Thank god the townhouse directly behind them was open. The survivors were afflicted head to toe by enormous amounts of pain that should've put a man out cold, but to Harry's chagrin, the 'no sleeping' rule also included the stipulation, 'no passing out.' If there was a way to, he'd've liked to read the full contract (where his signature had been obviously forged) and its fine print clauses to get an idea of what else he was barred from.

He lay sprawled on the couch; James took the easy chair. They'd spent the first how many minutes or hours wheezing, groaning softly, and trying to find any comfort for their tormented bodies.

Other than that, they didn't speak, or did anything else at all.

Long, long after they'd taken refuge in the dreary townhouse, James began to feel a little better. Where there was a con for Harry, there was a pro for James. Call it cheating or call it favoritism, but his advanced healing time really benefited them both in the long run. He drew a deep sigh, and rested his head on the chair's ratty corduroy pillow.

James personally hated the feel of corduroy. It was rough and usually unsightly, and reminded him of old people. His eyes parted to heavy slats. No; not just old people. Frank Sunderland, to be exact. Derisiveness twitched the corner of his nostril.

Frank Sunderland. Dear old dad.

When he and Harry were in their early days of prancing merrily along together, Harry had fished up some tender memories of his father, he recalled as his eyes glazed over. He'd even gotten him feeling nostalgic and sad; what was Frank doing now? Where was he? Did he go looking for a son that up and disappeared without a trace? (Did he care?)

Possibly. James shamefully lowered his eyes. He shouldn't hold a grudge against him anymore. (Sorry dad; of course he cared.)

Harry made dad jokes that were right up Frank's alley, and had made James smile. The Mason patriarch had humor and wit that surely, his Sunderland counterpart would've enjoyed. Perhaps the two of them would've egged each other on. It might've been funny, and the second hand embarrassment awful.

Yeah. They probably would've hit it off.

And Frank would sit in his corduroy easy chair, laughing and bantering, and James would have to stand there and watch Harry get played for a fool.

Scratch that; the grudge was still there.

James dug his fingers into the plump, lived-in stuffing and outdated fabric. He fucking hatedcorduroy. He pushed himself out of the chair and took out a bit of his anger in doing it, making it rock and squeak.

The unwelcome reminiscing and theoretical Harry and Frank left seeds stuck in his teeth. But in standing up, he got distracted from them when he realized his legs weren't waxen prisoners anymore; the weight had transferred to rueful memories in its stead. That didn't mean he wasn't still throbbing. Neither were nice feelings, but if he had to choose one over the other, he'd've probably opted to keep the casts.

Sometimes one doesn't know what they've got until it's gone.

Thanks, Silent Hill.

James shuffled to the coffee table to check on Harry. "Hey." He frowned when he received silence, so he sidled closer. "Hey. Harry." Now a mite irritated, James sidestepped into Harry's field of vision and gave his shoulder a shake before the author could properly register him.

"Shit!" he gasped, jolting in pain and surprise. Harry snapped his eyes up at James, startled and incredulous at the young man's customary, unamused frown. "Fuck's sake!"

"Your ear's bleeding."

He squinted at him, his features morphing to mirror the frown. "Huh?"

"Your ear's bleeding."

"James, I can barely hear a thing," he told him. "You're gonna have to speak up."

James studied him again. That made sense. "Your ear's bleeding," he stated for the third time, projecting his voice and motioning at his own ear for example. Harry touched beneath his earlobe and flinched, then disdainfully regarded the dark red flakes on his fingertips.

"So my eardrum did burst," he grumbled. Wrinkling his nose, he rubbed away the dried blood, and dropped his arm off the side of the couch. Harry sighed and stared out at the wall once more. "Spiffy."

"I'm gonna take a look around," James announced at a volume he could hear. At Harry's nod, he went to scoot out of the tight spot between the couch and table, then looked at his charge again when his jacket hem got tugged on.

"Wait a minute. You're feeling better?"

He shrugged. "Not great, but yeah." Creases lined his brow in reply to Harry's irked scoff, and the older man turned his head away.

