AN: This started as a one x one between femalevolent and me after we met on a roleplay forum. I had Remo, Norman, and Bradley; she had Dylan, Norma, and Romero. Things were simple. Jigsawing it all into chapter one when we decided to fic this was not. -Rooster

"I wasn't shitting you when I said Gil'd be pissed if he found out about your little break-in."

They sat before the dying fire, Remo nursing a black eye with an empty beer bottle from his truck, Dylan clenching a half-full one in his hands. "Hurts like a bitch. That guy…" Remo flicked a few ashes off his cigarette and watched them crumble in the blaze. "Looks like a goddamn lightweight, but he's got a helluva strong arm. Shit..."

Dylan should have been thanking him. Should have been, but wasn't. So he got roughed up a little. It wasn't the worst beating he'd ever had, and it certainly wouldn't be his last. At least he hadn't been fired.

Fired.

Even the word made his balls retract.

The way Gil had said it, matter-of-factly, left little to the imagination. Some days, he felt like he was in over his head and wondered what might have happened if he'd never run into Ethan at that strip joint; hadn't been lured by the flash of easy money; hadn't come to White Pine Bay at all. But the alternative would have looked like what, exactly? Find a couple of part-time seasonal gigs somewhere up north that paid zilch in comparison; make enough to scrape out a meager existence; put gas in his tank; food in his belly; roof over his head? And then what? Settle down? That was a joke.

"It doesn't even look that bad." His terse, level response only elicited a dirty look that he could feel through his leather jacket. "I mean, what do you want me to say?"

"Nothing. Never mind." And as happy as Remo was to let them sit in silence, Dylan was even happier to comply. The warmed-over beer felt heavy in his gut, hardly helped by the sunbeams radiating down and illuminating every particle of dust around them in a flurry of glowing, shimmering white.

For a long time, the only sounds that broke through the forest canopy were the strangled cries of birds as they wheeled around the distorted image of the sun, coupled every so often with the snapping of twigs beneath chipmunks' feet, or the rustling of leaves when a cool breeze passed by. Six hours of guarding the fields was never a particularly interesting task, but today it seemed more taxing on Dylan's brain than usual; the stillness, the quiet, allowed his mind to torment him with thoughts of the week's events.

His brother was a rumored killer – no, he was a killer – but now he was rumored to have done it again, slashed the throat of his language arts teacher in the four walls of her own apartment. His stomach twisted at the idea of it, but knotted around the question – why was Norman even there?

But then…Dylan wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

"Pretty little thing, wasn't she?"

He blanched; it was as though Remo had read his mind.

"Uh…I'm sorry, what?"

"That teacher, the one that's all over the news." Remo took a drag off his cigarette and blew smoke into the wind. "I'd like to wear her like a ski mask…well, not anymore. I pass on the whole necrophilia deal." As Dylan opened his mouth to reply,"Oh, right. Nec-cro-phil-ia, is when you have sex with corpses-"

"I know what it means." His lips pressed into a grim line, casting a glance in Remo's direction. From the looks of it, his partner's attention was returning to the battered book in his hands, but it wasn't long before: "Wouldn't mind giving her something I like to call a Dirty Leftie."

"You're a sick fuck, you know that?" But Remo remained unfazed.

"You think she's ever gotten one before?" Dylan released a long sigh and shifted in his seat; his partner would run out of steam eventually. "Do you even know what that is, son? That's when you, uh…never mind." Remo scratched the back of his neck and flipped a page in his book. "Yeah, probably not. Those scholarly types…they don't know a 'corkscrew' from a, well, y'know…a corkscrew."

Not even gonna dignify that with a response. It was little wonder why Gil had chosen him to lead over Remo's twenty some-odd years of experience. He knew better than to mention it, of course. There was enough estrogen in his life without having to listen to another one of his partner's hissy fits.

The pervasive silence that began to settle over them was almost immediately replaced by the sound of tires ripping through underbrush, snapping twigs, and the distinct smell of cheap gasoline saturated the air. Remo stretched back in his crappy lawn chair to see Don and Ronny's truck plow through the clearing.

