn't care, I wouldn't be asking."
Roland can't find a snide response to that.
"Who did you fight?" says Wayne. "And when?"
"Biker gang, night after I saw you last," says Roland. "The Saturday before the Monday you fucking quit your job to go bag groceries or whatever the fuck it is you're going to do the rest of your life."
"So is this you now? You're just going to haunt the shitty dive bars in town, gettin drunk and picking fights?"
Roland can hear that familiar air of judgment in Wayne's voice, and it pisses him off even more.
"How long you going to feel sorry for yourself, Roland?" says Wayne. "Because for the record, self-pity isn't a good look on you."
"Fuck you!" Roland yells. "You cold-hearted son of a bitch! I killed someone two weeks ago. Tom's fucking dead, Julie's in the wind, the case is closed on another fucking bullshit lie, and we're never going to work together again because you're a fucking coward and a traitor who chose to run away from the mess you made. Self-pity? You don't get to lecture me about self-pity, motherfucker."
"I'm no coward," Wayne replies, his voice pitched low with that dark edge to it. "And I didn't betray you. All I did was quit a shit job so that I can move on with my life and try to save my marriage. You can resent me for that all you want. I got nothing to apologize for."
That last part stings sharper than Roland would've expected and deflates him like a popped balloon. "Well, then, I guess we're done," he says, without even thinking about it. "I'm sorry I ever cared about you."
Wayne turns his head to look at Roland, but Roland doesn't look back, missing the expression on Wayne's face. It takes Roland several seconds to realize the car has come to a stop. He glances out his window and sees they've reached his house.
He opens the door, half-hoping that Wayne will take him inside. But Roland gets out of the car, and Wayne doesn't.
"You should've just left me at the fucking bar," he says and shuts the car door behind him, making the long walk up to his front door from the street. He's unsteady on his feet, but he makes it, tears slipping down his face again.
2015
Roland became a fan of mornings after moving into the house he lives in now, where he can spend the early hours having the day's first cigarette on his deck as he watches the sky slowly shed the pink dawn and turn a deeper blue. He likes the rhythm of his morning routine: feed the dogs, brew the coffee, make himself breakfast.
Mornings at Wayne's house aren't quite the same, but he's making the best of them. He collects the newspaper from the walkway out front, which is only delivered because Wayne has a subscription to the New York Times. He puts the coffee on and smokes in the kitchen, unrolling the paper and thinking about how to make breakfast a little different than it was yesterday. He only smokes inside at Wayne's house before breakfast, because usually by the time Wayne joins him, the cigarette's gone.
One of his first Saturdays waking up at Wayne's, Roland gets inspired to make biscuits and gravy with eggs. He has to run to the store for those Pillsbury biscuits that come in a can because he never did bother learning how to bake.
"Somethin' smells good," says Wayne, when he finally descends the stairs about an hour later.
"That would be the gravy on the stove," Roland replies, seated at the kitchen table with the paper, waiting as the gravy simmers.
"Sausage gravy?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'm assuming it's gonna go with some biscuits."
"You always were a pretty good detective."
Wayne smiles and heads for the refrigerator. "I haven't had homemade biscuits and gravy in I don't know how many years." He pours himself a glass of orange juice on the kitchen counter.
"Was Amelia much of a cook?" says Roland.
"She was all right," Wayne says. "Not nearly as good as my mama."
"I never met a woman who could cook like my mama either. Must be a generational thing."
Roland turns the page in the paper.
"I was thinkin' in the shower," Wayne says, coming over to the table. "What kinda name is Roland anyway?"
"The fuckin' noble kind," Roland replies, peering over his glasses to make eye contact with the other man. "You think about me in the shower often, Wayne?"
Wayne smirks just a little. "You're trying to change the subject." He sits down across from the other man. "You get bullied for your name in school?"
"No, sir," says Roland, looking at the paper again. "Did you?"
"No. Why would I?"
"You get bullied for something else?"
Wayne blinks and tries to remember. Childhood was so long ago, it feels like it doesn't belong to him. He hasn't thought about it much at all in recent years. He's always trying to remember his marriage, Amelia, his kids, and his career. His parents are long gone from his memory, along with most of the war. Usually, the furthest back he goes is Vietnam, in which he was a twenty-something.
He tries to see himself at ten years old, maybe even younger. It would've been the '50s, in Arkansas. He went to a black-only school because segregation was still the law back then. Did the other children ever make fun of him? Maybe because he was skinny or quiet or too shy?
"I don't know," he says to Roland, trying hard to see himself as a boy but failing. "I don't think I was, but—I'm not sure."
Roland folds up his paper and takes off his reading glasses. "Well, never mind," he replies, as he gets up from the table. "And for the record, I never met a woman who had a problem with my god damn name."
