The first week of this…whatever this is goes by extraordinarily well. John is no closer to having a friendship with Mitch, but he learns quickly how the young man ticks and moreover what scares him. John is one of those things. The dark is another.
Which is ironic because he spends his nights here with no yardlights, surrounded by the short winter days. It's possible that he just feels a little better with someone else around – even a man like John. It helps that he learns to ignite the fireplace. It's unsurprising when he reveals that previously he'd spend most of the week at the Teasles.
A routine establishes itself after the first day. John stays awake for half the night, then wakes up to Mitch making coffee while before he takes an old beat-up pickup truck to work. Eight hours later, he comes back to inspect what progress John has made. Even the little things during the days when John can't get his head on straight and does little amaze Mitch.
He can't afford to say anything else probably. Keeps quiet about the work that could have been done or the jitter that makes John's nerves a mess – assuming he even notices. He instead takes on the role of cook, which he's not great at, God knows he tries. So, more times than not, he brings leftovers from the elusive Anna Teasle or whatever the diner hands out.
Bit by bit, things progress inside the house when it's two of them. For complete strangers, they work well together. It's never quiet though John often misses the peace. The radio often blares with whatever music is popular at the time. It's a bit alien for John but it sounds like home for Mitch.
Mitch, who turns out to be an avid talker with the occasional accent peppered through. He's not native to Hope though it's not easy to tell where he's from.
It's a testing process at first because the young man has that natural, extremely common trait of talking to fill the silence – or as they call it; dead air. He resists in the first days because he never gets a conversation going but midway through the week, talking proves too enticing. John listens to all the stories and venting from work or what else happens in town. Thoughts, feelings, opinions. Cases in the county.
He doesn't mind as much as he'd imagine he would. He has gone days to weeks without talking to anyone. So someone always there is different but bearable when they are so translucent. It gives him insight into how the young deputy operates.
Paints a clear picture of all his ticks and mannerisms.
How easy it is for him to blush at the tiniest of things. How skittish he tends to be only to smile it off like it's nothing. How emotionally transparent he is. How his blue eyes tend to shine when he knows he's being heard. It's not exactly attention-craving but it is hints of some level of companionship. A pursuit of that.
Yes, he's still terrified but it's a testament to forthcomingness when he sleeps a full night, every night, with John in the house or spends the evenings talking about his vision for the farmhouse.
It's not changes that John experiences internally. He just feels a little more relaxed, a little more complete with the progress around him, a little more attuned with the transformations he makes, a little more thankful that there's plenty to sink his teeth in. Especially when the weather gets warmer.
He's not the type of man to care about the aesthetic of his surroundings but the changes around him do something. They don't stop the nightmares, don't erase the storm inside. They dull them. And the promise of more work keeps them tempered. The sense of purpose keeps him going.
At times, he has to remind himself that it's not his home. He's just a guest, regardless of how he stirs awake at the winter sun peering through the spotless windows on the nights that he sleeps, how good an actual bed feels, how his skin isn't sticky with bodily fluids and grimy river water, how his hair is washed with soap or how he doesn't have to go hungry constantly.
No, he's not a perfect cook either but Anna is as great of a culinary artist as her husband is an asshole.
The walls become a uniform white, the newspapers are fed to the fireplace and by the end of the week, the staircase is halfway done. White sides, blue steps. The railing needs to be replaced afterward, also blue and white. Mitch's idea and John goes along. It beats the green. It has a sense of purity to it. So does the lingering scent of soap and lemon. So does Mitch, strangely enough, when he takes on an air of pride for what is being accomplished.
Momentarily, John wonders about finances. Mitch is young and inexperienced; he doesn't get paid much compared to his more seasoned coworkers. As it turns out, the people of Hope are generous. Paint cans, furniture polish, two-by-fours, more chairs, a whole toolbox (that one was borrowed), and whatever else the townsfolks are too lazy to trash in the junkyard all end up inside the house.
None of them are dropped off. It's all Mitch with the truck and John carrying the supplies inside. The barn isn't ready to hold much yet.
Probably by the beginning of the coming week, John imagines the staircase will be ready and then there's the second floor. Shoes are still needed on the wooden floorboards and the two rooms haven't been touched at all. A quick peer behind the closed doors shows a whole host of issues to be refinished. Hardwood floor that needs to be polished six ways to Sunday, ancient wallpaper curling into rolls from the walls that need to be sanded, coated, and painted, cobwebs that need to be gone.