"About fucking time." Dylan clambered to his feet and gave a stretch towards the sky, his spine snap, crackle, and popping back into alignment after having sat still for so long. Snatching up his .45, he switched the safety off and cleared the chamber before tucking the handgun into his waistband.

"Ready to hit the road, Golden Boy?" Remo asked, shoving his phone into his pocket. "Just gotta tell me where I'm driving you today. The usual 'back home', or are you gonna actually do something with your sorry ass tonight?"

Golden Boy. Dylan rolled his eyes and collected the rest of his belongings - couple of books, his cell, a tin of loose tobacco and rolling papers. He never brought much with him to the site and today was no different.

"You already know the answer to that." Dylan threw his bag into the floor before climbing into the cab of Remo's truck, his breath escaping in a small sigh. What else was there to do? He had a few days yet before he was scheduled to move into his new apartment, not that he'd brought much with him. Clothes, mostly. There was a small consignment shop in town that had a few pieces of furniture: dresser, bed frame, coffee table and couch. If Norma hadn't been so adamant about getting that mattress down to the dumpster, he might have had something to sleep on. For now, the threadbare sofa he was thinking of purchasing would have to do. Between cutting, drying, and guarding the fields, he didn't have much time to devote to more practical pursuits. "Just stop by the corner mart on the way, would ya? I want to grab case of beer."

And just like that, they were off.

The tension in the truck had grown routine by now, but that didn't make it any easier to sit through. The only disturbance in the seemingly frozen scene between them was the occasional nervous tapping of Dylan's foot and the sound of his slow, heavy breathing as he stared out his window, visibly detaching himself from Remo in every way.

"How 'bout some music?" Remo flicked the dial and scanned for a station, pausing when Alice in Chains' Rooster hit the speakers."Now this is music." It wasn't like the kid next to him was about to say anything, so he didn't even wait for an answer; rather, by the chorus, he started to sing along.

"Yeah, they've come to snuff the Rooster...Yeah, here comes the Rooster...You know he ain't gonna die!"

His thumbs tapped against the steering wheel before he glanced in Dylan's direction. "You know this song was written for Cantrell's father? Served in 'Nam, godbless'im." Remo crossed himself. "Nah, you don't care though." True as that was, however, he continued—if only for his own sake. "You know I served in the Cold War? 1983, Grenada...Before your time," he added with a scoff.

"That explains a lot," Dylan smirked, his voice laden with sardonic humor. If this was Remo's attempt at bonding, he was doing a shitty job. Or maybe he got a hard-on whenever he heard himself speak, which as a far more likely explanation. He brushed the loose tobacco off his lap and into the floorboards before popping the hand-rolled cigarette between his lips and lighting the end. Smoke curled in ringlets around his face as he exhaled, casting a look in Remo's direction. He wasn't all bad, Remo. A little grizzled, maybe. Had some issues. But then, who didn't? He had no interest in getting close, however. The only thing they had in common was their connection to Gil. As long as they did what was expected of them, he could have cared less about who his partner was. Like it or not, they were stuck together.

"You know- Fuck you, alright?" Remo snapped, and the bitterness of his tone lingered in the air between them long after he looked away.

How long the two of them drove in silence, Dylan couldn't be certain. It wasn't until Remo pulled up in the parking lot at the corner stop, however, that he decided to test the waters again. "You, ah, want anything?"

"Grab me a carton'a Newports, how 'bout? And none of that Menthol bullshit neither. Get me the real deal. This should cover everything." Remo tossed him a crumpled fifty dollar bill. "And, uh, keep the change."

Dylan caught the fifty against his chest before shoving the wad into his pocket. "Yeah, okay." He paused with his fingers tucked around the door handle, his pulse suddenly in his throat. There, on the bench along the store window, was a figure that was becoming all too familiar these days. Frozen to the spot, he weighed his options. He could tell Remo to stop somewhere else, pray that he'd comply without asking too many questions. Or he could grow some balls and go talk to her. Unfortunately, he wasn't given much of a choice.

