The sheriff's office.
After all that's happened, it will never rightfully belong to Ross, and had anyone told him that just a week ago, it would have devastated him. But right now he couldn't care less.
He takes a seat, eying the evidence gathered in reports from wherever they can find. He is almost certain Creed's people have found their own leads, leaving the rest of them in the dark, but he'll catch on, he's sure. The rumor mill runs wild with the deputies anyhow.
But in his spider web of contacts, he can do nothing but wait until one of them finds something feasible for him to take a step into.
He slumps into his seat, hand pressed against his forehead as he mulls over the coming days.
He has people stationed everywhere, on patrol or doing odd jobs, doing what he can to keep the community together and trusting the police. And it works, earning him favor amongst the townsfolk as he solves problems with sheer numbers, an idea he would readily admit if asked that it is inspired by Calvary himself.
In a way, it's giving back to the community that gave them the steady workforce in the station, but all Ross really wants is eyes and ears everywhere. But there is some semblance of grief in it, because the idea first came to him as a suggestion to Creed, to be offered the following day, but his lips were sealed the minute he lost his wife, plunging him into turmoil, of which will never leave him.
He deigns to soldier on despite, bare that cross till it kills him. But nowadays it feels like maybe he could hold on just a little longer.
His door slowly opens, a feminine hand gingerly at its nob. Then she enters, in all her unparalleled beauty, and he stifles a gasp.
"Ross?" Eli whispers as she steps into the room, timid yet worrisome, slowly approaching him.
He is painfully aware that she isn't real, an illusion birthed from his madness, so he dares not to respond, but it suffocates him, threatens to tear him apart.
She realizes that he's trying not to make eye contact, so she attempts to close the gap, steady steps towards him that causes his gut to stir. "What happened, Ross? Let me hear you out."
When he looks at her, he almost scares her. Confusion then masking his features. He tilts his head, senses something different and strange, screaming at him but he doesn't pay those thoughts any further mind, shaking his head.
"I lost my way," he says finally. "Still have. Don't know how to get back. It's too late anyway."
"It's never too late, Ross." Her tone is sweet and kind, never daring to judge him before he has his say.
So he reaches out for her, takes her hand in his, and cradles it. He feels the smooth texture of her fur against his, runs his fingers tentatively over her wrist and wonders just how far his delusions will take him.
He almost dares to challenge it, to take her in his arms and kiss her, to love her and keep her, to hold her till she disappears…
But then his eyes meet hers and sees the confusion — or perhaps the fear — in hers.
"Do you remember those days when things were simpler… kinder? You ever wonder if… if you did anything different, wouldn't it have changed anything? If it should've been you and not… someone else? Were circumstances different?"
She almost doesn't answer, not like he expects her to, but then she does, surprising him as she timidly looks away. "I didn't but… I have. Lately, that is."
She blushes, wildly and full red, shading her features in a cavalcade of pigment. And she is almost breathtaking, so painfully beautiful that he almost wishes he could lose himself to the illusion.
So he tries, dares to think of her as real but it doesn't sink in. He doesn't fall for it, cursing whatever fragments remain of his sanity. Damn it all! Damn it all to hell!
He almost breaks down, and she can see his features twist and churn. So she clutches his hand, lets him feel the strength in her grip. "Come back to us, Ross," she whispers, and it is both melody and poison in his ear.
Her free hand cups his cheek, drawing their eyes together again. "You don't have to be alone in this. At least let me help you if no one else…"
Despite some hesitance, he slowly nods.
"But I need to know why," she says softly, but her look is stern yet pleading. She wants to hear him out, she wants him to tell her the truth. Almost needs him to be.
It feels like an eternity's wait as she lets him muster up the words. And she agonizes before he does, wretches inside as she strains herself to reach out for him.
But then the words come out of his mouth, and for a moment she's relieved. "I—" and then she is terrified, "—I'm doing this for us."
She gasps, taking a single sudden step back, flustering madly.
"So he stops haunting me in my dreams… till only you are in them." He stops looking at her, not wanting her to disappear just yet. Reveling in the sensation of her fingers between his and nothing else. "And when I'm done, I'll find you again. I swear it."
He lets go of her, slowly returning to his seat.
And by the time he gets there, she's already shut the door behind her.
Bucky's phone goes on the tone again after his seventh attempted call. "C'mon, buddy, answer your damn phone..."
He'd been calling him for the past hour, wanting to check up on him. This morning he called in sick but he lives alone and Bucky has long since been the one to take care of him whenever the oryx couldn't rightly take care of himself since he hardly bothers to.
Because he's reckless and lazy when he's not at work and he doesn't know which medicines do what and he's more than likely to just chug the whole medicine cabinet.
Bucky cuts through the plaza and sees a load of officers guarding the closed-off grounds of the Horace Memorial. "Wonder what happened here…"
After a brief glance at a dejected looking Liandra, he speeds passed, deciding not to poke and prod around there.
He makes his way to the west side of town to a neighborhood so small that it almost didn't qualify as one. It is lovingly called the Banana District because its architects happened to be monkeys and the construction workers got the wrong schematics and turned what was supposed to be a cul-de-sac into a curved road that was wider than reasonable.
It had made for a close-knit neighborhood but Smith has never been very good with people, dejecting to keep to himself. If he had friends this would have been easier.
The idea of him there all alone spurns him on, especially with his carelessness to boot. "Damn oryx not even manning his phone…" He attempts another call, one that soon fails.
With a hefty sigh, he accelerates, driving through the curved road toward a cozy two-story suburban home. For a nice looking place, it is clear that it hasn't had much in the way of caring for it. The roof is littered with leaves from its own trees and the driveway is a mess of overgrown foliage snaking over the cement.
Smith would have hired a gardener if it didn't cost so much. Which in his language is "anything more than free."
Bucky eyes the neighborhood, seeing the silhouettes of families and friends through the windows.
Smith's words echo back to him, the quiet isolation burrowed beneath his excuses and his signature smile. "Folk 'ere are domestic. Got their own circles, their own family and friends… No place for a man like me."
"You need friends in your own area, Smith. It won't hurt you if you try."
"You're the only friend I need, Sammy. You and Asha that is."
Pushing the fence door open, he is witness to his collection of garden gnolls, haphazardly strewn together in his garden out of garage sale bargains and what may or may not have been stolen from elsewhere. Smith doesn't even like garden gnolls.
Bucky steadies his steps over the front porch, feels the wood beneath his hooves and wonders when was the last time he shared a drink with his oldest friend here? I'll make a point to see to it next week. Wouldn't mind a bit of whiskey.