Wayne smiles again, his lost childhood disappearing from his radar. "Maybe they all decided the rest of you made up for it."
1980
As the uniformed cops swarm Woodard's house and pronounce it clear, Wayne manages to get on his feet and stumble back outside, feeling cold and weak and unsteady on his legs. His hands are shaking. The bleached out sunlight is suddenly too bright, and the whole world looks like an old Polaroid he's stepped into.
He's standing still a few paces from the house's back entrance, dazed as he surveys the street and the neighborhood laid out before him, when he remembers Roland.
"Shit," he says and runs back around to where he thinks he left the other man.
Roland's sitting in the spot where he fell, upright now with his back against the old white container piled high with junk. He's alone, and Wayne doesn't understand why.
"Hey!" Wayne says to him, skidding to a crouch in the dirt before Roland. He touches Roland's arm, as if to make sure the other man's real and alive. "Hey, you all right? You get hit again?"
"No." Roland looks up at him, pale and a little bit unfocused, a sheen of sweat on his face. He's got his wounded leg stretched out straight in front of him, the other leg bent up at the knee. "You hurt?"
"I'm fine." Wayne searches Roland head to toe with his eyes, sees Roland's pant leg now stained with blood down to the cuff. "Let me get a look at you."
He gingerly pulls Roland's pant leg up to check the wound, and Roland turns his head away.
It's a pretty good hole about halfway up the lower leg. Wayne grimaces, because though he's seen plenty of wounds and ones a lot worse than this, it's Roland. He cranes his neck down and turns the leg a little bit to see if there's an exit wound. There isn't. The leg's already swollen and purple around the hole.
"How bad is it?" Roland says, still looking away.
Wayne pulls the pant leg back down. "You'll live," he says. "That's what matters."
It isn't until after he's said it, he realizes that wasn't at all comforting.
The paramedics insist that Roland take an ambulance ride to the hospital. He refuses, the stubborn bastard. He fishes his keys out of his pocket and offers them to Wayne, already ignoring the blonde female paramedic who hovers over him.
"You just put the light on and speed," Roland says
Wayne looks at him in obvious bewilderment. "Roland, you got to go in an ambulance. You've been fuckin' shot, man. I can't drive you."
"We're the fuckin police, so we can do whatever we want. I don't want an ambulance. It's a leg wound. Drive me in my car or I'll find someone else who will."
Wayne takes the keys from him and looks at the paramedic. "Does he need anything? A bag hookup or something?"
"He needs to keep pressure on the wound," she tells him. "And he shouldn't put any weight on the leg whatsoever—which is why I strongly recommend he take an ambulance, so we can transport him from this spot on a gurney directly to a bed."
"Roland," Wayne says, looking back at his partner, already nervous as hell.
"I'm not taking a fucking ambulance, Wayne," Roland says.
"You got a wheelchair in one of them ambulances?" Wayne says to the paramedic.
It takes two uniform guys and Wayne to help Roland into the wheelchair and then into the back of his car, where he stretches out both legs on the seat and leans his back against one of the doors. Wayne can't fit the folded up wheelchair in the trunk, and the paramedic assures him that hospital staff will bring one out at the ER entrance, if he asks.
"You're fuckin crazy," Wayne says to Roland once they get on the road, peering at him in the rearview mirror. He's not even sure he can safely drive them to the hospital, considering how shaky he is, but he's not about to tell Roland that. "You suddenly decide to have something against ambulances on this fucking day of all days? Why?"
Roland doesn't answer at first, and Wayne tries getting a look at him but can't see his face too well. The single red police light swivels and flashes on the dashboard, and ahead of them a few car lengths away is an ambulance with its sirens blaring.
"You wouldn't have ridden with me," says Roland. "You would've followed in the car, and I don't want to be alone with strangers right now."
The answer grabs Wayne by the throat, sparks an ache in his belly. He wants to say, I would've ridden with you if you'd just asked, but he can't bring himself to speak.
"You don't get to give me shit about the war ever again," Roland says, his voice soft and breathy.
And that's when Wayne realizes why he's so shaken up: this is Vietnam all over again. Not since his last tour in the war almost thirteen years ago has he been as close to another man as he is to Roland, one reason being how traumatizing it was to his twenty and twenty-two year old self to lose more than one close friend to a land mine or bullets. He never thought he would have to go through that again, though it was probably a naïve belief given the nature of police work. But in twelve years as a cop, he's never had to fire his weapon until today, never been in a shoot-out, and never knew another cop who got shot on the job. He bought into the illusion of safety. He had let himself slip into the belief that he'd left the threat of violence behind in the jungle. He never thought he'd have to kill another man again, but today he has. He never thought he'd have to fear for a friend's life again, but today, in West Finger, Arkansas, he came damn close to surviving Roland West.