The windows have been changed though; a favor from the sheriff evidently. It's a bit daunting for one man, John can imagine. He doesn't mention that – nor do they actually talk about those projects yet; there's still the staircase. Nor do they talk about who gets the first room. Both are identical, on the opposite side of each other. Both are a decent size for one or two people each. But John has the feeling that they ought to keep separate bedrooms. Still, it's going to be good when they have the space – while this lasts.
Because currently John on his worst nights has become more acutely intimate in the details of Mitch's resting habits than he ever wanted to be. The guy is a quiet sleeper. He likes to curl where he is and stay there. He looks guarded like he could jump awake. But he's deep into the realm of rest. That's how John can slip out of the house when the things inside his head become too loud, too vivid, too bloody.
Sometimes, it comes in the middle of the early afternoon and stays there to the point where he forgets where he is. On the night of the second week's first day, it hits while John is finishing sanding the stairs. At first, he doesn't understand why – until it occurs to him that his hands are shredded bloody from the sandpaper.
Mitch has warned him about this but has given up when it falls on deaf ears. Now when John looks at the blood, he doesn't see the stairs behind his hands. He sees – he sees a corpse. Blown apart, entrails spilled, ears ringing, eyes crying, blood everywhere, people watching, someone screaming.
John closes his eyes to it, squeezes them shut, and shoves the images as deep into the abyss as he can but the darkness doesn't entirely swallow it. He jolts down from the stairs, nerves pinching, chest tightening. His entire body shakes as he rubs his face and presses the heels of his palms against his eye sockets.
It's not enough.
Mitch lays on the mattress, fast asleep. He's used to the sound of distant sanding so he's out could. He doesn't hear it when John pads to the door, flings it open, and steps outside in the chill.
It's not enough.
It hasn't snowed this year. It's still bitterly cold. Without a jacket, John feels the hairs on his arms rise. It's nothing he's not used to and so he walks across the gravel courtyard, around the barn and the orchard, jumping over the broken fence to cross the overgrown pastures until he reaches the foot of the nearby forest. The air is sharp and crisp; it fills his lungs, it distracts him just a bit as he keeps trekking through the forest.
Not enough.
The strangest thing about the trajectory of his life is that he's actually here. When he thinks about it, he hasn't foreseen being here. But it's all bound to fall apart anyway, isn't it? Either through the predictable hostility of civilians or John crumpling somehow. Momentarily he wishes what the world would look like if the war had been won. If Barry had been alive. Or Danforth. Or Ortega. Or Messner. Krackhauer. Jorgensen. Colletta. If John never enlisted at all.
Not enough.
West by northwest, there's the familiar, distant rush of water. In the darkness, John follows the noise and sure enough, he comes across a river. He can't quite see how wide it is, but he has the feeling that it's a strong stream. Rocks and pebbles crack under his boots. There's a distant scent of animal waste; probably deer or boars. Instead of seeing Messner blown to pieces right in front of his eyes, he imagines himself living in blissful isolation, taking potshots at wild animals and hunting them down.
He'd like his knife back.
He'd like the freedom to leave for stretches and take what time he wants to himself, out here in the quiet wilderness. Out here where he is the law. Out here where he can allow himself a moment's weakness.
Enough.
Time flies past in a flash although it's still dark when Rambo returns to the farmhouse. He's chilled to the bone, he's shivering, his pants are a little soaked due to frozen morning dew sticking to his legs. It's still dark but it's morning, he realizes when he steps into the courtyard and sees light through the windows' pale curtains and a shape moving about.
Oh. Well, shit. Mitch is usually still asleep when John returns but this time, the pain has been relentless, forcing him outside for longer. The images haven't quite faded. His heart hasn't settled quite yet. His body shakes still when he grabs the handle of the door and steps inside the warmth.
Mitch is standing by the phone and his breath visibly catches as he looks up. His eyes grow wide, his mouth opens only to snap itself shut when it occurs to him that yes, John has returned. The optics must have struck him then because he steps back from the phone, hands behind his back, guilty like a child with their hands down the cookie jar. His throat moves through a hard swallow as he opens his mouth again to actually say something. "Oh. Where the hell were you?"