He raps at the door. "Smith? C'mon, buddy, open the door!"
No answer.
He hesitates for only a moment before reaching into his pocket and producing a spare key attached to his key ring. Bucky doesn't like using it, preferring to leave the man with his privacy, but he sucks up whatever self-imposed moral barriers he has and unlocks the door.
Inside, Smith's living room opens up with a set of ornate clocks from around the globe strewn about the walls. On the coffee table, a stack of random magazines that have never been opened. And the floor itself is covered in several varying rugs, most of which ordered from the Middle East.
Like the front yard it is a gallery of one's longing for some sort of passion, one idea after the other about what kind of collector he should be. A search for an identity, of a man who does not yet know who he is.
And as he walks over the carpets, he finds dirt brushed onto his pant leg from an audible puff from the material. "Hire a maid at least…"
He checks the rooms briefly.
A half-eaten breakfast waffle in the kitchen, a pair of plates he hasn't cleaned yet, and a sandwich maker with too many burnt crumbs and cheese stuck to its insides.
The dining is room is empty and far too dusty in some places. The only pristine thing here is the china Asha bought for him, displayed immaculately behind a glass cabinet.
The bathroom is clear and even flushed, clear white tiles that tell him that perhaps this is the cleanest room in the house.
His garage still has his truck, various supplies sitting in the rear. "Prepping for a trip, Smith?"
Smith is nowhere to be found, which surprises Bucky since he usually watches TV on the sofa on sick days. "Maybe he finally decided to sleep in his own bed for this one."
He returns to the living room and slides into a nondescript door tucked between some decorative shelves, well away from the unobservant eye.
"Smith?" he calls up to the staircase there. "You up there, buddy?"
For a moment he hears nothing, a dejected sigh leaving him as he decides that his friend is probably asleep.
Then he hears movement upstairs, and at first they relieve him, making him think Smith is actually at home and that he hasn't wasted his time… but then the footsteps have a certain pace to them, a weight that he recognizes is nothing that an oryx could make.
It's too loud, lumbering, and could not possibly be Smith's. And suddenly he fears the worst.
He almost hesitates but he pulls out his pocket knife after summoning some steely resolve, then sprints up the stairs.
On the second floor he is cautious as he scans the hallway. Every door is left wide open, as if someone had been frantically going through them.
He peeks over each one, eying the empty rooms with scrutiny and fear, constantly checking behind himself. Bucky is notably scared out of his mind, and he can't help but feel compelled to skim the rooms so he can be out there quicker.
But it isn't too long until he hears rustling down the end of the hall, somewhere in Smith's bedroom.
He crouches as he approaches, ready to fight or run for his life. He even notes the window at the end of the hall, preparing himself to perchance gravity rather than encounter Carrion.
Before he reaches the bedroom, he hears a grunt followed by footsteps that he sincerely hopes isn't towards the door. Then a claw reaches for the doorframe, clamping menacingly onto it and he knows nothing but terror.
He almost yelps when the figure emerges, until he realizes who it is. "Sheriff?"
"Sambaure?" is the hefty polar bear's reply.
Bucky almost turns around to see who he's talking to until he realizes that that's his name and that Sheriff Creed is just about the only person in town who can pronounce it right.
He shakes his head, focusing moreover on the strange sight before him. "What are you doing here, sheriff?"
"Same reason you are, looking for Smith... and he doesn't appear to be here." Creed looks back into the bedroom with disappointment. "We should check the swamp."
"The swamp? He called in sick this morning, Creed, why would he even be there?"
Creed looks at him in surprise, a sense of sympathy overcoming him. "Sick? I'm afraid to say that your friend has lied to you. He's lost one of my boats and perhaps assumed that he left it in the swamp from his last trip. Must've spent the whole day looking for it. He called me just an hour ago, before nightfall, confessing that he'd lost it and I told him I'd simply come over."
Bucky doesn't know how to feel, frustration or something else, and all it does is worry him. "Smith… lied to me? No, I… could've helped him look if he was honest…"
Creed notes that his dejection is entirely on the lie, unaware of darker fates lurking in the back of the sheriff's mind. Bucky doesn't even seem to consider Carrion, and perhaps the old bear finds comfort in that, considering less tragic circumstances.
But if Smith were in his place, he'd certainly fear the worst. "And then what? Leave your shop unattended with your wife and son alone, unprotected?" Creed speaks as if he's always known, and Bucky can see it in his stoic gaze, where it is honest and true, that these words are almost straight out of Smith's own mouth.
Bucky shakes his head, trying not to mull over it too hard. "It's… not that big a deal anymore. We have deputies stationed there now."
"He didn't know that. And it wouldn't have mattered. Smith has a very small circle of friends, and even fewer who are closer than that, and as such he recognizes that the most important people in your life are currently in danger for as long as you are all staying in town. But he can't ask you to leave, so he'll settle with leaving you all together, never apart."
Bucky doesn't respond, simply following Creed down the hall towards the stairs. He wishes he knew this beforehand, so that perhaps they could have worked something out, let his best friend aid him. The swamp is a dangerous place after all and it's never advisable to go there alone, especially after what happened with Marcus's brother all those years ago.
Creed takes no comfort from the silence the buck gives him, clearly lost in his own thoughts as he follows him robotically into the first floor. So Creed decides to breach it. "Since the resurgence of Carrion, he has done nothing but worry for you and your family. He wants you all safe and secure, never wanting to be a bother. Could you blame him for wanting to let you keep what so many others have lost?"
"You act like Carrion is watching us."
"I'll be honest, it feels like he almost always is."
Then a dangerous thought reaches Bucky, eyes widening in a fitful panic. "You don't think Carrion has him, do you…?" Then the look of horror burns into his features. "Oh my god, his car is still in the garage!" He stifles a gasp, cupping his mouth.
"He borrowed mine," Creed says flatly. "Let's not jump to conclusions." He tries to stay calm himself but it's clear that it's all just a front, a clear attempt to placate him as well as himself.
But it doesn't work, Bucky quickly pulling out his phone. "Look, just let me call him."
There is a moment of ambivalent silence between them as Creed looks about the living room they're in whilst Bucky looks for Smith's number.
Creed hadn't checked the first floor yet, and he supposes he should have but he knows the upper floor is where that excitable oryx haunts most of the time, mulling over other hobbies and perhaps what to do with his life beyond the gun shop. And in Smith's youth, Creed recognizes the similarities, the want to be something more than you are. Because Creed remembers wanting that, and the need to help the oryx through it only grew.