The tires screech as Wayne turns into the ER drop-off lane at Mercy Hospital. He gets out of the car and jogs inside, calling for help, and a pair of nurses follows him back outside with a wheelchair. He opens the car door that Roland's sitting against, slips his arms under Roland's, and hauls him backward into the chair.
"We'll take it from here, sir," one of the nurses says, as she starts pushing Roland toward the automatic glass doors.
"Wayne," Roland says. "You better fucking stay. Don't you go back to that God damn scene."
"I'm not going anywhere, Roland. I'll be right there," says Wayne, following behind the nurses but slowing down with each step. "Just give me a minute. I'll be right there."
Roland and the nurses disappear inside, and Wayne is left standing alone outside, trying to breathe.
He looks down and notices for the first time the blood on his shirt. He doesn't know when Roland got it on him.
2015
"Wayne," Roland calls, his voice traveling up to the second floor.
A moment later, Wayne appears at the top of the stairs. "Yeah?"
"Come down here."
Wayne descends the stairs and joins Roland in the kitchen. "You need something?" he says.
"I'm makin beef stew for dinner," Roland replies. "I want you to help me out."
Wayne blinks as if he can't quite believe the good cook in this relationship wants him anywhere near his process. "All right. How?"
Roland steps aside to reveal two cutting boards and a pile of raw vegetables on the countertop behind him. "We're going to chop all this stuff up."
"You sure you trust me with a knife?" Wayne says, mostly teasing.
Roland gives him a mild look. "You haven't forgotten how to drive a car. I think we're gonna be okay with some kitchen knives."
Wayne goes over to Roland, and Roland hands him a knife. Wayne turns on the radio that sits in the windowsill above the sink and tunes it to his favorite music station. Roland hands him a potato and starts peeling a carrot.
They stand side by side at the counter, chopping the vegetables without speaking, Roland's right elbow brushing against Wayne's left from time to time. Wayne moves from potatoes to celery, and Roland from carrots to onion. The onion makes Roland cry, and he grouses a bit as he rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand. Wayne just smiles to himself, not saying a word.
When at last the stew is simmering on the stove, the two men go outside on the back patio to have a beer while they wait. It's chilly now after sundown, but neither one of them minds it, as long as they've got jackets on. Roland tosses a ball to the dog he brought over today, and he and Wayne watch the silhouette of the animal bounding around on the darkened lawn. A few lonely stars twinkle in the pale, early night, but they can't see the moon.
"Roland," says Wayne.
"Yeah, buddy," Roland replies.
"I'm sorry."
Roland frowns at Wayne, taken off guard. "For what?"
"Shutting you out. Wasting so much time. I should've called. I should've come to see you."
Roland just looks at him and almost dismisses the lost years as water under the bridge, but he can't quite get himself to speak the words. A part of him has been hurt all along that Wayne cast him aside the way he did, with no explanation or reason that Roland could identify. When he stopped being mad and self-righteous, back in '90 or '91, he moved right into being sad—sad that Wayne could so easily walk away from him again. It made him wonder for a while if there was something wrong with him, something that meant he didn't deserve a friend. He almost reached out and made contact with Wayne a few times, after that night Wayne picked him up from the bar. Got so far as to walk up to Wayne and Amelia's front door, one day in '95. But he couldn't ring the doorbell. He's not even sure why.
"I—I don't remember exactly what I was thinking," says Wayne. "Back then. In the 90s. Maybe I thought I wouldn't be able to separate myself from police work, if I kept seeing you. I don't know. Whatever it was, I regret it. I probably thought you'd be okay without me."
The proud part of Roland wants to interject that he was okay. But he's too old now to fool himself the way he used to. He's been lonely most of his life, but the last decade was out of hand. And even before he retired from the force, he missed Wayne. He never made another friend after they parted ways in '90. He was always well-liked and respected on the job, but he didn't bond with anyone in particular after making lieutenant. Whether that's because of who he is or part of being a ranking officer, he's not sure. All he knows is, it's been a lonely 25 years without Purple Hays.
"I thought about you," Wayne tells him. "I know that doesn't mean much, but—I did think about you. Hoped you were doing all right. And I missed you, Roland." Wayne shakes his head, wincing with sadness and regret. "I did miss you."
Roland reaches out and lays his hand on Wayne's arm. "Hey. The past don't matter now. All we got is today, and today, we're both here. Together. I'm glad you came and found me again, man. I missed you too."
Wayne offers him a weak smile and pats Roland's hand. "I'm glad you're living with me."
"So am I."
1979
Wayne shows up on Roland's doorstep at around 10 p.m. on Saturday, November 3, and it's clear he's been drinking. He gives Roland a sluggish blink and doesn't even say hello. Roland's already in his bathrobe, t-shirt, and boxer shorts for the night, a half-empty beer in his hand and another three waiting for him in the refrigerator.