"Out for a walk. Needed some fresh air," John answers honestly but cooly. He can't put the rest of it into words, but it is generally true. If he's gonna be run out of town, he wants his truth out there before they aim their guns at him.
Mitch thins his lips for a bit, casting his gaze down. He's not in his deputy uniform as that's over at the police station but even with it, he's not exactly oozing authority. He rubs his jaw and slowly lifts his head. "Uh-huh. Could you, by any chance, leave a note when you do that? You're still under arrest technically. You wandering around would just give people the wrong idea. Especially the sheriff."
He makes a lot of sense and John has the feeling that it's this gentle approach to logic that's the cause of this entire arrangement. John can't get furious at that when he hasn't discussed the terms of his lodging aside from work for food. He's not calm however, not even close. He feels himself ignite with sparks of defiance and defensiveness. He can break the young deputy in half with his bare hands, snap him like a twig. There's no reason for that, however. So, he just bites him with words.
"I thought you were in charge of me. Not that king shit cop."
It's bit of a fallacy since Teasle is the sheriff of this town, in charge of the deputies. But Mitch should know that he's better off not putting all his faith in the man, father figure or not.
"…I heard the charges. Vagrancy, concealed weapon, resisting arrest. I mean Teasle is a hard-ass, yeah but…" he trails off, the bitemarks visible in his eyes. He's hurt on a sentimental level, by the way his brows pinch together. He can't counter this time and so John pushes past his defenses.
"He drew first blood. Not me. All I wanted was something to eat. Came into town and was thrown out. I didn't do anything. But the man kept pushin'."
"A-and you'd push back if I didn't step in," Mitch concludes on his own, eyes stretching wide, skin paling. The human mind is good at imagining what horrors man is capable of. "Oh my god…I was right."
John has the feeling that this will be where he will lose Mitch for good. It's soothing it has been so brief that he will only mourn the food and shelter. He's not even upset over it. Not even disappointed. Same shit, different town. Civilians are all the same, are they not?
Bitterness fills John's heart as he makes his way to the kitchen and opens the cupboard under the sink for some garbage bags. He better get packing for a night in jail. "So you knew already. You got more sense than the sheriff you called at least."
In the corner of his eye, he notices Mitch square up, jaw set, determination spreading through the length of his lanky body. "You're wrong, partner. There is no phone call."
That accent of something vaguely familiar rolls through his words. Northern something, a little nasal. Uncommon for this part of the country. The colors have returned to his face. It's the same look he had when he backed up Galt's threat of broken noses. It's honesty and it's about the only thing that stops John from ripping a bag off the roll of plastic.
Yeah, he's telling the truth. But John, still on edge, pokes him further. "I thought you said you were certain I wouldn't run away."
"Just trying to be nice. I-I don't know you well enough to discern your actions from your words," Mitch cleared his throat, rubbing his fingers together. "But evidently I'm right since you're here and we're having this conversation. We're having a conversation."
John is almost amused at Mitch's enthusiasm for something as mundane as a conversation. Perhaps because talking doesn't come easy to John. Despite this, the young deputy put some assumption of good faith in him. It's slightly curious but unsurprising. He's not aware of what war John fought in, is he?
"Look, I…" Mitch tries again and fiddles with the collar of his shirt as he looks down for a moment. "I'm sorry but you're walking on thin ice here. It took a lot of coercion to let me bring you here and I know certain people are waiting for you to fail. I don't want that but I can't stop 'em if they get the wrong idea. I'm not against you running around in the woods but I need to know you're there and not half across the mountains to Seattle."
The thought hasn't crossed John's mind at all but when laid out in front of him, he begins to understand the optics. It's another layer of good faith, he's taken for granted. The defiance dies a little, but it gives way to suspicion, which he voices quite cooly.
"Why don't you cage me in then? Why leave those out there?" he gestures to the truck and bicycle. "Why not station one of your cop friends out here?"
Mitch jitters again.
"…I'm-I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt, partner. I think we both know that living here is better than whatever hell is outside. If you didn't like it, you'd be gone, and I'd be seeing you getting chased through the woods by Teasle. And when they'd catch you, all hell would break loose. If I put men out here, same result. It's gonna end badly."
It's amusingly ignorant that Mitch thinks the deputies have a chance out in the wilderness.