And suddenly a muffled vibration against fabric echoes in the room, drawing their attention to the flashing phone tucked behind a sofa pillow.
Bucky almost tears up when Creed takes it, spawning the most terrible thoughts he can manage. He can feel his fears realized, snaking through him till his knees nearly buckle and he drops his phone, lips quivering as his shaking hands takes the phone from Creed's, himself just as shocked, so stiff that the bear almost looks paralyzed.
Creed wants to say something to rationalize it, that maybe he just left it and forgot but the words die in his throat because he'd never believe it himself. Because that would only serve as a pathetic lie, clinging to feeble hopes, poisoning his resolve when he is inevitably proven wrong.
And when the phone goes silent, the dread in the room seems to expand, making Bucky dizzy and Creed balls his fist, damning the demon in the town beneath a cage of grit teeth.
Then the phone vibrates again, a text just newly received.
Bucky almost doesn't read it, shaking hands only barely able to hold the phone, let alone open it. But then he finds that text is from an unknown number, and a quiet resolve overcomes him.
Quickly swiping open the phone, the message reads: "too late".
Creed takes the phone from him the minute Bucky's eyes widen in furtherance of his abject terror. And when he reads it, he realizes how close Carrion has to be to time it's message.
So he bolts out of the living room, practically slamming into the front door with Bucky stumbling behind.
And when they're out on the road, they see only Bucky's car… and Creed's tattered rubber boat splayed over it.
Calvary stokes the flames in his heart, letting rage ignite his edges like a burning aura, because fury is tangible, an emotion easy to understand, easy to handle. But sorrow is a torrent that washes over him in trickles until it becomes a flood, erupting in his heart until it overwhelms him, pouring out of his soul till it suffocates his rage, dimming that flame until it dies, and its ashes drown in sea of pains and regrets, last chances and moments lost to time.
And again he almost weeps, and surely would have had he been alone.
An sits in the corner of his office, dismantling her glock on his coffee table, cleaning the pieces to keep herself busy. But her eyes would wander every once in a while to the pensive lion at his desk, Kayla's wine bottle rolling in his hand.
The room is dim but the large windows behind him shed pale moonlight into the room, but not on his face. And he hopes that the shadows hide him well enough, but he forgets that she can see in the dark.
She watches his face twist into a scowl that is clearly far too forced, and then it disappears beneath the grief laid bare, betraying the mask he dares to keep, the one he wears in public, and in the light where he is exposed.
But his sorrows remain, etched into his skin with his every motion, laced into every word. And even his sigh is a cavalcade of those emotions, the way it heaves his aching chest, the way it burns against his throat as it quiets at the end.
And she would be no different had she not been tasked to safeguard him. She wants him to feel safe in the very least, but she knows that even if she was the stoic embodiment of security, it would do him no good.
Because Calvary is far more concerned about everyone else's safety. His own health be damned.
"How are the Rivers?" she asks suddenly, nearly cursing at herself for speaking up, especially about something so sensitive.
"Bit of a mess. They asked how I manage to stay strong," he responds flatly, followed by a dry chuckle. "Funny how that is. Biggest mess in town and folk 'ere still think I got it all figured out."
He rolls the bottle once more before leaving it still, staring into glass fogged up in food coloring to appear like wine.
"Truth is," he continues, "I'm really no different from you. I just hide behind a very different kind o' person, but I hide all the same."
She isn't even the slightest bit surprised that he can see through her, and even if he wasn't so observant, in the very least he'd notice how her usual energy is gone, the flirting having long since stopped, and her raunchy attitude tucked away beneath her suit.
She looks up at him a little expectantly, matching his distant gaze as his mind wanders the room, chasing ghosts that aren't there.
An wants him to look at her, but simultaneously wishes he doesn't. Because she doesn't know what to think or how to feel anymore, and even the slightlest hint of what that she should be feeling would be a blessing. But no signs come and she is left to writhe on her own.
Calvary himself wishes he knew how to act around her, unsure if the old him would appear too fake or if the current him is far too depressing and does no one good, and anything else she'll just see through. So he settles with whatever comes.
With a quiet a sigh, An splays herself over the sofa, eyes away from him and onto the ceiling.
"World ain't never gonna be the way it used to be, ain't it?"
She almost doesn't respond, but she knows why he says it, and can't help but feel the same. "I miss her too, Cal."
His head rises to look at her, no longer content with staring at his wall or his desk, finding her in the dark as he dares to decipher what he expects is a puzzle of a face, but he is surprised to find that she makes no attempts to hide what she's feeling now, about ready to collapse into herself, to ball and squirm underneath that overbearing pressure.
"Sometimes I wonder how differently things could have gone if I was there a minute sooner or if I looked in a different direction, or if I did my job instead of trying to have fun. A thousand stupid, pointless thoughts that do nothing to change what's happened, nothing but make me feel worse as a person."
Her hands rest against her chest, cupping her still beating heart, praying that there's still a chance she can trade it for hers. "But what can you do, right, Cal? Sometimes the world sticks you with something you can't get rid of and even though you know it shouldn't bother you, it does anyway and it feels like it'll stay with you forever."
He wishes there was another facet to her, a twinge of anger that justifies his own, that tells him that he isn't alone in daring to hide the pain, but there isn't. She is nothing but the writhing mess that he is, grief sinking into her every feature until she embodies it and loses any semblance of strength.
And it isn't as if he has any himself, hiding in the shadows, thinking it would protect his sense of security, another feeble and pointless thought he dwells on just like her.
She curls into the cushions, takes a sofa pillow and clutches it to her. A twinge of envy laces itself into her words, an honesty she wishes she didn't have. "I hate that this town gets to pretend the pain doesn't exist…"
It's a notion he is familiar with, and he leans back into his seat. And for the first time in what feels like weeks, he chuckles. "I did once too…"
She looks at him as he eyes the ceiling, and she sees the genuine sense of nostalgia radiating off of him.
"Came 'ere as a boy, years before we met, and I saw nuthin' but smiles from ear to ear wherever I went. And even as young as I was, I recognized just how… artificial they were. Everyone was so god-damn polite and none of them felt real. By some harrowin' contrast, I actually felt unsafe around 'em. But I was too young to understand."
"War was in the horizon, off on the edges of our country and the town contributed friends and family to fuel this country's machine for war. Anyone old enough to wield a gun, even boys fresh out o' college who didn't know what to do with themselves just yet were shipped off to a war so far away that I didn't even think it was even a real problem at the time."
