A/N: Apologies as always for the long wait, and as a heads-up, I anticipate another 2-3 chapters after this one. I'd always planned for this fic to be on the shorter side, and it's almost time to wrap things up.
What did one wear to a social call that would end in either fallout or Thanksgiving dinner?
It wasn't as though Christine had much to choose from, of course. She hadn't packed for that sort of thing. She compensated with a generous application of hair product to tame her usual mess of waves, and with eyeliner and eyeshadow and every other cosmetic product she was too lazy to use on a regular basis.
She paired her best jeans with a cable-knit sweater in a deep, dusky pink, and instead of her work boots she wore her good pair, the ones with sleek brown leather that rose to mid-calf. The final touches were a cute plaid scarf and a generous polish of her glasses.
She looked decent, she decided. But her stomach churned so dramatically she briefly thought she might be sick, and it was only in part due to her mild hangover.
It was snowing as she left the motel, but with genuine flakes this time: huge, fluffy ones that fell wet and heavy, sticking to every surface.
Three to four inches of snowfall had been forecast: not much for these parts, but enough that she filled her gas tank and charged her phone, just in case. She threw the phone charger, a change of clothes, and a few necessities into an overnight bag that she stowed in her trunk, also as a precaution.
The roads were already coated in white when she set out for Erik's. It was only half an inch, but slick. Vehicle traffic cleared enough of the two-lane highway that cut through town, but the first side road required a white-knuckled focus that lasted the rest of the trip. The closer she got to the cabin, the more she regretted the arrangement. She would have to drive back in even worse conditions.
The setting was idyllic, though: the little white-capped cabin, puffing out smoke, nestled among the snowy pines. She admired it for a moment before exiting the car with a newly purchased bottle of pinot noir. She'd have preferred to leave the wine there, unsure as she was of her length of stay, but with her luck, the bottle would freeze and explode all over the upholstery.
The porch had been tidied, with no trace of the work table or bloodied filleting knife. Still, her hand trembled as she raised it to knock. The door creaked open to reveal her towering host, and she was treated to the mouthwatering smell of roasting turkey.
There was a pregnant pause in which they both blinked at each other: she, no longer the disheveled river rat he'd perhaps grown accustomed to; he, in crisp slacks and navy sweater, with a button-up shirt poking out at the collar. He wore the stretchy black surgical mask, but he appeared to have cut out its crown, so that now she could see the dark locks she'd glimpsed so sparingly before.
A pair of eager paws planted themselves on her stomach with such force, she nearly stumbled backward.
"Caesar!" they both admonished, though Christine was laughing. The dog returned all paws to the floor and sat obediently, his tail thrashing in excitement. Christine presented Erik with the wine—which only seemed to deepen his discomfited surprise—and placated Caesar with affection.
"I would venture to say he has missed you," Erik said.
She glanced up at him and smiled. An unspoken question—Just him?—lingered in the space between them, but he looked away.
"It smells amazing in here," she said, by way of a subject change. "When does Nadir arrive?"
"Within the hour, in theory. I suspect the weather will slow him down."
Another heavy pause. She set her purse by the door. "Should I take off my coat, or…?"
He shook his head. "You came here to see the shed. No sense in delaying the inevitable." He pulled on his own boots and coat, and she followed him out the back door.
The crunch of their footfalls echoed across the yard and into the pines. Off to one side, the chickens poked around their coop; to the other was the fire pit, newly blanketed in snow. By the time they neared the shed by the treeline, it felt as though they were traveling back in time, about to unravel all the progress they had made.
Christine's heart beat faster as Erik unbolted the padlock, and some base part of her wanted to reach for his hand: a ridiculous notion, that she should turn to him for reassurance against the darkest parts of himself.
The door creaked open an inch.
He stayed his hand and glanced at her sidelong. "You should know," he said quietly, "that when I was overseas, I not only saw things I shouldn't have seen, but did things I shouldn't have been able to do. Not necessarily acts of violence, but miscarriages of law. Places I shouldn't have had access to. Propaganda I should not have been able to enact."