"Badly how?" asks John, though he's already aware of the answer by the way fear fills the deputy's eyes.
"…Well, whenever someone asks about you at the station, whatever I say gets drowned out by jokes about Apocalypse Now, boot camps, the ass end of a skunk, or vagabonds. Take that as a sign of how they'll treat you if the penny hasn't dropped already. Or was knocked into you by Galt."
It doesn't come as much of a shock. It hardly dents. If John was one for humor, he'd laugh at that. Instead, he just raises his brow and gives Mitch a long, hard stare. "I've tried worse."
"I could imagine so. I-I-I get that…feeling from you. There's something about you. L-like a storm inside. You'd give them hell if they tried to push you again. I think it's just as much for their sake as yours – and mine and Hope's," the deputy has to force the words out bit by bit. Not much of a reason for it when all he's doing is to keep the peace – like any good lawman.
Says quite a lot of bad things about Hope's police force when their youngest member is the one with the most sense. It's a wonder why he even puts up with them. Regardless, John can appreciate the pacificism and rewards this.
"If it helps any, I've been going out most nights while you slept. There's a river north by northwest from here that you could probably see from here if not for reeds by its riverbanks. Wild animals use it for drinking. Might want to reinforce the fence if you plan on keeping livestock because that means wolves."
Mitch's brows pinch together. He listens but he's not registering whatever comes after 'while you slept'. "…Why nights? Is that why you look so tired in the mornings?"
Yes, it is but it's only half the story and here John finds himself short of a response. His jaw tightens, his lips stretch thin and by the way, the deputy shivers, he's staring too hard.
"Okay, forget I asked," Mitch sighs, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He walks towards the dinner table and snatches the key before he heads to the door with some haste. "There's coffee in the pot and eggs in the fridge. I'm off to work."
John is left standing with an odd feeling settling over him. His eyes sting with exhaustion while he looks out the window to see the pickup truck drive down the dirt road and vanish behind a row of trees, a mile or two over the limit. Either Mitch is angry, late, or both.
Was anything accomplished with this conversation? John has no answer. Suppose it's a battle to be taken in the afternoon.
John Rambo is an enigma. Well, sort of. Mitch feels like he's getting a clearer picture of the man. The first week has been so quiet, it's bit of a shock that the second starts like this. For one, they've had a conversation. Speaking words, sentences, topics, themes, coming to understandings. Rambo has spoken far more this morning alone than he has for the whole week. He's previously been reticent to a fault. But he tolerates Mitch's ramblings enough to show facets of his emotional core.
On the other hand, Mitch doesn't know if he's tolerating himself for being such a pansy or Rambo's nightly adventures. Or the accusation of Teasle being called. Yeah, it is true that Mitch panicked when he woke up and saw no sign of Rambo – or his shoes. But the revelation at least explains why he sometimes has dark rings imprinted under his eyes. Mitch just assumes that he's up late working on whatever they'd been busy with during the day.
Why at night? There's an answer to that; there has to be. It's just that John looked moments away from strangling Mitch when it was mentioned. Not intentional, maybe. His eyes just turn hollow and dark with something hair-raising. Like a window into some nightmarish horror beyond human comprehension. It's as terrifying as it is fascinating. It's disturbingly familiar to Mitch's dad by the end of his life – though nowhere this intense.
Mitch could hardly handle his father by the end. He's aware he's much less equipped to handle whatever demons Rambo has that make the man so edgy at times. So, he makes a mental note to stop by the church after work when the truck pulls up in front of the police station.
Inside, most of the other deputies stand gathered together, deep in conversation that grinds to a halt as they all look up and stare at Mitch when he enters. It's so cliché, he wants to puke. Reminds him too much of fucking high school. These men, his coworkers and acquaintances, friends, he loves them as he hates them – except for Galt.
But they get on his already skittish nerves today. His smile is a little strained as he dips his head in a greeting, about to head to the changing room. "Good morning."
"Morning, Mitch. How's it going?" Lester raises his hand with a folder for a wave while he splits from the ameba of deputies and presses a folder against Mitch.
"Uh, fine. Yeah. Good. Things are coming along. Guess the staircase is done in a day or two. We still need the railing though. I think the plan is to fix the floor upstairs next."