"But this town… it felt it. Ached at every telegraphed loss, every letter that stopped comin' and every medal hand delivered in honorable service. This town… it had long since adapted to situations like these. Where everyone felt pain, fear, and they'd hide behind a sense o' forced joy. Even they knew it wasn't real, but there was no way in hell they were goin' to tear this town apart by lettin' it fall into depravity. Folk 'ere needed to function to keep the place runnin', so they decided to pretend there was nuthin' wrong."
"I don't think I've ever seen this town when it wasn't tryin' to hide behind its own pains. I'm not sure they even know what respite even feels like anymore."
"Worst of it is: the cracks are startin' to show." He rises from his seat, feeling an unsteady sense of something overwhelming yet not unwelcome sink into his skin. "And I can feel it now. That unsavory rapture culminatin' inside. They all feel it, lettin' it buildin' inside where all it feels like is fire. Brandin' us with that devil's touch. And… I'm not gonna lie. I think I'd quite like to have this feelin' fulfilled."
It's then that he finally feasibly finds his rage, makes it tangible as he looks out into the town behind him, watching it go nocturnal as the night life burns lights into the horizon. A small town like this has nary any neon, but enough fluorescent lights with just about every 24/7 place armed with enough alcohol to drown out your fears in, and he'll soak in their drunken songs as if he was drinking himself, and he'll lose himself in it.
Claws bared, crowned by a toothy, almost sadistic grin under a low, steady growl. His is the ire of a people, the ire that justifies the inferno in his heart, the unabated need for reprisal, to take from a demon that which was stolen from him. Paid in flesh, and blood. Corrupting and unkind, a sensation that almost feels like it belongs to him now, as if gifted by the devil in town, laced against his claws, tainting a just and kind man, until his hands are vindicated, bloodied.
And now An can feel it too, but the rage doesn't overtake, because what she finds is something else. A strange sense of excitement, the unparalleled need to satiate the murderous intent inside of her. And as she takes to her disassembled glock, she quickly reassembles it, the pieces sliding into place, cocking it just after.
Senses alert, a scent in the air that is familiar, unreal, hers and no one else's, the scent of a child taken from her, the last semblance of hope someone beyond salvation was ever going to achieve. A weapon in hand like a mallet to judge for herself, execute by her own discretion. Hers is the wound of a thousand cuts, the pains beyond a hundred deaths, all to be exacted, paid in full, ripped from Carrion, to be taken even when his heart has long stopped beating.
More and more they feel like they're becoming monsters, and less and less do they care. Because solace is miles away and they're limping, resolve tucked behind a welcome sense of an unchecked need for some twisted sense of justice. They feel that that is the only way they'd ever feel righted.
Cause all the world could go to hell if they could just get their hands on Carrion.
And yet in the back of their minds, in a place they dare to hide away, is a thought that looms over this possession poisoning their souls. It dips into their hearts, and would make them wretch if they allowed it to be any more than a passing thought.
That if Kayla could see them now, she would see them no different from Carrion.
When Nick and Judy finally make it back to the hotel, they barely have the energy to even speak to Keen, who thankfully decides that they've dealt with enough so he opts not to bother them, resorting only to waving at them.
When they reach the elevator, they regrettably find it crowded, with too many of them whispering inane gossip between themselves as their eyes draw to the famous detectives present.
They're the ones looking for Carrion!
She's a little young for him, isn't she? And small too.
Aren't they cute together?
They don't look very competent. We should just skip town and wait out Carrion.
Why are they armed?
I heard the fox is Carrion. Keep your distance.
Are they even fit for duty when they're so short?
It doesn't bother them, really, rumor mills are a thing of the city. Towns merely have them pass through lips, but Zootopia has them splayed out on magazines and on the news, blogs and videos, in enough places to make voices in an elevator seem small by comparison, ignorable even.
So there is some comfort when they realize it doesn't even move them, despite them being so incredibly tired.
And further comforts come when a young bear cub just an inch shy of Judy's height meanders towards them, almost shyly as his mother urges him from behind. "O-one day I'll be a detective just like you!" he proudly announces, awkwardly saluting them.
Judy swoons at the cute little thing, quickly pulling out her wallet and taking out a sticker badge from it.
But instead of her usual speech, she lets Nick take the lead as he pats the cub on the head. "You don't have to sell yourself short, kid. You can be a lot of things, and they can all be more than just being a detective. Aim high, work for it, and soon you'll realize just how much more you can be."
The cub immediately thinks of being an astronaut, or president, and he bubbles off his edges, his tiny furs garnering goosebumps.
Judy leans down to meet his eyes. "But if a detective is what you'll want to be, then one day I'll see you at the academy, and I'll cheer you on myself. That future is yours if you want it. So do you want it?"
Reminded of his dream, he proudly salutes again, straight and proper this time, a determined look on his face. "Yes ma'am!"
She places the sticker-badge onto his chest, pressed gently till it almost tickles him. "Then I have no doubt that it'll be yours."
The elevator then stops on their floor and the pair emerges from the crowd.
A few more whispers pass between the citizens, but the mother and cub only wave goodbye, the little one barely able to contain himself just a second before the doors shut, jumping and announcing to his mother just how excited he is, loud enough for the room to hear.
"They raise most kids pretty good here, don't they?" Nick comments, placing a hand over Judy's shoulder.
"With a town this polite? I'm honestly not surprised." Naysayers and gossips aside, it seems the town is mostly as kind as advertised. It's far from perfect, but Judy believes that perhaps this town might be a good place to settle down after all. That is, if Carrion had never showed up to begin with.
Nick on the other hand has a change of opinion. If the people were just as pleasant, maybe he could just buy his dream house in one go. Miss Avery would certainly be willing to sell her old "cottage" if a place as big and magnanimous as that could even be called that.
It's then that Nick turns to the steady figure of Judy, walking ahead of him a bit of confidence in her step. She seems rather sure of herself. "Pretty big promise back there, Carrots," he says, a bit of caution in his tone. "Especially to a kid. We don't even know if he'll even stay the course."
"Kid's got a strong backbone and his ambition is bubbling off the edges. He's got the material."
He entirely expected her to make a comment about how much like herself the kid was, but that wasn't what passed through her lips. "That was far more objective than I was expecting. Since when did you start scrutinizing children beyond the size of their gigantic eyes?" He gestures, perhaps to some comedic effect, but it is lost when his face sports nothing but concern.