Since that seemed to be the extent of Harry's complaints, James took his departure. The ground floor of the townhouse was standard to their experiences so far, and the second floor was just as fascinating. James meandered about anyway, wandering through rooms and peering into closets.

He felt strange without the backpack hanging off his shoulders. Its absence was enough to want to go slip it on, and he thought maybe he would in a minute; he just wanted to see what was in the bedroom dresser first.

And what he found in that dresser was nothing he could've prepared himself for.

James carefully lifted a neat stack of clothes from the top drawer. There were two drawers total, both rather wide and deep. The dimensions were perfect for storing a full outfit and shoes to go with it - and that's precisely what it contained. He hesitantly set the stack on the bed, then placed the pair of motorcycle boots beside. Then he stared gobsmacked at them, and after a disturbed pause, dismantled someone's hard work garment by garment until they were in a full, visual spread.

These were the exact same clothes that he currently wore, and had worn, for years. They were all his; his jeans, two shirts in grey and black, socks, boxers, jacket, and boots, all an immaculate copy.

To feel tense and spooked was well within his right; and tense and spooked, he was. He glanced warily at the dresser, closed the top drawer, and opened the bottom. With tickles of dread crawling over his skin, it revealed a full set of Harry's outfit as well, his oversized leather jacket included.

James glanced over his shoulder, looking for the eyes that bore into his back. Of course, he was (perceptibly) alone. He scrutinized the walls and corners anyway, and looked into the drawer again. When he'd set Harry's reproductions down next to his own, he didn't disassemble it as he'd done for himself. The drawer hung open as he took a step back, sliding his hands into his jacket pockets, and studied the array.

It was interesting. James had seen himself plenty; he knew exactly what he wore, because how couldn't he? and he knew what Harry wore, because again, how couldn't he? But seeing their respective outfits laid side by side like this, he realized how massively different they were from each other, and not only in style.

Clothes reflected personalities; in fact, they made the first impressions. In his past life, James didn't do much considering how he dressed. If it was clean and looked passable in the mirror, he wore it. Caring about them only mattered when he went out on dates with Mary, and on their wedding day. What he wore when he walked into Silent Hill for the last time was a reflection of his norm.

Friends, acquaintances, and Mary herself described James as a quiet and surly man. He didn't think he was surly, and still took some offense to that. People said that he was very serious, which was still true to his nature, and even a little dreary. Those personalities generally gravitated towards muted colors, didn't they? Greys, blacks, somber blues? That's what James would've figured. (The irony went over his head.) It's not like his outfit was bright and cheery by any means, but it did have colors that stood out. They were average and his style ordinary, casual, but if one saw him for the first time across the room, he really didn't think that they'd get 'surly' out of it.

Then there was Harry. His clothes appeared to consist of dark colors, and dark colors only. From a leather jacket in a deep, woodsy brown and a sweater dyed a dusky red, to black slacks, socks, and boots (he didn't care to go any further than that) - that combination alone was a pretty forward way of saying 'serious personality.' There actually was one outlier he'd briefly forgotten about until it caught his eye: a white t-shirt, which James now recalled peeking out beneath the sweater's v-neck collar. But that was an accent color, and really, he couldn't use a little bit of white to give any leeway to his opinion.

Other than that, the only other color Harry had came in maroon. James wasn't an expert on color specifics at all - red was red, blue was blue, there was no difference between sunflower and starburst yellow - but for whatever reason, he could recognize maroon. It was nice, and Harry wore it well.

Maybe it was because Harry's fashion sense came with a dose of professionalism. The author likely wore this exact outfit out and about on his boring errands as well as for a semi-formal event. James was kind of impressed by how multifunctional it was. In fact this was, obviously, what Harry was wearing at the supermarket when he got Heather's phone call. So, yes; this could be just typical Harry Mason.

But it was so dark. He didn't get anything like 'surly' off of his first impression in the park. Harry radiated enough authority to feel like he ought to be paid attention to and taken seriously, while his kindness brought down even his own defenses. His presentation was like night and day. James did have to wonder what the rest of his wardrobe looked like, if he wore any other colors, or what.

