AN: Title vaguely borrowed from Pearl Jam's 'Garden', which is criminally underrated.
He doesn't sleep, he doesn't sleep because he's still hearing that gunshot and seeing that dog only sometimes it's not the dog, it's Kitty (what's left of her) and-
Yeah. There's a reason he's sitting on his bed, shivering in the cool night breeze and watching the clouds vie for coverage of the moon.
Granny took something for her aches and pains-some bitter concoction the doctor makes for her-that'll keep her asleep tonight. He takes advantage of this to get dressed and go outside for a walk.
It's heavy outside. The breeze is pushing the clouds around, but there's a weight to it. Rain's coming again, he can feel it in the air.
He takes a path more on muscle memory than any real intention, and ends up at the old cemetery. The gate hangs on rusty hinges, more for show than anything, and he lets himself in and heads to the back, to the Grey Lady.
The Grey Lady probably used to be The White Lady, but she's been here longer'n anything else, since before the civil war. He likes her. She's quiet. Friendly, almost, for a grave marker.
He settles cross-legged at the base of her skirts and leans his head against the cold stone. She's lifelike, apart from the blank gaze-it's always a little surprising those skirts aren't soft.
The moon manages to make itself visible, at least for a moment, and the crosses and tombstones gleam under its weak light. A barn owl, silent as a ghost, makes a sudden dive. There's a squeak, and then it rises with a gently-swaying tail dangling from its talons.
Crunch, crunch.
Footsteps?
Crunch, crunch.
Yep, footsteps. And whistling, which is surprisingly creepy this late at night.
Doo-doo-da-da-dee-dee-dee-doo-doo-dee…
What is…wait. He knows that tune…what is that…kookaburra. Weird.
Crunch, crunch.
He scrambles behind the Lady and waits. Probably just someone out for a late-night walk, or maybe a tramp passing through. They get those sometimes, but it's awfully late…
He pokes his head around the Lady. The moon's still out, illuminating the path with surprising clarity. And, more importantly, the walker.
He doesn't know that silhouette, which is strange in and of itself. Maybe it'll come to him…nope. He has no idea who that is.
Whoever it is opens the cemetery gate and now he's starting to get a little nervous. Late-night walkers he can understand, but he's never seen anyone else here this late at night.
Crunch, crunch.
And no one ever comes this far back, ever.
The moon seems brighter than ever and he presses up against the Grey Lady, clinging to some childish fancy that she'll protect him. Which is silly, there's nothing to be protected from-
"I know you're here."
He catches his breath, pinching his lips shut to keep from making any sound. That voice is unfamiliar to him. It's a genderless voice, not from around here.
"Come out. I want to talk to you about earlier."
There's nothing he can use for a weapon. He's going to have to run for it and hope whoever this is doesn't have a gun.
"About what you saw."
He didn't see anything.
"Don't be frightened."
He's not.
He takes a deep breath and mentally gauges the distance between him and the gate, factor in clusters of tombstones to avoid, add in potential gun…
"Don't run."
Joke's on them! Ask anyone-good luck catching Jonathan Crane if he's really decided to ditch you. Call it a side effect of 'I don't want to be thrown in the pond again', whatever.
He dashes out from behind the Lady, dodges a cross, and promptly flings himself behind a tombstone when a shot rings out.
"Stop."
This isn't the same thing as 'get off my lawn' or even 'the book or you, Scarecrow?' This isn't even close. His heart's going a million miles an hour and he doesn't remember seeing anything with this much clarity-every little crack on the stones, every speck of dust, it's all so vivid.
He doesn't want to die. Not like this.
Like hell like this. He wants out of this goddamn town, and not in a pine box. He wants to get out and see the ocean and go to university and-
Crunch, crunch.
He's going to have to risk it. It's dark-the moon's ducking back behind a cloud already.
He bolts for the gate, trying to keep low and not run in a straight line, and there's another shot that whizzes too close for comfort.
The gate looms up, still partly open, and he squeezes through the gap and takes off down the road.
Crunch-crunch-crunch-crunch!
There's another shot and he veers off-path, hoping they're not familiar with the area. Okay…turn here, mind the tree root…
They're not familiar with the area-the crunching has slowed. He can't see them anymore, but that's all right, he can hear them trying to feel their way.
Why does this tree have to shed so many leaves? Doesn't it realize that the noise it's causing could get him killed?
He inches back towards the main road, freezing every half-step, until he feels plain dirt under his shoes at last.
Crunch-cru-FUCK.
A nervous grin flits across his face. They've found the tree root, sounds like.