"Consider it a consequence of being around you all the time." She is nonchalant about it, the hint of something else in her voice. She is well aware about how bothered he is, but she is only waiting for the right way to reassure him.
"I'll be honest, it's kind of worrying me." His concern is tangible because she understands it, has seen it matt his face with enough impact to mar his confidence. He can feel himself changing and it's a prospect that terrifies him, and of course it would only get worse if there was even a chance his partner was changing too.
She sighs, stopping in front of their room.
She turns to meet his gaze and places her hands over his, looking up at him with the same bolstering look he remembers. "I haven't changed, Nick. I'm sorry if I worried you but I just happen to still have my work eyes on. It wouldn't have changed what I said to him, but I'm not going anywhere, alright? I'm still me."
His fears are already dispelled, but he decides to play into it, sink into whatever it is he has before him. "Still the bunny I love?"
She almost repeats the moniker, that same answer a question with a question thing they do but she decides to get right to the chase. "Yes, yes I am."
Suddenly the proximity between them becomes incredibly inviting and he decides to rest his forehead on hers.
And then Clawhauser opens his door, opposite of theirs.
"Oh wow, sorry, am I interrupting something?" He wants them to be embarrassed and quickly pull away, but they don't, much to his disappointment.
Instead they shrug, stating, "Not really," as they pull away from each other.
"Settling in well enough there, Spots?" Nick asks, waving at Francine who spots them both as she kicks her wide legs over her bed.
"Hey, you two," the elephant greets. "You two got a room to yourselves, huh?"
"Got here first," Judy states proudly.
"First dibs privileges," Nick adds.
The pair looks into their neatly made and relatively empty room. "So… where are the rest of the boys?"
Clawhauser points to next door. "They're sleeping in the next room but Fangmeyer is sleeping in his favorite APC, he brought some bedding he hid in the storage compartment too, and Wolford is bunking in with us. He's just cleaning up in the back."
Judy raises a brow, mimicking Nick. "That only leaves out two wolves. How are they all sleeping in there?"
"Snarlov and Lupin have taken to the sofas, while Fangmeyer and Delgato have the beds."
The pair looks at each other, then back at the still confused leopard. At this point it should have been obvious so what don't they understand?
"Okay…" Nick says slowly, "so where's the chief sleeping?"
Oh.
Realizing that they have no idea about it, the leopard can then only barely contain his excitement, giggling almost uncontrollably before final speaking. "Oh-" a final giggle "-he's at Creed's." He pauses. "In the guest room…" he nearly screams, "with Sam." He announces the last as if it was the hottest piece of gossip. And, honestly, right now it very well could have.
Because it's a delight to hear, something to get their minds off the town, letting them sink into its nonsense.
And for a moment they let themselves go, talking for longer than they should be about it. Clawhauser rambles about how it should have happened sooner, and Judy wonders if he'll even be able to put up with her. It's only until Francine decides to invite them in do they realize how long they've been standing outside.
They regrettably decline the invitation, telling them that they've been meaning to settle in after everything that's happened today but they promise to try tomorrow night instead.
Finally inside their room, Judy is the first to plop into bed, just about ready to fall asleep right there and then but she knows she needs to get clean first.
Nick, however, beats her to it as he slides into the bathroom. Judy's mouth twists into a tiny scowl, and all he does is wink at her. "You're welcome to join me if you like."
She just rolls her eyes with a smile, physically resisting trying to flirt back. Instead she takes her phone, filing through her notes.
She knows she shouldn't be focusing on work when the day winds down. Bogo told her just earlier today that they should take every measure to ensure that they are efficient and, well, sane. And he used that word with enough clarity and seriousness to ingrain in her — and hopefully Nick — that Bogo has been on this case long enough to know how important that is.
So she clasps a hand over her eyes and lies back, letting her phone fall softly onto the mattress. With a short groan, she announces herself to the quiet of the room, and Nick, who has been sitting silently in the shower, hears her.
"You alright there, Carrots?"
"I'm fine, Nick. Just finish your shower so I can hop in." She wants moreover to get her mind off the case, and running water in a clean room will do just that.
And he knows this, because the Victorian designs, gold linings, whitened tiles that almost appear marble and the general pristine motif of the room reminds him of Halberd and its antiquated castles. Together it creates a virulent departure from the rugged, almost simple, aesthetic of the town. And he'd stay here all night if he could.
"I can turn around," he calls out to her.
She shoots her head up, not sure she understands what he means but the inkling of something suggestive inspires rather concerning thoughts. "What do you mean, Nick?"
"You can join me and we don't have to look at each other so it'll be fine."
To anyone else it would have been a strange suggestion, with any other pair it would have been embarrassing and even sexual, but to them it isn't. Because to her it is an invitation to comfort, to share in it with him in a place detached from the town. And to him it is a want for intimacy, to feel her back pressed against his, a reminder of who shares in his woes.
He doesn't want to leave the shower, not yet, and she wouldn't ask him to leave. And with a final glance at her phone — which she finds herself reaching for — she decides that she needs to leave the bedroom.
"I'm coming in," she says as she enters the bathroom.
But instead of joining him, she hops onto the large elephantine sink, and closes the cap. "I'll just bathe in here, Nick."
Nick chuckles. "I forget how small you are."
"Har har," she responds dryly, letting hot water fill the tub-like sink. She almost considers how strange it is that she's doing this but a sink large enough to comfortably cradle the girth of an elephant's hands shouldn't be ignored for its other potential uses.
So then she slowly dips into it, feels it heat her fur and lift the dirt off, and suddenly her core feels the warmth circulating over it, causing her to sigh happily.
Nick sits down against the falling waters and he looks to see Judy's silhouette against the frosted glass of the shower door. She is relaxed, like he is, and he almost makes a snide comment, but he decides not to.
"What are you thinking about, Nick?" she asks suddenly, watchful eyes spotting his silhouette too, seeing him shift against the tiled floors as his eyes, distorted yet burning green, seem to drift elsewhere.
He considers his answer for a moment, thinking a serious one is too unopportunistic, so he considers a bold one instead. "You, mostly," he says smoothly, the sensual nature of it not lost to her.
Her visible shift in place to cover herself causes him to snidely grin.
"Are you peeking?!" Nick to her has never been a pervert, because being suggestive is another thing entirely, marked with a certain charm that is most certainly his, but the idea of him being so brazenly lewd is… out of character.
It's then that she realizes that he's only making fun of her, burning a pout on her face so vivid he can feel it boring through the glass. "You're a major jerk, you know that?"