James also hadn't heard a man so put together, mature, compassionate, vain, and a likely paragon of parenthood and the community say "fuck" so much. (Talk about night and day.)

Well, whatever. He had to show this to Harry. James collected his clothes into a half-assed pile and stacked Harry's on top, his (rather nice) lace-up boots crowning it all. Pinching his own boots in his other hand, he went downstairs.

Harry glanced out of the corners of his eyes when James set, and parted the stacks accordingly on the coffee table. Then his head turned, frowned a little, and grimaced as he sat up. He leaned in to get a closer look, unclipping his light, and looked more and more perplexed by the second. "What the fuck is this?"

"New clothes." Harry squinted up at him; James remembered. "New clothes," he reiterated louder. "I found them in the drawer upstairs."

The survivor looked down again. His eyes darted between the two sets. "How in the..? Everything is here. Even new fucking shoes and a jacket. You got everything, too?"

"Yep."

Harry exhaled through his nose, setting aside the shoes to pick at his replicas. His face wrinkled, dropping his elbows on his knees and again analyzing the clothes back and forth. James stood by and waited.

"Well, that's a little creepy."

He shrugged. "Yeah, only a little." James inclined his head. "But you have been complaining about your clothes being ripped up, lately."

"Well, yeah," Harry replied, peering up at him. "It kinda sucks to have to wear fucked up clothes when you're running around a town full of monsters spitting on you and destroying your stuff."

James motioned at the table. Sighing, the father tensed when he slumped back on the couch and tiredly dragged his hand down his face. "Man, I won't even question it," Harry said, peppered with defeat. "Whatever. Thanks for the new digs, Silent Hill. It's great that you're gonna be useful, for once." His grunt sounded like a laugh. "Heh. It feels like a consolation prize. 'Congratulations on surviving Midwich! We're kinda sorry you did, but here, have a whole new outfit on us.'"

The conduit snorted softly. "Yeah. Count your blessings, I guess."

"Counting your blessings here is just as wise as counting your chickens before they hatch."

"And effective."

"And effective." Harry wearily ground his index finger into his eye socket. "Ohhh, fuck me. Well.. alright. I'm not gonna do shit about it right now," he groaned, getting himself re-situated and uncomfortable on the sofa. "I still feel like crap. Milan fashion week can wait."

James gathered up his stuff. "I'm going to go change."

"Tell the Gucci rep that I'll be ready when I'm fuckin' ready."

"Okay." He studied the older man for another moment, sighed to himself, and returned to the bedroom.

He arranged a spread on the mattress. To him, these new clothes were intrusive. For what he'd been through, done, and touched, the clothes he wore on his back looked clean enough, he'd thought - at least, until Harry arrived. Then, oddly, he began to notice them retain a little wear and tear. Even stains. James looked down at himself.

Yeah, okay; maybe he did look kinda bad. The fight with the moth sure did a number on him. Not only that, though he was clearly better off than Harry was in the pain department, James was still hurting all over. He wasn't feeling too excited to see how much of a mess he really was, but it was inevitable if he was going to change.

James sat on the bed and pulled off his shoes. The jacket was shrugged off next, and one by one, he peeled off his garments. Without the jacket he felt cold as ice, and like he'd all but shed his skin.

But then, looking down at near-naked body, he discovered that he was clean as a whistle.

There was damn all to explain his persistent symptoms. No boils; no rawness; no nothing. Naturally, it didn't stop his muscles and bones from complaining about the phantom wounds. James didn't know how to feel about it. His skin wasn't hot to the touch either, yet it did hurt to lay his finger on it.

Great: here was just one more enigmatic contradiction of Silent Hill logic.

After mulling over that for a few minutes, the anxiety set in. James hated being naked; it didn't matter if it was his full birthday suit or simply missing his shirt. He kept his head down to avoid any mirrors in the room, lest he make the grand mistake of seeing himself, and hurriedly donned his new clothes.

Well; most of his new clothes. His old jacket completed his outfit instead of the new one. James gently frowned down at the other military coat laid out on the bed. It was crisp and clean, and probably as strangely broken in as everything else he'd put on. His eyes fell to the messy collection on the floor. All at once he was struck by a dense, cold feeling he couldn't identify, attached to memories of the years past and gone.