"You forget what day and time it is again?" he says to Wayne. "Because as you can see, I'm not about to go to work."
"You watch the news?" Wayne slurs.
Of course. Roland should've known. He steps aside and pulls the door open wider to let Wayne in, and Wayne passes him on the way to the couch.
Some white-hooded jackasses and self-proclaimed Nazis killed five Communists in Greensboro, North Carolina today. Four of the five dead were white men in the Communist Party, but the fifth was a black woman, also a member. None of the Klan or their Nazi friends are dead so far—because that's the kind of world it is.
Roland brings out the SoCo and a couple of clean glasses from the kitchen. Wayne sits like dead weight on the couch, staring at the TV that's tuned to a movie Roland started watching for the distraction. He's wearing a sweater and jeans, the collar of a white t-shirt peeking out from underneath the sweater. He looks as down as Roland's ever seen him.
Roland sits next to him and pours them each a whiskey, offering one to Wayne. He's got no idea what to say or what exactly Wayne's upset about, so he finishes his beer and waits for Wayne to start doing the talking.
"What year is it?" Wayne says.
"1979," Roland replies. "You're not that drunk, are you?"
"You sure it's not 1969?"
"I fucking hope not, or my war days are ahead of me instead of behind."
"Ten years ago, they killed Willie Grimes up there and turned a school into a fuckin' war zone. Now, this shit. Only this time, it's the fuckin Klan and a bunch of Nazi wannabes instead of the feds. Same town, a decade later. What's changed?"
Roland can think of plenty that's changed, but he knows better than to go there with Wayne now. Instead, he says, "I didn't know you had a soft spot for Commies."
Wayne scoffs, holding his whiskey in one hand on his knee. "Believe me, I don't," he says. "But those people weren't there pushing communism. They were protesting the Klan. That's what matters. That's what got them killed."
"Most of them were white. And you still feel sorry for em."
Wayne gives Roland a sidelong look. "If that comes as a surprise, you got some fucked up notions about me, Roland."
"It doesn't surprise me you're upset the bad guys won. I just didn't expect this level of distress for a bunch of white communists, even if they meant well," Roland says. He looks into his drink as if he might find insight about his partner there. "I know one of the victims was black. And a woman, too. Damn shame, that."
They sit together in silence for a while, staring at the TV so that they don't have to look at each other. They empty their glasses, and Roland pours them a second round. Wayne's already drunk, sure, but Roland wants to get there himself.
"You think about this kind of shit a lot?" he says. "When you're sitting at home by yourself?"
Wayne takes a small sip of whiskey as if he's just warming up his tongue. "I try not to," he replies. "But as a black man in this country and in this particular region of the country, I don't have a choice but to think about it. At the end of the day, I am what I am. My badge doesn't change that."
Roland pauses, then says, "Maybe you should get a dog."
"What the fuck kind of suggestion is that?"
"A dog would take your mind off things, keep you company, and give you something to take care of other than yourself. I hate the fucking things, but a dog might do you some good, Wayne."
Wayne shakes his head and drinks.
Roland sighs, sagging into the sofa. "Look, you can't change what happened in Greensboro. Today or ten years ago. And you sure as hell can't change the Klan or any of those motherfuckers who wish Hitler was still alive so they could suck his dick. But you can do your job and you can look after whoever or whatever you care about. That's got to be enough—because if it's not, the bullshit will eat you alive. And then you won't be good to anybody."
Wayne contemplates that, as Roland takes a drink and leans forward to retrieve the pack of cigarettes and lighter from the table. He sticks a Camel in his mouth and offers the pack to Wayne. Roland lights Wayne's cigarette first, then his own, and soon, they're sitting in a cloud of smoke that grows until it hovers over the coffee table and approaches the television.
"You know, when we first met, I had low expectations of you," says Wayne.
Roland looks at him, holding his cigarette between his fingers.
"Not as a detective," Wayne continues. "As a man."
"A white man," says Roland.
"A white cop."
"Well, I hope I've lived up to your expectations, Purple."
"You've exceeded them," Wayne replies. "So far."
"I guess I can't feel too proud." Roland sucks on his cigarette, hiding his surprising sense of relief. "If all I had to do was not be a total shit."
They fall quiet, letting drunkenness wash over them and the nicotine chill them out.
"You doing anything tomorrow?" says Wayne.
"Sunday's the day I run errands and do laundry," Roland replies. "Probably need to go to the grocery store and stock up. You can keep me company, if you want."
"Sure."
In the morning, Roland makes them scrambled eggs and coffee. He's been working on the eggs. Wayne tells him they're pretty good.