"…Hey, isn't that the girl you've been sneaking around with?"

Shit.

"—Why don'tcha say hi for me? You know, sorry for trying to kill her. Just, don't take too long. Ol' Remo wants to get home, alright?"

When he found his voice again, Dylan let out a scoff. "We're not sneaking around. We're just-" though he trailed off. They were just...what? Truth was, the town was only so big. Sooner or later, he was bound to run into her. "I told you. I was just helping her out," he mumbled, staring at Bradley through his window a moment longer before finally getting out. "I'll be back."

"Five minutes, peckerhead - I'm counting!"

Dylan lingered against the truck a second longer before dropping his cigarette and snuffing it out with the heel of his boot. Just walk over, say hello, and go inside. No big deal.

Maybe she wouldn't even see him.

What did he care that she was here?

Why was he even avoiding her? Because of Norman?

Yeah, maybe a little.

Fuck.

He breathed in sharply through his nose, holding the air in his lungs as he stepped onto the curb. "Hey, ah, you doing alright?" He managed a small, but genuine, smile while he hovered on the spot, his eyes drifting towards the front door before meeting Bradley's gaze. Last he'd seen her, he was handing over the box of miscellaneous desk-toppers from her father's office. They didn't have a chance to discuss the fact that, hours before, Remo had been trying to put a slug in her head. But then, she seemed tougher than she looked. Maybe the experience hadn't scarred her for life…

Bradley's face lit up a little as he approached, despite the sadness that lingered in her wide eyes. As he went to sit next to her, she scooted over a little to give him room and clasped her hands together in her lap, nervously casting her gaze down to the fabric of her fingerless gloves.

"I'm...surviving." She offered him a weak smile and shifted back a little closer to him.

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Dylan muttered softly, scraping the sole of his boot against the rough concrete to fill the silence.

Surviving.

Interesting word choice.

Dylan wasn't much of a survivalist by nature. On the surface, he was your average twenty-something set adrift into the world; still prone to making mistakes; still searching for his niche; finding his purpose. He used to think, when he was younger, that things might have been different had Norma never pushed his father away. By the time she was gone, he was far too young to remember what normal felt like. There was the very rare Christmas present, even rarer birthday card, but the addresses changed so frequently, he could never tell where his mother might end up next. John Massett had done the best he could with what he had, which was never much. He shopped around the mommy market for a few years, got remarried twice and divorced both times. Favored Irish whisky and had a penchant for violence if provoked. They'd been in a few scraps before Dylan finally moved out and tried his hand at independence for a few years. Funny how things, as they so often did, came full circle.

"If I find anything else that belongs to your dad, I'll be sure to pass it along. Haven't had much chance to look through the office since...you know. Um, Remo. The, ah, guy who was there. Says he's sorry. Guess we caught him off guard and all." Dylan cleared his throat, looking over at the parked truck a moment before returning to Bradley and lowering his voice. "Gil found out. Had a few...words...with Remo. I think that'll be the end of it, though. Pretty safe to say, I can't be bringing you back in but we shouldn't catch any blow-back from it." He chewed on his lip as he knotted his fingers together-more or less, because it made resisting the urge to reach out and touch her easier.

"Thank you," the girl replied on a long sigh. "For everything. I didn't mean to, you know...start problems or anything." It seemed hearing that Remo was apologetic settled her nerves over the situation a little.

The makings of a smile twitched at the corners of Dylan's mouth as he gave his shoulder a shrug. "If it wasn't something that I could handle, I wouldn't have agreed to it."

Her eyes met his, if only for a second, and then darted back to her hands. "I, um, I did want to talk to you, actually. About, uh, about your brother. My car's parked over there." Bradley nodded towards the curb. "Do you maybe wanna come back to my place with me? It's not like I have anything going on," she concluded with a small laugh, the ghost of a more sincere smile gracing her lips along with a gentle shrug of her shoulders. "If you have time, I mean. I don't want to get in the way of anything..."