Suddenly, the jeans felt rough, the shirt felt too large, and shoes stiff. He couldn't wear these. They were reproductions of items that were essentially his pelt; relics, even. To abandon them was a careless disregard for history. These pieces ought to be in a musky, forgotten basement of a rotting museum, systematically being destroyed by the cruelty of time.

Despite how antithetical that idea seemed, they'd nevertheless be in a museum , where they belonged.

James felt sick. He'd carried Mary's body to the car in these clothes; he'd met Angela, Eddie, Laura - Maria - in these clothes. They'd seen monsters created by his sin, abominations borne out of his guilt, had the blood of his executioner staining the threads. Mud, sweat, dew, and tears were a part of them.

Among other things.

Now James bore identical skins that weren't truly his own, and yet, they offered him a clean slate.

But he could not part with his original jacket. It had seen hell, and it'd also seen his life before he got a letter; so it could not go, not yet, and possibly, not ever.

With that affirmed, he relaxed.

As he bent to pick up the discarded pieces, he again felt attentive eyes upon his back. Slowly straightening his spine, he passed his hand over his hair and scoured the room. For all intents and purposes, he appeared to be alone.

Of course, James knew better. He opened up the airwaves to Silent Hill Radio and tweaked the mental knob, hoping to find a live station - or even a numbers station. During his search he continued to assess his surroundings; his energy levels were at an all-time high thanks to Harry's generous contributions, so he'd ought to detect something.

His frequencies picked up a bunch of so-called static. A part of him was annoyed by the lack of chatter, and the other was quickly glad to have snuck successfully under the radar. Then James's connection abruptly shut off, not by his own doing, when an unnatural, delicate pressure like a fingertip shushed his brain like it would've upon his lips.

It wanted to tell him a secret. The room was haunted by a spirit whose control was beyond him, though its following action didn't give him much time to be perturbed by his loss of control. James indented his brow as what felt like praise sift right through him - praise? for him? - and calmed him in a way that was so grossly foreign that it was perverse. He didn't know how to handle it, mere flickers away from falling into a panic - but the strange peace won over.

The breath he exhaled alleviated a good portion of the weight he carried, encompassing him in a wondrous calm. He was being honored, and he didn't know why; moreover, this entity hadn't stolen a drop from his wicked reserves. Licking his lips, he reveled excitedly in the high he'd chase and would beset him for a while, and then, it drifted away.

Too overloaded with the gratitudes was James to hear the confidential message that'd been meant for him. It'd been too thin to grasp and gotten lost, and that was the fault of the bearer.

Maybe there would be a next time to get it right.

James slipped his hands into the deep green pockets. Shotgun shells and the box cutter were absentmindedly toyed with as he considered whatever the fuck that was. There were no words that could be used to describe it. As was the accustomed, redundant exercise he so commonly practiced, he had no choice but to put it on the back burner for now.

He left the room and went back downstairs. Harry still reclined on the couch, his coat slung over its back. His ears must've been cleared a bit more, for as James approached, he shifted his weight to get a look at him over his shoulder. "Well, hey," he grinned up at his companion. "Don't you clean up nice. You goin' somewhere?"

James breathily chuckled. "Yeah. To the chair."

"Ooh. Now that's somewhere to get all gussied up for. Good luck." However, Harry eyeballed him for a moment longer. He appeared to notice that James hadn't changed one particular item. Their eyes briefly met about it, and that's all what was needed.

"Thanks." James eased into the spot he'd earlier claimed. It occurred to him that he didn't hurt anymore; not a scratch, nor even a pinprick. Sinking into the once-loved cushions and his hands on the worn arms, he settled in to wait for Harry. The conduit took up staring at the neat stack of the veteran's clothes patiently awaiting their use.

James hated corduroy. It was ugly, felt rough under his hands, and reminded him of old people.

But he'd endure it and the unpleasant thoughts it brought back while he waited for Silent Hill to tell him where he needed to mislead Harry next.