Title: I find no peace, and all my war is done
Fandom: Dead and Breakfast/"Smallville" crossover
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Sir Thomas Wyatt the Elder
Warnings: AU for Dead and Breakfast; AU for "Smallville"
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 665
Point of view: third
After surviving the zombies in Lovelock and making sure the kids were safe, the Sheriff and Drifter stayed together for a few months before going their separate ways. The Sheriff was tired of dark magic and curses—he'd had his fill in Lovelock—and that's all the Drifter did: drift from place to place breaking them.
About a week after leaving the Drifter in a speck of a town called Smallville, the Sheriff found a kid covered in dust and stumbling down the road. He was bloody and bruised, muttering about how he couldn't find his mom.
The Sheriff planted himself in the kid's way and tried to catch his attention, but the boy—no more than twenty-five, if that—just went around him.
So he wasn't completely out of it, then.
"Hey, boy," the Sheriff said in his most commanding tone, grabbing the kid's shoulder.
The kid flinched from his touch, bringing a hand up to punch blindly. The Sheriff restrained him easily.
The kid's litany about his mother changed to "Let me go, let me go, let me go!" He bucked and kicked, repeating the same three words over and over.
The Sheriff backed away, holding his hands up. "Hey, now, calm on down there, friend," he said. "I just wanna look you over, get you some medical attention. You look mighty hurt."
The kid trembled in place, eyes hazel and huge. "I don't," he mumbled. "I have to find Mom."
"Well, how about this," the Sheriff said. "You come with me. There's a town about an hour's drive north. We'll get a doc to look you over, get you cleaned up some. You can sleep, eat somethin', and then we'll ask the police about your mama." He paused, waiting for the kid to say something. After a moment, he asked, "How's that sound?"
The kid said, "I have to find Mom."
Sighing, the Sheriff muttered, "Okey-dokey, then." He slowly stepped forward, keeping his hands in the kid's sight. "If you come with me, I promise to look for her."
Skittishly, the kid backed away, but he looked at the Sheriff. "You'll help me?"
The Sheriff nodded. "But first, we have to get you checked out. You're walkin' wounded, friend. I ain't even sure how you're still on your feet." The kid looked like he'd survived Lovelock's zombie massacre.
The Sheriff held out a hand. "Let me help you into my truck, friend. You won't find your mama if you collapse out here in the corn."
He stood still, waiting for the kid to make the first move. The kid shuffled closer, eyes shooting warily from the Sheriff's hand to his face and back. Finally, he stopped, barely in reach. "You'll help?" he asked again, clearly fighting unconsciousness.
"Sure as a cow gives milk," the Sheriff said. "I give you my word, boy."
"Jason," the kid said, wilting. As the Sheriff caught him, he added, "My name's Jason," and passed out.
"Well, alright," the Sheriff said. "Nice to meet you, Jason."
Jason was thin but strong; he'd been well take care of till recently. The Sheriff gave him a quick look over, but no wounds stood out. He was just bruised with lots of cuts. The Sheriff swung him up into a fireman's carry and brought him to the truck. Jason whimpered as the Sheriff buckled him in. "Sorry, friend," he murmured. "But I can't go lettin' you get even more beat up, can I? For now, you're my responsibility, ain't ya?"
The kid didn't answer, being unconscious and all, but the Sheriff said, "That's right, you sure are."
He closed the door and hurried around the truck, sliding in and gunning her. "Don't know how long you been wanderin', friend," he told Jason, "but you really should'a seen a doctor a while ago. It's time to be rectifying that."
He drove north, playing country music and singing along, occasionally reaching over to pat Jason's shoulder and saying, "It'll be alright now."