2015
Wayne agreed soon after Roland started living with him part-time to make a copy of the house key, so Roland can come and go as he pleases without ringing the doorbell every time he arrives. On a cool afternoon in autumn, Roland lets himself in the front door with a paper bag of groceries against his chest and his sunglasses on.
"Lucy, I'm home," he hollers, limping his way to the kitchen. The house is quiet, and there's no sign of Wayne on the ground floor. Roland puts the bag down on the kitchen counter and surveys his surroundings, before approaching the staircase. "Wayne?"
No answer. Roland pauses at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for some sign of Wayne emerging from one of the second floor rooms. He's always been able to get up and down stairs just fine on his bum leg, but these days, climbing them takes more effort than he's usually in the mood to spend.
He makes it up to the second floor and finds all the doors open. He checks the master bedroom first, finding it empty along with the bathroom. Wayne's not in the office either. He's not in Roland's room or what used to be Rebecca's. Roland stands in the middle of the upstairs corridor turning in a circle as if maybe Wayne will appear out of thin air. When he doesn't, Roland goes back downstairs and checks the laundry room and the backyard.
Wayne's gone. Roland doesn't take more than about five seconds to start panicking.
He calls the other man, then sees Wayne's phone vibrating on the kitchen table as he hears it go to voicemail.
Roland hurries upstairs again and into the office, looking for the gun. He doesn't see it on the desk. He moves into the master bedroom and starts pulling drawers out of dressers and night tables.
He finds the gun in the top drawer of the right side night table and breathes a sigh of relief.
But a moment later, he's back to freaking out because Wayne left home without his cell phone, by himself, on foot. His car's still in the driveway. Roland weighs the pros and cons of calling Henry and alerting him to the situation, then decides he better search the neighborhood first.
He sets out southbound on Wayne's street, scanning the area, wondering if he should be knocking on every door and asking the neighbors if they've seen Wayne. As far as Roland knows, Wayne isn't friendly with anybody in his neighborhood, not enough to get invited over for afternoon tea anyway.
Roland tries and fails not to imagine all kinds of crazy, unlikely scenarios involving Wayne getting hit by a car, getting arrested for walking into the wrong house, running into a bunch of bad men who rob him and beat him and leave him for dead, or finally having lost all memory of who he is and the life he's lived in one fell swoop, never to remember again. Roland's heart beats fast, his breathing quick and shallow, and he's almost light-headed, he's so afraid, eyes wildly searching every direction as he limps down the street.
He finds Wayne in the park, a couple blocks from the house.
"Wayne!" Roland barks.
Wayne turns around, sees him, and says, "Roland. What are you doing here?"
He's smiling the way old men do, not at all the way he used to when they were young. He doesn't look like the Purple Hays Roland used to know. Nothing's right anymore.
Roland doesn't know whether to slap him, hug him, or fall down in the grass and cry.
"What the fuck are you doing?" he says instead.
Wayne glances around him like he's unsure what he's done wrong but trusts that he has done something, if Roland's upset. "I felt like going for a walk," he replies. "Been a while since we came to the park and the weather's nice. I thought I'd come out here before you showed up and just…"
"Jesus, man. Jesus. You scared the shit out of me."
Wayne blinks at him like he can't imagine why his going for a walk in his own neighborhood would bother Roland at all.
"You can't just wander off without your phone, not leave a fucking note, and not tell anyone where you're going," Roland continues, his voice raised just an octave above his usual volume. "Fuck."
Some part of him is aware he shouldn't be so hot with Wayne, that his friend didn't mean to scare him, but it's too late now. He's pissed, pissed in a way he's never had to be before because he's not a father.
"Roland," Wayne says, taking a few steps toward him. "I'm sorry. I'm okay. Really."
Roland looks at him, cooling off a little, still catching his breath.
Wayne gets closer and touches his arm. "Let's go home. All right?"
The birds are singing, hidden in the trees that stand in clusters at the park corners, and the sky's shade of blue looks sharper somehow, in the rush of Roland's fear. The yellow chrysanthemums bob in the breeze, standing out in the middle of the dying lawn. Wayne's right. It's a good day to talk a walk and sit in the park.
But Roland doesn't feel like staying.
"Come on," Wayne says, hooking his arm around Roland's and ushering him back toward the sidewalk.
They get a block down the street, still arm in arm, before Roland can think of anything to say.
"Sorry I yelled," he murmurs. "You can kick my ass for it later."
Wayne just smiles. They don't speak again until they're back at the house.
1990
One of their first afternoons back together again, on the road, Roland and Wayne stop at a Braum's for lunch. They eat outside in the parking lot, leaning against the hood of the car. Theirs is one of the only vehicles in the oversized lot, the sun-bleached cement stretching on for what seems like a long and desolate walk between the two ends. Burgers and fries dipped into ketchup, washed down with Coke. For a few minutes there, it's almost like they're back in '80 again or even the late 70s, when they were partners.