Dylan breathed in sharply through his nose, his body going rigid for a brief second when she mentioned his brother. What about Norman? And why did he need to go to her house to hear about it? While he mulled over whether or not to go, his eyes lifted to her face.

Think about this. Really think about this, Dylan. Norman is your brother. Norman still has feelings for this girl. Do you want to break that code?

For fuck's sake. He had enough self-control to keep his hands off of her. Norman didn't have to spell it out for him to know that Bradley Martin was off-limits. Period. So then, why was he nervous? Maybe it was the fact that she offered to give him a lift. If he had his bike, he could have left of his own accord rather than having to depend on her to carry him back to the motel. Why did it even matter? The fact that they were spending time together didn't have to mean anything. They were...friends?

Sure. Friends.

If Norman wanted to throw a tantrum over that, then he could get over it, right? Right.

"No. I mean...I don't have anything planned. I'll...yeah, I'll go." He nodded once before squinting at the truck parked a few spaces away. "I've gotta run inside first and grab a couple of things. Wait here, yeah? It'll only take a second." As he rose to his feet, his hand grazed her shoulder. It was an innocent-enough gesture, one that left him inaudibly cursing under his breath as he headed into the convenience store.

Bradley shivered lightly under his touch, even if it was just the fleeting brush of his hand. "Okay," she agreed as he stepped away.

Rather than head for the cases of beer, he pulled a Tall Boy down from one of the refrigerated display cabinets to carry back with him.

Did Bradley want anything?

Should he have asked?

He was still debating whether or not she'd want a beer as he stepped in line, deciding against it by the time he reached the register. Though he hardly doubted that she was straight-edge, somehow buying her a beer seemed all the more...wrong. It wasn't even the fact that he'd be contributing to the delinquency of a minor; it was buying alcohol for a girl who already made him nervous. Nope. Best not to test his resolve.

He bought a pack of Camels for himself and Remo's carton of Newport reds (none of that menthol bullshit), juggling the items in his arms as he made his way outside. It took a bit of finagling to prop open the door of the cab, freeing up one hand as he slid the carton across the seat to Remo. "Ah...I'm hitching a ride with Bradley." He lingered with his hand against the door frame, glimpsing at the girl in question before his attention fell on Remo.

"Daaamn, 'ombre," his partner chuckled as Dylan explained his plans. "Quite a looker, that one. I dunno why you're always in such a pissy mood all the time if you're banging that fine piece'a tail. Even if she is half your age, ya pedophile." Without a word of thanks, he grabbed a box of cigarettes and took one out to light. "I get the feeling you guys have a long night ahead of ya…"

I get the feeling you guys have a long night ahead of ya.

Dylan was dumbfounded, whatever retort he had brewing in his head never quite reaching his lips. He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again only to find that his tongue felt cumbersome in his mouth. What was the point? To try and defend himself against Remo was a losing battle; his partner was going to assume whatever he wanted to about his supposed relationship with Bradley, regardless of what he said to the contrary. Remo wasn't stupid. He highly doubted that the guy was going to go shooting his mouth off, especially around the warehouse. Gil finding out that he was hanging around the daughter of his old associate (the same employee who'd screwed him out of a hundred thousand and been burned alive because of his transgressions) was just asking for trouble. Remo knew this, which was exactly why he'd keep his mouth shut—if not for Dylan's sake, then to cover his own ass.

"I-I'll see you...tomorrow morning?" he stammered, ignoring the sudden flush to his cheeks.

"Yeah, bright and early…if you can manage."

At his confirmation, Dylan grabbed his bag from the floorboards before slamming the door shut. As he watched the truck squeal out of the parking lot, he could have sworn he heard Remo guffawing through the window. Son of a bitch.

And then the fleeting thought probed at his mind: should I really be doing this?

Well, he'd already agreed to hear Bradley out. Nothing was going to happen. In a few hours, he'd be back at the motel, nursing a beer and bumming a joint off one of the resident stoners.

Signaling to her with a jerk of his head, he stuffed the brown-bagged beer down into his backpack, and followed her over to her car.

What was the worst that could happen?