He backs away until he's pretty sure they haven't seen him, then turns around and runs for home.
Kitty's not at school.
He doesn't notice until second period, because they don't share a first and he presumed she was running late. But no, she's not here and there's a sinking feeling that says something's wrong.
Nothing's wrong. That's ridiculous. She's probably sick or something, that's all. This has nothing to do with…whatever they've stumbled into. Nothing.
So he collects her homework assignments and pretends he's not relieved when she answers the door that afternoon.
"Hey." He's never seen her this pale, or in pajamas, and it's weird. "You can come in."
He shakes his head.
"I-I brought your homework."
She grimaces but takes the folder.
"Thanks."
"What's wrong?"
"Stomach flu." She lowers her voice. "I needed a day, but Mum thinks it's a bug. Y'know."
"Did you tell her what happened?"
"She'd never let me out again!" That would be ideal. "M'fine. Just…this never happened at home."
"Don't…just…be careful." Mrs. Richardson's not around, is she? He doesn't hear her… "I ran into someone last night, I don't know what they were doing, but they, ah…they thought I'd seen more than I did. I guess. I don't know."
"What are you on about?"
"They shot at me and chased me down the road. I'm fine."
She hugs him and oh god what does he do? Hug back? Stand still? Pat her head?
"I'm so sorry, I didn't know-"
Yeah, well, too late now.
He hugs her back, stiffly, and wonders if she's going to let go. She doesn't seem so inclined.
"Kitty?"
"Sorry." She steps back. "I didn't…there wasn't much to see."
"They thought otherwise. So just…just be careful."
"What's going on?"
He shrugs.
"I don't know. Anyway. Um. There's a test on Friday in math, just so's you know."
"Ugh."
"It'll be fine. Math is easy."
"Maths is a fucking nightmare!"
"Watch your mouth!" Mrs. Richardson warns and Jonathan jumps. How much has she heard? When did she get here? "Hello, Jonathan."
"Hello, Ma'am." She frowns. What? It's been ingrained, he can't just turn it off! "I was just dropping off Kitty's homework."
"Thank you."
"Thanks a lot." Kitty grumbles. "I'm dying and you bring me work."
"Go back to bed, sickie."
"Mu-um…"
"Don't you take that tone."
She pulls a face.
"See you tomorrow."
"Feel better?"
"Can I get you anything, dear?"
"No, I need to be getting home. Good-bye, Ma'am."
"Mary!"
He tries a smile and turns around before she can try to make him say it.
He's not nosey. That trait is reserved for his less enlightened neighbors. He is, however, annoyed that someone felt the need to shoot at him. He takes offence to that sort of thing. That's a reasonable feeling, in his opinion.
So it's for that reason alone that he's sitting at his desk with a piece of paper and a pencil, drawing up a list of everyone in town.
He knows the person last night wasn't a local, but there's something about that property they're interested in. A little too interested in-shooting at trespassers, okay. Hell, he can see some asshole losing their temper with the dog, even. (Griggs once chased a stray cat with a razor blade, boasting that he was gonna skin it alive. Jonathan has no idea how a black widow found its way into his backpack. None at all.)
But tracking him down? That's weird. If he's going to be shot at, there'd better be a good reason. Or at least a reason he can understand.
He jots down Wicker's name, pauses, and makes a note that Wicker's probably dead. Or at the very least incapacitated. He certainly wasn't the one chasing him last night. He doesn't love his property that much.
Who else…that's everyone.
Why did he bother? He made a list. Wow. So productive. He already knows it wasn't anyone from town, what good does this do?
He scrunches the paper up and slumps down in his chair. This is pointless. This is pointless and he's just going to give up and when he sees Kitty tomorrow, he's going to tell her to do the same. Hell, she's probably going to drop it without his input. She was rattled this afternoon.
It's bugging him, though. Nobody cares about Wicker-for all he knows, the guy's been dead for months. So why the paranoia? What's out there to find?
He frowns, un-scrunches his paper, and flips it over. The house had looked how he imagined it always had-bed, table, trunk. Nothing of value. If someone killed the old man for money, they probably weren't getting much.
He sketches out a little diagram anyway, trying to remember if he saw anything else. Kitty might've-she'd said there was someone inside, had gotten a look through the window.
Hmm.
There's a low rumble outside and he glances up. The sky's black-rain. Rain is here. He's not going out tonight, that's for sure.
Well…maybe those rumors about gold are true. Why the place looks as bad as it does remains a mystery, but that might explain…
Forget it. He doesn't want to know.