"You know, I miss it," Roland says. "Being a detective."
Wayne looks at him. "How's that?"
"It's different when you're a ranking man. Less time in the field. I don't know. I had a better time before I got promoted."
Wayne smiles that ironic type smile of his and sips on his Coke. "Funny how shit turns out that way," he says.
Roland looks down at his boots and says, "I never had designs on power and authority, you know. I guess I don't mind the pay raise that came with this job, but I was doing all right on a detective's salary too. If I still had two good legs, I don't know that I'd be where I am."
"Definitely not."
Roland catches Wayne's teasing intent behind the deadpan tone and gives him a humoring smile, grabbing a couple lukewarm fries from the bottom of his boat.
"I don't know how you did it," Roland says, looking out across the parking lot. "Ten years in public information. I thought you would've quit after a couple years at most."
Wayne finishes chewing before he answers. "I guess I kept hoping I'd get transferred out. It was a steady paycheck, and I don't really know what else I would do. Time passes and before you know it, it's been a whole fuckin' decade."
"I would've quit inside a year, if I had even taken the job in the first place. You got an amazing amount of patience."
"Patience's an important life skill when you got my pigmentation," Wayne replies.
Roland looks at him, remembering the last time Wayne used that word at the VFW last week, and Wayne makes eye contact with him.
They look away from each other again and face ahead.
"Guess we all got our lessons to learn," says Roland. "Maybe one of yours is, know when to stop putting up with bullshit."
2015
A couple weeks after Wayne's disappearance to the park, Roland shows up later than he planned on one of his nights at Wayne's house, letting himself in without a word. He's drunk, more than he usually is this time of night when he stays with Wayne. He spent the last couple hours brooding over some old photographs he finally dug out of storage of him and Wayne back in '78 and '79, before the god damn Purcell case wrecked everything.
Wayne's asleep on the sofa, the soft glow of the TV and the floor lamp on the opposite side of the living room illuminating half of his wrinkled face. He looks peaceful. He looks like a man who needs protecting, so unlike the young detective and Vietnam veteran Roland knew in the late 70s. When they were partners, Roland was always aware that Wayne could kill him with his bare hands if he really wanted to, and now, the man has been reduced to this shuffling, stooping version of himself that can't remember his own strength or skills.
Roland feels his eyes well up with tears all of a sudden, as he stands there watching Wayne sleep. He purses his lips, his gut knotting up and a painful lump rising in his throat. He flees without even turning off the TV, heading upstairs to his room where the tears start to fall down his face. He takes off his boots and lies down on the bed, curled up on his side. He lets himself cry in earnest, not holding back, a big wet stain quickly forming on his pillow.
It's not fair. He already lost twenty-five years he could've spent with Wayne, and now in the blink of an eye, he's going to lose the man himself, twice over. Mentally, then physically. Instead of living out the rest of his days with an old friend, he's going to spend them alone after all, once Wayne leaves him behind. It's just plain fucking unfair.
"Roland?" comes Wayne's soft voice from the bedroom doorway.
Roland peers over at him just for a second.
Wayne takes a few steps into the room. "You all right? What's wrong?"
Roland sniffs, not even bothering to try to compose himself now. "I'm fine, man," he replies. "Just go on to bed."
"You're cryin."
Roland doesn't respond because he can't think of a good bullshit explanation. "Don't worry about it," he says.
Wayne hesitates, then crosses the room and sits on the bed in the empty half at Roland's back. "Would you tell me what's wrong?" he says. "Maybe I can help."
Roland can't even see the wall in front of him clearly, he's crying so much. Trying not to sob out loud.
"Ya dogs okay?" Wayne asks.
"Dogs are fine," Roland says, his voice paper thin and broken. "I just—don't want you to die, Wayne. Don't want you to forget me either."
Wayne doesn't answer, but Roland can feel the shift in energy between them, the silence heavy with their mutual powerlessness and pain. Some part of Roland wants to get mad, wants to curse God and find someone to fight, wants to yell at Wayne some more for abandoning him in '90. But he's already spent enough time being pissed off about the way his life turned out, he knows it won't do him any good. He's old and tired and sick of being angry.
Wayne lays his hand on Roland's shoulder, and the warmth of it sends a shiver through Roland.
"I'll try to remember you as long as I can," Wayne says. "Promise. And when I forget, you just remind me. Okay? Tell me all the stories you got. I'll believe you."
Roland can't muster up any kind of response to that, it hits him like a hard punch to the solar plexus. The tears keep streaming over his face and into the pillow, and he feels lower than he has in a long time.