"I'm your jerk, Fluff." He stifles a chuckle with a knuckle, coughing an ahem to silence himself, killing the grin. But then a soft smile takes its place. "I'm not lying though. Forgive a sentimental fox but I am worried about you."
She twiddles her thumbs over her soap, trying not to look at his silhouette whose body language would have been enough to tell her how he feels. "Forgive a sentimental bunny for feeling much the same." Her eyes then trace his figure that has shifted to place his back against the glass door. "I'm here for you, Nick. What's wrong?"
He does his best not to wield the soap in an ironclad grip reminiscent of his pistol, and yet he nearly snaps its soft contours in two, deciding instead to toss it against the wall. "Nothing you don't already know." His eyes drift upward to her again, and he can see her hands slide to the base of her neck, a pensive habit of hers that he recognizes on their time on the skytrams. "What about you, Judes?"
"I'm just… homesick."
"I know you are, but why? I know it's nothing so simple, Judes. What aren't you telling me?"
She barely brings herself to say it, but then she catches the sheen of his green eyes, honest and true, and she knows that keeping it from him will do neither of them any good. "Bogo and Sam are here," she admits as she sinks a little further into the water as if to hide herself after she catches him blink and tilt his head.
"So?" He tries to sound more concerned than anything else, but he only comes off confused.
"They're here, Nick, back on their old case together. They can take it from here, fill the rest of the spaces so we can go home. We don't have to be here anymore. We can go home and… forget."
"Judy, we—"
"I'm sorry, Nick," she interrupts as she presses her palms over her clenched eyelids in embarrassment and frustration, tearing them away quickly as she leans against the sink's edge. He even used her real name, something he does when most desperate or dire. She then sighs, weighted with enough of her fears that he can feel it tugging her down. "You know I'd never actually go through with it but… I can't help but want to go home. And the longer we're here with them, the more appealing it sounds."
He is scarce to disagree, because he can already feel the comforts of home when he closes his eyes. His wide bed, the modest warmth of the kitchen, the cozy confines of his cheap sofa. But the illusion is fleeting, gone in the next as his arms cross defensively as the pitter patter of the shower reminds him that he only has a tub at home, and he's never owned a shower in his life. "I'll admit, I miss it too, and I don't know what I'd give to be there right now but you and I both know that we'd never live with ourselves if we leave, if we don't see this through."
He knows exactly how she's feeling and she is no different from him. She can see the cracks in his heart mirror her own, the same semblance of weakness leaking into their tones, the solid stoicism that almost feels like a mask. But in spite of their pains, Judy is overwhelmed with the idea that he understands every facet of her. And even though she does not feel any safer than she already does, she does feel much more secure.
Because they are not each other's protectorate. Instead they stand on evened ground, back-to-back as comrades on days most dire. He is her equal, in enough ways to feel like she is never alone, and always independent, as much a contribution to their success as the other.
And this overwhelms her, almost making her smitten were she not so incredibly gleeful. She starts with a smile, one he feels burn into his heart. "Nick, I love you. I still have no idea what that even really means anymore but just know that I love you."
And there she goes again, echoing him before he even has the chance to figure out how to articulate it like she does. "Oh now you've ruined me. How am I going to respond to that with anything better than 'me too'," he jokes, the ghost of a laugh skimming his voice.
She places her hands on her chest, giggling at him. "Take me to lunch and I'll call it even."
She can practically feel his grin. "Miss Hopps, are you asking me out on date?"
"Do you want it to be?" She's flirting again and this excites him, because she is just everything that he once felt he could never have. Delightful, gorgeous, sweet and dependable, a cocktail of enough things he felt he was never good enough for, and yet there she is, only a few feet away, delighting in his company.
She then hops out of the sink as she opens the drain, catching Nick's curious glance in the mirror at her lithe figure. There is only a moment of embarrassment before she wraps herself in her towel.
He takes this cue to walk out himself, staying in the bathroom so he can put on his clothes. But when the water stops, there is a silence in the adjacent rooms that fills the air. And Nick can practically feel his heart racing.
But he steels himself, shaking the thoughts out of his head before his big mouth decides to speak them.
He comes out to see her dressed in his boxers again on the sofa. "Couldn't dig through your own bag, huh?" he comments as he drapes his towel over a chair.
"Well you left it lying around. Plus this is my favorite pair." She wiggles her legs in them, feeling the fabric rest comfortably against her fur.
He doesn't argue, plopping himself into a seat next to her. She then shifts to lean her back against his shoulder.
"Actually," she begins, "about that lunch. Take me out to breakfast this Friday instead. I heard Sam and Bogo are going out for coffee at Catfrani and I'm… well, I'm curious."
He raises a quizzical yet overwhelmingly proud brow. "You want dirt on the chief, don't you?"
"It'll get me out of parking duty one of these days." She attempts nonchalance but it does nothing to hide how much she actually wants it.
He's so smug right now she swears she can feel it edging off his lips. "I'm rubbing off on you, aren't I?"
She is scarce to disagree, and she honestly wishes that bothered her more, but he's right after all. His conman philosophies tell that being prepared for anything provides some sense of comfort in being secured on that front on the off chance it ever makes itself an issue, no matter how dirty it almost feels.
But then she looks up to see that grin plastered over his face and she playfully rolls her eyes. "Do I have to make mention about your little spiel with the cub earlier? Or how you're a law-abiding citizen now? Or maybe I should start with the way you religiously do your taxes every month now?"
It's clear that she's been a heavy influence on him as well and it shows. He's cleaner, far kinder than he was and just confident enough to not appear like a jerk. He's snide but charming, rugged but easy. There is pride in knowing she helped make that, prouder still when he tosses his wallet off the sofa and onto the coffee table where his badge glistens between the folds.
It's then that her phone rings. She almost doesn't answer but Nick urges her to do so. When she realizes who it is, she puts it on loud speaker for the both of them.
It starts with the cautionary tone of Terence on the other end. "Hey, Judy, we got a problem here in the Banana District. We've got another crime scene you guys should maybe look at."
"Someone go missing?"
"Yeah, Goddard Smith from Buckshot. We're at his place off the rotunda. District is small so you can't miss us. If you two can make it here fast enough, we can have you lead the analysis and — Oh! Sam and Bogo are here!"
A sense of urgency overcomes her, but she doesn't know if it is coupled by anxiety or caution. Because it might lead to nowhere, or it could provide further insight into the case. Either way, it had to be checked out.
And then she regards Nick, about ready to suggest that they go now, but she swallows her words when she sees his face.