She hesitated. "I'm not sure I understand what you're getting at."
"All that is to say, the world of law and order means nothing when those in power can still act with impunity." With that, he opened the door fully.
At first, she didn't understand what she was meant to focus on. The shed's contents were organized but numerous: gas cans and unmarked five-gallon buckets. Dog food and chicken feed. Distilled water, canned and dry goods. Tools and camping gear and first-aid supplies. Batteries, flashlights, candles. Slightly odder selections, for a shed: soap and toothpaste, blankets, a HAM radio. Bottles of prescription pills. Then the gun cabinet she'd feared, and the corresponding ammo boxes.
She looked to Erik, who was eying her warily. "I don't get it," she said. "Are you a prepper or something?"
"A what?"
"You know, those people who are convinced of imminent societal collapse. Like, emergency preparedness to the extreme."
He hesitated. "I suspect my circumstances are different, but I do not consider that unreasonable."
"Neither do I, really, especially when you're this isolated." Christine scanned the shed again, searching for anything she'd missed. She felt relieved, yet oddly disappointed. "But why the guns, Erik?"
His gaze flicked in the direction of the house, then the yard, and he stepped back from the threshold. "Let's walk," he said.
Confused, she could only follow along as he closed and locked the shed. His hands were bare, and as he took off toward the woods, he shoved them into his pockets against the brisk air.
There was no marked trail that she could see among the gathering snow, but the continued absence of brush at her feet suggested a well-worn path, possibly the one they'd taken from the river after he'd rescued her from hypothermia and, in hindsight, a rather unthreatening bear.
He kept his gaze trained carefully elsewhere as they walked. "I suppose what I would have you know," he said, "is that the government can legally surveil ex-military."
"Like...without a warrant?"
"Yes. There's an executive order with some rather vague wording, and documentation has surfaced to suggest the Defense Department is taking full advantage. Their main focus is on what they call 'homegrown violent extremists.'"
"So not you, then?"
There was a pregnant pause. "One fear is of veterans with mental illness becoming national security risks." Another hesitation, and his voice went lower, softer. "Vets with post-traumatic stress disorder, in particular."
She swallowed. "But that's common enough, right? They wouldn't have a reason to target you specifically?"
A pinecone skittered away from her instep. Moments later, Erik stepped on a twig, its sharp snap punctuating the squeaky crunch of wet powder under their boots. The falling snow muffled every sound, as though the pair of them had been curtained off from the rest of the world.
"I confess, I did not have the strongest moral compass when I enlisted," he said, "but even then, the propaganda began to eat away at me, as did the lengths we went to in order to carry it out." He stretched out a hand, absently shaking loose the snow from a low pine bough as they passed. "Nadir and I bonded over similar sentiments. But unlike him, I started to question; I got mouthy. I was disciplined for it."
"Oh, Erik," she said, almost pleadingly.
"The bombing incident followed soon after, and I lost comrades. I lost my job. I lost"—his voice broke—"I lost half my face." He let out a bitter laugh. "I would be a therapist's nightmare. Or playground, depending on how you look at it."
Christine couldn't help herself: she wound her arm through his, as though it might absorb some of his anguish. His footfall slowed just slightly.
"I was questioned by the FBI in the months following," he continued. "They can even access VA medical records. As soon as I put an end to those damnable reconstructive surgeries, I left. I have been looking over one shoulder ever since."
"It's been nine years," she said quietly. "They must have moved on by this point."
"No one forgets me, Christine," he snapped. "Not with this face."
The treeline broke, and they found themselves at the river, near the spot where she'd first come ashore with her canoe. The water, now a knifelike slate gray, bisected the snowy riverbed like liquid mercury, and they stopped to watch it in silence.
Finally, she turned to him. "I'm still not convinced," she said, "but let's say they do somehow monitor you. Is it really so bad, in the grand scheme of things?"