Wayne lies down next to him and gently wraps his arm around Roland, following the lines of his shape with his own body. Roland shuts his eyes and sniffs, giving in to the tenderness of Wayne's gesture. He doesn't want to turn around to check if Wayne himself has been brought to tears. And he feels a little bit guilty—because if anyone needs comforting and reassurance, it's Wayne. But Roland just can't bring himself to do anything except lie still and let Wayne hold him.
They fall asleep like that, the night table lamp still casting its yellow glow over Wayne's back.
1980
By the time Wayne returns to the hospital the day after the shoot-out, it's almost ten in the morning, and the world looks different in the wake of his first sexual encounter with Amelia. He's got the day off, so he took his time leaving her place, finishing the day's first cup of coffee in the car as he drove himself home dressed only in yesterday's pants and his wife beater. The bloody shirt, he stuffed into the first garbage can he saw on the street. He cleaned himself up—showered, shaved, put on new clothes—and stopped by a deli for a couple of hot bagels and cream cheese because Roland deserves better than whatever's in the hospital cafeteria.
The curtains are pulled back on the window in Roland's room, and muted sunlight filters in. His head's turned toward the window and away from the door when Wayne walks in, and for a second, Wayne thinks he must still be knocked out. But Roland slowly turns his head just as Wayne reaches the foot of the bed and smiles a doped up smile, teeth and all.
"Purple Hays," he says, his voice raspy and his speech slow. "My man."
Wayne can't help but smile back at him in earnest. "Hey, partner," he says. "How you doin?"
"Pretty good, all things considered. They got me on some good shit."
"Probably morphine." Wayne glances at the drip full of its clear liquid. "The doctor debrief you yet?"
"As soon as I woke up," Roland replies. "Guess I get to keep my leg but I probably won't walk right again. Kind of a wait-and-see."
Wayne grimaces. Last night, it hadn't crossed his mind that Roland might be permanently disabled. He'd only been worried about the most pressing question: will he lose the leg from the knee down, thanks either to infection or the damage itself? The wound hadn't looked that bad to him on Woodard's property, but you never know how bad it really is until you start digging into it. Infection's still a possibility, until the wound completely heals. It's unlikely, but Roland will have to do what he's told.
"Hey," Roland says gently, looking a little more alert now. "Don't you feel sorry for me. I'll be fine."
Wayne puts on his cool face again and says, "It's going to take more than a leg wound to get me to pity a white man."
"Good. That's the Purple I know."
Wayne holds up the paper bag in his hand. "Hope you're hungry."
"What'd you bring me?"
Wayne reaches into the bag and shows Roland one of the bagels.
"Smells good," says Roland. "You put anything on it?"
"Cream cheese."
Wayne hands the first bagel to Roland, then sits on the bed and takes out the second. They munch in silence at first, not quite looking at each other.
"This is making me want some good coffee," says Roland.
"I could go get you some downstairs, but that shit ain't good," Wayne replies.
"Which do you think is worse: hospital coffee or what we got at the station?"
Wayne gives Roland a look. "Hospital stuff is the worst. Always is. The coffee at work's not that bad."
They're quiet again for a little while, finishing the bagels. Wayne looks out the window, having no idea what to do with the rest of his day. He'll have to give his official statement on the shootout sooner or later, but he'd rather put it off as long as he can.
"I always thought you'd be the one to leave first after getting promoted," Roland says. "Now maybe you'll be the one stuck with a new partner."
Wayne turns and looks at him. "Why?"
"If I can't run…." Roland doesn't finish the sentence, letting Wayne catch up to him.
And Wayne does realize what he means. Usually, a physical disability means the end of a detective's field career. They might promote Roland to a higher ranking position that puts him at a desk, or they might give him some version of an early retirement pension. One way or another, though, they'll put him out to pasture if he can't pass the unit's physical fitness requirements.
Wayne has to try hard not to show Roland how wilted he feels inside.
"I'm going to do my best to get back on my feet ASAP," says Roland. "This is our case. I mean to finish it with you. You might have to convince them to let me, though."
"You'd have an easier time convincing them yourself," Wayne says. He looks down into his lap, the high of his night with Amelia now totally evaporated. "You shouldn't be thinking about any of this now. Just focus on healing up. We'll deal with everything else later. It'll take at least a few days for them to process the scene at the house. I don't think the case is going to move much in the meantime."
Roland lets out a sigh and looks up at the ceiling, his hands now on the bed next to his thighs. "Man, I could use a cigarette right now. Or a joint."
Wayne snorts and gives him a look. "Pretty sure they don't want you smoking anything in here. And that morphine should be more than enough."
"I just want something to do," says Roland. "Take my mind off things."