The pain in his eyes is so vivid that she can feel it pouring out of him. It ripples through his body, tangible and fierce as his muscles tense and his eyes slowly shut closed. She almost forgets that Smith was an old friend of his, and now he's gone.
Carrion has struck a personal chord and it rips into him, keeping him still as he stares into nothing. He almost makes to stand up, perhaps to change out and go, but he is grounded to his seat, legs making no effort to give.
"Judy?" Terence's voice draws Nick out of his stupor and into another one, scaring him into falling back into his seat.
He would have whipped out his gun were it on hand, and a sense of dread overwhelms him when he realizes the weapon is close by, further terrified when he realizes that he feels safer with it than without.
Judy then placates him as a gentle hand takes his arm, dragging his eyes toward the concerned bunny before him.
"Sorry, Terence, we'll be calling it a night," her words shock Nick, unsure of what to make if it under his muddled train of thought. "We're sure you guys can take care of it yourselves. Especially with Sam and the chief there."
"Really? Well… alright. You guys have a good night then. We'll send you the details of our findings when we have them."
She bids him goodbye and leaves her phone at the table. She gets off the wide sofa and pulls Nick along.
At first he thinks they're leaving, to skip town like they talked about, but she doesn't. She pulls him to bed, leaving him on the side as she crawls onto the mattress, sitting in front of him.
"Judy…?"
She looks up at him, placing a gentle hand over his chest. "Let's forget the rest of the world and sleep it off, alright?"
"I…"
Her hand rises to his chest, feels his beating heart brace over it. "Shhh… Just try."
As she pulls back, his knee falls onto the mattress, mouth still slightly agape, still unsure of how to feel or what to do.
She crawls away and slides into her side in the sheets, patting the other side, inviting him in.
With some semblance of clarity, or perhaps unrest, he decides to join her, and let his mind wander.
Hands to themselves and on either sides of the bed, Judy leans over to shut the lights off.
And there, in the darkness of the room, Nick's eyes slowly flutter shut.
~~~o0O0o~~~
Slow days bring the most delight to Smith, it means he can spend his time admiring the shop instead of trying to sell anything. He enjoys the guns on hand in Buckshot, years of craftsmanship that evolved beyond the bow, where death from a distance proved deadlier than a blade.
Such rich history is compacted in every weapon, an idea for how it should work, how it should handle. And all types and too many models to count are all within reaching distance in the shop. But his favorite is the only one not on the shelves but behind the counter, left there just for him.
The Coach Gun is a close-quarter shotgun, a deadly double-barreled weapon that can make a gator's head and its body a long distance relationship.
And with that in his hands, he can't help but take the time to polish it. And he won't deny that there is an appeal to deadly steel cradled by polished wood, smooth to the touch and gentle in his grip.
But his admiration does not stop him from noticing Nick walk into the shop whilst a weasel slips in behind him.
Smith notes Nick's scarf which is draped down his front like a boxer's towel. "John, is that cashmere?"
Nick picks it with his fingers, a little surprised at the oryx. "Huh, didn't think people in this town even knew what that was. It is, actually. I'm impressed."
He shrugs. "I've got an eye fer things. People especially. For example: the weasel over there."
Nick takes a quick glance at his current partner-in-crime Lorenzo Valentino, eying up the shop behind his shades. Though the white suit and gold chain do little to make the man appear intimidating if a little gaudy instead, there is some credit to his slicked fur and proper posture. "Yeah, what about him?"
"He ain't here to buy. Just lookin' at the smaller guns to see which one would fit in his hands fer when he orders them illegally. He's got no wallet on 'im, either." Nick notices the lack of a bulge in Lorenzo's pocket too. But he supposes even Lorenzo's fake bills would never fool Smith anyway.
"What makes you think he's a criminal?" he asks the oryx.
"He ain't touchin' anythin', didn't even touch the door when you two came in. Plus he checked the ceilin' fer cameras. Ain't exactly the most subtle type, ain't he? Coulda just worn gloves but with the way he's dressed, I doubt he'd wear anythin' that'd throw off his aesthetic. Got people to impress it seems."
Nick says nothing in response. Lorenzo's meet up with the Lucianos is soon to come. Thusly, Nick is on his way out of town to never have to deal with the weasel again. Drugs just aren't his thing, not even dealing them. All he's doing now is fulfilling his end of a deal, and heading home, leaving this town behind him.
"You're with him too, aren't ya?" Smith continues. "The only car outside is likely his but he's a weasel who clearly likes to look important, and in a car that fancy and with the booster seat on the passenger side, that means that you're the one drivin'. And you normally don't drive, John, so not only is it important, it's all business. No way you'd take the wheel for a friend if you could help it."
"You been looking into me too, old pal? I'm flattered," Nick jokes, smiling up at him.
He chuckles, shaking his head. But then he smiles sadly, not really meeting his gaze. "You know, I'd like to say I'd got you pinned down but I don't think even you know who you are."
Nick's signature grin fades then too, but his lips still curl upward, trying not to look fazed. "And what makes you say that?"
"Well ya' swagger about the place and talk all clever-like but it's clear it's all an act. And it seems like you think it's the real you, like you've told yerself that lie enough times to even fool yerself."
Nick adopts a neutral look himself, leaning against the counter as the oryx above him cleans his gun. "Alright, then tell me, who is the real me?"
"I don't rightly know. Most I can gather is his name ain't John."
Nick's alias calls to memory something else when he hears it exposed like that, a stray thought of a loving father who would have a fit if he knew what kind of job he was pulling off this time, but the thought vanishes when Lorenzo's pensive gaze scans over them, the hint of a pompous scoff rising from his features before he goes back to browsing.
Neither Nick nor Smith like the weasel very much, but it echoes a sad thought for Smith. An understanding of the enigma of the fox before him. He fixes him a stern gaze, and Nick matches it, taking him seriously. "John, what you got is company that needs nuthin' but yer talent, and acquaintances you never have time fer. They encourage the masks you wear, and the person ya hide underneath. Now… I don't rightly know who ya really are but… if you ever meet someone who lets you be you, without fear, without malice… you never let 'em go, understand?"
Nick chuckles, shaking his head at the oryx with a sense of relief. "Almost sound like you're making me find a woman."
But to Smith it's no joke.
"If it is a woman, then you take her home, love her till it hurts, and then… love her some more."
~~~o0O0o~~~
Nick wakes up and all he can gather is that it's still late, where the world is a mixture of random noises and a flurry of misplaced images as he blinks his drowsy eyes awake. But as he blinks, the images still blur and he can't grasp a sense of where he is or what he's doing. Placing a hand over his face, he draws it down and what he finds is a dampness to his cheeks.