"If there ever were some sort of societal collapse, or martial law..." He held up a hand to ward off the skepticism that had flashed across her face. "With the world in its present state, I do not consider it out of the bounds of reason. And they would come for ex-military before almost anyone else." He peered down, raking the toe of his combat boot through a tuft of snow. "I would not subject another person to that, Christine. Especially not someone"—here his voice went hoarse, and he paused—"someone I cared about."
There was a gentle fluttering in her chest, even as her stomach sank. "But the guns, Erik? Really?"
"Flight would be my first choice in such an event, but I've prepared for all situations. You don't understand what they're capable of."
"I'm not sure I understand what you are capable of at this point."
Still staring down at his feet, he nodded. "Nor I. Let us hope we never find out."
He was a sharp contrast against the whitening landscape, a grim and serrated monolith in raven-black. Yet the snowflakes were softening him, salting his hair and jacket in a steady accumulation. Perhaps the sight should have softened her, too, but it only served to emphasize a massive waste of potential.
"You're one of the most qualified people to act in a crisis," she considered aloud, "but you'd jump ship? Just like that?"
"Absolutely."
"It seems kind of...selfish."
He shrugged. "So I'm selfish. At least I do not pretend otherwise."
She snapped her head toward him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Recent developments aside, you started coming here only because you could not stand to be alone."
She gaped, snapped her mouth shut, and then gaped at him again. She desperately wanted to lash out, but she couldn't quite find the words. Meanwhile, his accusation circled her mind, growing and throbbing more with each rotation.
He must have read in her icy stare, in her general dumbfoundedness, some request for explanation. "Your roommate moved out, and you left home," he said. "You have a riverside cottage at your disposal, but you spend the bulk of your time not in it. And somehow, despite having summers off, you are compelled to sell the place in the off season." He'd somehow closed the distance between them, even as her eyes began to burn with tears, and now he peered down at her with a sort of smug provocation. "Why, Christine, is it so impossible for you to be alone?"
"Because!" she cried indignantly—whether at him or herself, she couldn't have said. "Because if I'm alone too long, if I'm idle too long, then"—she found herself choking on the words—"then I'll have to come to terms with what a horrible daughter I was."
His jaw slackened, and he was quiet.
And she, who had so willingly thrust him into the spotlight—she couldn't bear to be in it herself. "I'm sorry," she whispered, and she slipped back into the forest at a fast clip.
Tears muddled her vision, swirling the snow and ground into a white haze, and it wasn't long before she lost all sense of direction. She knew she should turn around, go back to him—but her legs gave out, and she squatted at the base of a tall pine, elbows on knees and face in her hands, and she choked back her sobs until the threat subsided.
"Christine." The dulcet voice came from up above, and she peeked through her fingers at the pair of black boots nearby. "Christine," Erik repeated, softer now. "I apologize. I should not have…" He sighed. "I was deflecting."
"I know," she said, sniffling. "But you weren't wrong."
He lowered a hand: gloved, now, with the familiar black leather. She let him pull her to her feet, and they headed back toward the cabin.
Somehow, the continuous curtain of snow made the surrounding space feel safe. "I always had some reason or another not to visit him," she said. "Work. Recertification. Travel plans. I wanted to spend my single years seeing new things, and not...well…"
"Seeing familiar faces."
She nodded. "He didn't tell me when he got sick, not right away. And then he went downhill so fast, I didn't—I couldn't—" She bit her lip, swallowing another sob that had bubbled up in her throat. "The viewing at the funeral home this summer was the first time I'd seen him since Christmas." Her voice dropped down to a near whisper. "It didn't even look like him."
"I'm sorry," he replied.
She wished briefly for words of comfort, for reassurances of her innocence, but those could not come from him. Perhaps they couldn't come from anyone, and that was something she'd have to face, head-on, going forward.
The temptation to wallow was overwhelming, but she forced herself to apologize instead. "I shouldn't have called you selfish," she said. "I just have this strong feeling that if you spend your life so angry, and so avoidant, you'll regret it. But it wasn't my place to say so, and I'm sorry."