Wayne understands that. He crumples up the paper bag and tosses it into the waste basket not far from the bed. "I'll bring you some cards or something. How long they keeping you?"
"Just for the day, I think. Observation. Not sure if I'm staying overnight."
"Well, I'll drive you home whenever you're ready."
"All right. 'preciate it."
Wayne gets up from the bed and heads for the door. "You still want coffee?"
"Nah, I guess not. I could use some more water, though."
Roland looks at the empty cup on the table next to his bed. They're keeping him hydrated with an IV, but his mouth must be dry.
"Okay," says Wayne. "Be right back."
2015
By the time Halloween comes around, Roland's spending five nights a week at Wayne's house and calling him the other two nights. He's put more miles on his truck in the last few months than he has in the last couple years, with all the back and forth.
Some days, it seems like Wayne's getting better. Other times, he's as bad off as he was when he first showed up on Roland's property with Henry. The good days give Roland hope, and the bad ones snatch it all away and make him want to drink as much as he used to. But he doesn't know what else to do except carry on being there. He dreads the day that Wayne looks at him like he's a stranger who doesn't belong in his house. He's grateful it hasn't come yet.
"I'm not going into a fuckin institution, Roland," Wayne says one night, when he's as clear and sharp as ever. "I told Henry. He and Becca try to pull that shit, I'm killing myself. That's what the gun's for. And I'm trusting you to understand and not try to get in my way if it comes to that."
"Hey," says Roland. "It won't come to that. All right? Whatever you want for yourself, that's what your kids will do."
Wayne gives him a look. "Sometimes, I have my doubts. I guess I can't blame them, but—I have a right to die how I want to, where I want to."
Roland grimaces. "I'll talk to them if I have to. They don't know how this kind of thing can go, but I do. You don't need to go anywhere. We can stay right here. Get a nurse, if you need one."
A sober expression suddenly comes over Wayne's face, and he blinks a few times, looking away from Roland. "You gonna stay?" he says. He finds Roland's eyes again, and his demeanor shifts with the realization that his old friend might decide to bail on him when things get hard. "You gonna stay 'til the end, Roland?"
Roland gives him a pained shadow of a smile, a knot tightening in his gut. "Yeah, Purple. I'm staying."
Wayne's eyes glisten, and his voice changes. Maybe he's been as lonely since Amelia died as Roland has been since he retired, and he just didn't know it until now. "You promise?"
Roland clasps Wayne's shoulder, trying not to choke up. "I promise," he says. "I'll be here until you don't need me anymore."
A tear slips out of Wayne's eye, and he wipes it away. "Well, I'm always going to need you," he says.
Roland squeezes Wayne's shoulder, his own eyes stinging. He nods.
They go back to the VFW not long after that day, just to revisit the place where two of the most important conversations in Wayne's life occurred. Wayne can't remember the last time he stopped by here. It looks mostly the same as it did in the 90s, the changes so small and subtle that it would take Wayne at his full cognitive power to notice them. The bartenders he used to know are long dead, and the guy working on the afternoon Wayne and Roland show up is younger than they are by at least ten years.
"Jesus," Roland says, as they take two stools at the bar. "Talk about a blast from the past."
"You remember?" says Wayne.
"Of course, I remember. This is where I got you back on the job."
They order a couple of cold beers and soak in the atmosphere, both of them getting flashbacks to that afternoon in 1990 when Roland met Wayne here and brought him on to the Purcell case re-opening. Back then, the world was nothing like it is now, and neither one of them could've predicted how the following twenty-five years would unfold for them. They can remember being young back then, how little they appreciated it, and for a moment, the feeling of wistfulness passes through them. They both wish they could go back. Do things over again. And they're both old enough to know regret is a waste of time, along with missing youth. They feel it anyway, here at the bar, just for half a song.
"You know, I think you're the best friend I ever had," Wayne says. "As a man."
Roland turns his head to look at him, touched.
"You were a pain in the ass sometimes," Wayne adds. "But I guess I was too."
"Definitely," says Roland.
"I never thanked you—for trying to get me back into detective work. No one else on the force ever looked out for me. And you didn't have to."
"I requested a transfer for you twice before '90. Guess I never told you that. I got shut down after the second time."
Wayne looks at him and smiles. "Thank you," he says. "For trying."
Roland looks down at the rim of his beer bottle, a little bit bashful. "You don't have to thank me. You deserved the job. More than I ever did."
They sit side by side, listening to the country music playing softly over the speakers, and finish drinking.
"You're the friend I liked the most," says Roland. "I'm lucky we met."
They order another round just so they can hang out a while longer, elbows touching on the bar top, the past swirling around them and the future locked outside.
If the feeling of love hadn't already occurred to them at some point in the 70s, 80s, or '90 or during the last several months, they feel its presence now. They'll just save the words for later.