Tears, and they're his. They matt his fur and drench his shirt so he takes it off, and it soils his pillow so he flips it.
He's sitting up now and his head swirls further. He's tired and his keen senses work too hard to let him function. So he falls back again with a hand running through the fur on his head.
He turns to see Judy roll to face him, her eyes fluttering open slowly.
She reaches out to him, and his hand rises to meet hers, slipping passed and cupping a cheek.
When she's awake enough to telegraph her thoughts he finds that her eyes share an intensity like his own.
She is as afraid as he is.
So he pulls her in, lets her eyes squeeze shut against his chest, letting him kiss her on the head before his eyes vanish beneath his lids.
His head shifts from her scalp to her forehead, letting their noses touch briefly as his eyes, half-lidded and almost shut again, meets hers.
"Nick?" comes her strained whisper.
He takes a moment to respond, searching for something in her eyes as his hand journeys to her lower back, arching her into him. "I want you to be the first thing I see in the morning," he responds just as quietly before her eyes finally shut.
For a second there is a fear that he will lose her, that come some stray derelict morning and she'll vanish, out of his grasp and whisked away by Carrion or something just as dark.
So he cradles all of her, and hopes she's real, beyond a dream and an erstwhile wish. Hopes she loves him enough to stick around and never leave. That moments like these will fill his every night, and his every day. That she is tangible and within reach. That she is his, and him hers.
Without any strength to move and much less to speak, he finds himself drifting as her body relaxes against him, causing his tense muscles to loosen, breathing in the scent of her as the world vanishes beneath all that she is.
I don't think there's a woman like that out there for me, Smith. I don't think I'm the kind of man who deserves it.
John, when the time comes, you'll know that it isn't about whether or not you deserve each other. Fate doesn't decide, you do. And it won't be hard to figure it out either. She'll stand out to ya', I know it. Cause she'll make everythin' easier, she'll make life worth livin'.
And every mornin' worth wakin' up to.
Ross wakes up to the scent of coffee off his bedside table and freshly cooked eggs wafting in the air from downstairs.
He thinks he's dreaming, but the world feels so tangible, with no sense of anything fleeting.
Taking the mug in hand, he rises from slumber, taking a quick sip that urges his senses awake.
The sun leaks through the blinds which he shuts away, fighting off the morning as his bones ache stiffly beneath his skin.
And as his eyes journey over the darkness of the room, so incredibly aware of how alone he is, a sense of something washes over him as he wonders what's going on in his kitchen.
And yet he feels no urgency, no fear, but dread still. Dread of something that takes him and carries his body down the stairs.
He stretches as his tired feet fall audibly against the hardwood steps, echoing into the empty spaces. Ghosts of better times, kinder memories, hanging dead in the air as every corner, every decoration, every potted plant and picture frame, carries a host of moments from another life.
And as he meets the ground floor, his eyes drift eastward, toward a door left ajar that leads into his garden. Such a place is also built out of his memories, whispers of the man he once was, now only ash tracked through the doorway and sinking into his living room.
But then his eyes lock forward, dragging them into the kitchen where the smell of fresh eggs still flit over his senses, and filling the room with things he dares not remember.
She is there, awake earlier than him as always, and he takes his seat at the counter, staring at her as she seems to glow against the morning sun. But he is not captivated, finding only pain reaching into his chest as his vision draws hard lines around her, trying to burn her silhouette into his mind.
"Hungry?" Eli asks, setting the eggs on a plate.
She slides them before him, and he looks up at her for only a moment before turning back to his plate. "Why are you here?" he asks as he reaches into an adjacent breadbox filled with utensils.
"Your wife can't cook for you?"
"No, I…"
She pouts at him and he can't help but chuckle a little at her, thinking himself silly for even asking. It's then that his lips find the curve of a smile for a moment too long. He almost delights in it, but he quickly drains it when she looks surprised at him, and he buries himself in his plate before taking another sip of his still hot coffee.
Her eyes scan over him, cautious and unsure as she slowly approaches his side of the counter. She tries to reach for him but he pulls away, the onset fear of touching her and realizing that she isn't real sets off alarms in his head. And when he reels he appears disheveled and unkempt, the morning charm lost as the fear in his eyes reshapes his image, making him a mess of a man.
He is unsteady, a terrible wreck, and she dares to comfort him but he's having none of it. He returns to his plate, the meal she'd made for him, and he only seems more distant.
"Don't you miss me, Ross?" she asks suddenly.
He stops midway from eating, the fork still halfway through the egg white, and he drops it onto the plate, cradling his forehead in his hand. "I do, but…"
She sits on the counter itself, looking down at him as he makes attempts not to look at her… but then fails miserably as he follows the gentle curves of her hips upwards from her body, toward the smooth crevice of her neck, where he then meets her gaze, gentle and concerned as she urges him to go on with her eyes alone.
"I… I don't know what'll happen when I let go… when I stop fighting." He shifts in place, rolling his hands together, searching for some comfort that he'll never find. "El, I don't know what I'll lose if I just give in."
She leans down at him, letting him feel her whisper, ethereal yet tangible, letting it sink into his ear and buried into his heart. "And what would you gain if you do?"
"Everything I lost… everything that mattered." His conviction rings off his voice, a strangled cry laced with a determination fierce enough to challenge the world. "I'd find you again, and I'll tear through heaven and hell just to keep that promise."
She is visibly swelled with pride, looking down at him with a half-lidded gaze that he remembers all too well. Mirrored by a honeymoon and the first steamy moments before heated passion. It is the eyes of a woman who will always be his, who promises him the world if he'll give her the same. Who would have given her life if it meant he was safe.
Who would sunder a town and all her friends just to find the bastard that hurt the one she loved. Because if she was in his place, she would have done the same.
And suddenly that fire in his heart burns into her eyes, mesmerizing and captivating, luring him into her as she tilts her lips to meet his...
But his lips find nothing, quickly opening his eyes to find that she has vanished.
He turns to his meal but there is no plate and no eggs, only the utensils.
He reaches for his coffee but the mug is not there.
He is alone in the room, staring into the morning sun that peeks through the blinds, longing for that which was stolen from him just a week ago. How clear those memories seem to be, and how displaced the hell he lives in feels now.
Ross sobs quietly into the counter, feeling her touch smooth over his back, and he tries not to look at her, no longer daring to surrender to his delusions.