They came upon the shed now, and Erik stopped to face her, brushing the snow from her hair. Those eyes that had burned so fiercely just minutes before were now soft and deep. "I am trying to be less angry," he said. "I am tired of being angry. But living with this"—he gestured to his face—"is bad enough."
"You seemed to indicate it wasn't that bad, not when we spoke about it before."
"It's hardly the reason for my current lifestyle, but I cannot say it's incompatible." He withdrew his hand from her scalp, and she mourned the loss of his touch. "No one can look me in the eyes," he growled. "Everyone is so focused on not staring that no one actually sees. No one besides Nadir, anyway."
"And me." She skewered him with a glance.
A sigh. "And you."
"And if I told you to stop pushing me away, consequences be damned, would you actually listen?"
"No."
"Then I think you're being a stubborn idiot."
Erik cocked his head. "I beg your pardon?"
"I said, you're being an idiot."
He took a step toward her, head angling inward. "You come into my house," he said, his voice a quiet threat, "and insult me?"
He was so close now. A snowflake caught in her lashes, and she blinked it away without once breaking eye contact. "Yes," she whispered. "What are you going to do about it?"
His eyebrows vaulted beneath the mask. He glanced to one side, and she followed his gaze to where his hand now scooped a calculated handful of snow from the edge of the shed's roof.
She gaped. "You wouldn't."
He worked his jaw back and forth, and then he rotated his wrist, letting the snow fall from his open palm. "No," he replied. "I don't suppose I would."
She gave him a tiny smile. "I would, though." Before he could stop her, she'd already swiped a handful of her own and smashed it over his head.
Time froze. Erik blinked impassively as the snow slicked his hair and dripped down onto the mask with a languid slide of wet, crystalline clumps. "It is a dangerous game you play, Miss Daae," he intoned. He reached for the roof edge again, this time with both hands, and she squeaked and ran.
She should've known better than to wage war with a trained soldier. She'd almost made it to the back door of the cottage when an arm hooked around her waist, pulling her against the hard line of his torso, and she was subjected to the gasp-inducing cold of a snowball flattened against her scalp. She shrieked with laughter and bucked against him, but he did not release his hold.
Desperate to escape another ambush, she clawed at the snow that had fallen on the wood pile in their absence, and she threw it backward into his face. He finally let go, and she whirled on him.
She couldn't help but grin at the sight of him wiping snow from his eyes and nose. Some of it had hit his mouth, too, where it melted against warm skin and traversed the soft padding of his upper lip. He caught it with the tip of his tongue, and her grin faded.
"So," he said, "it seems we are at an impasse."
"Your mask is wet," she replied quietly: a challenge.
He stared at her, his mouth drawn and shoulders rigid. Slowly, with exaggerated intention, he reached for the hem of the mask and tugged it over his head. The gnarled beauty of his face emerged, his eyes flinty against pale skin. "Is this what you wanted to see?"
Her own eyes had widened, but she kept them trained on his. "Yes," she whispered. With only dim awareness, she found herself peeling off a glove to press the pad of her thumb to his lips, mapping their dryness, their partial malformity.
He sighed against her finger, gracing it with the barest brush of a kiss. "You know this cannot continue," he murmured. "I will never leave, except to somewhere more remote. And you have a life elsewhere, with gaggles of small children whom I imagine are enamored with you."
The thought lanced her stomach: she did miss the kids, and terribly. "I know," she conceded. With her free hand she caught one of his and brought it to her own mouth, pressing lips to knuckles, never breaking eye contact.
It was he who winced and closed his eyes. He withdrew his hand and touched his forehead to hers, his breath heavy on her face. "I ought to check on the turkey. You will stay for dinner?"
Christine nodded. She would stay even longer, if he'd let her, but to what end?
Even as he disappeared into the house, she stayed behind, snow-covered and shivering, to look out over the trees. Her mind invoked Robert Frost, and somehow, despite everything, she felt a momentary peace.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Special thanks to Tumblr user smokeyloki for planting the Robert Frost idea in my brain. I hope this makes up for the lack of pizza rolls in the shed.