Lester doesn't answer right away. He purses his lips, looks over his shoulder, and drops the folder on a nearby desk, taking a deep breath against whatever is troubling him. "Look, Mitch. We were talking and I think it's important you hear this as well. Your guy is a Green Beret. Decorated with a Congressional Medal of Honor. He's a war hero. Just came through the Teletype this morning."
The station falls eerily quiet, and the world feels moments away from collapsing in on itself. Mitch opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. He looks at his fellow deputies, watches them quietly stand and stare back. He looks at the folder in front of him and opens it, just to make sure he's not the subject of an out-of-season April fool's joke.
"…You're kidding," he utters, skipping through the pages of personal information until he sees the list of honors. Not so much the records or anything else because he knows now that he's not being punked.
Lester sighs and clears his throat. "I wish I was. No, he fought in 'Nam. Raked up an impressive record."
Oh, that's great. That's just great. A goddamn Green Beret.
"Right," Mitch nods as he swallows that truth. He's not sure if it's fear or admiration that makes him grin like an idiot. "A war hero."
"Yeah, you invited a vampire inside with that little experiment of yours," Galt scoffs, running his hands along the length of his baton like he's offering a way to badger said vampire.
For the sake of his own sanity, Mitch ignores it and focuses squarely on Lester. "Does Will know?"
"No, uh, we'd hope you'd tell him."
That doesn't come as much of a surprise. It's a blessing and a curse to be known as the sheriff's not-son. Makes it a little easier to be the messenger of bad news. Doesn't make it good to be the bearer of Teasle's temper. Mitch is used to it, so he ignores the urge to send Lester and the others a death glare as he gathers the folder that reeks of freshly printed paper and pads towards Teasle's office. He can change into his uniform later.
The sheriff is there because of course he is when Mitch knocks on the door and slips inside. He's in a good mood that may or may not last. Generally dour whenever Rambo is brought up without the context of jokes. God knows how he's gonna react to this; it's a terrifying thought.
"What's the matter, son?" he asks calmly as he lifts his head from court documents and reports, eyes squinting once he notes Mitch's general discomfort.
The young deputy finds himself shaking like a neurotic dog by the time he puts the folder on the desk. "This just came in today."
Without hesitation, Teasle inspects the papers and Mitch almost wants to rip it out of his paws and tear it to shreds just so he doesn't learn anything. But the sheriff is a fast reader with a fast temper and his expression morphs into that of a thundercloud by the time he looks up.
"What the fuck?! And now you're stuck with him. Are you happy?"
"Things are going fine. You might see poultry in the summer," Mitch rubs the back of his neck while he tries not to look at the folder. "But Will, in hindsight of this, please just go easy on him. Like, if he goes to the hardware store without me for screws or drills, just give him the benefit of the doubt."
It's a miracle that Teasle even lets him finish because he's bristling in a way that makes Mitch cower. His nostrils flare, his eyes shoot lightning, and his lips stretch thin. He talks like a bullet train but just slow enough for Mitch to understand – unfortunately. "Don't tell me what to do, boy. In this town, I'm the law and he's just a drifter, Green shitting Beret be damned. I'll shove that thing so far up his ass, he'll be vomiting clovers."
"H-he hasn't done anything," Mitch feebly counters.
"Else. And he's still under arrest."
Well, Teasle is right. The keyword is else. But the fact of the matter is that nothing more has actually happened since the arrangements. John Rambo, despite the way he looks and carries himself, is currently docile if not frustratingly inconsiderate regarding optics. It's the one fact that is the saving grace in Mitch's defense – and Teasle knows this.
"Look, what I'm saying is have faith and patience. It's only been a week," Mitch counters, a little more assured of himself.
Unintentionally, it softens the sheriff to the point where his anger dissipates like mist. His body softens as he leans over the desk with the corner of his mouth pulling into a smirk. "You know what's also in a week? Christmas. Usually, it's just you, me, and Anna. We thought of doing something different; inviting the Galts and the Kellermans. Gonna be lively. You can imagine how Anna fusses about cooking like she fusses about everything."
"Yes. I'll be there. I'm always there. Can't miss out on Mom's Christmas ham," a smile forms over Mitch's face. It falters a little as he adds a little detail to ease the sheriff. "I'll come alone, Will."
It's odd that it's something that needs to be said but it perfectly disarms Teasle who stands up from his chair, rounds the desk to Mitch, and swings an arm around his shoulder, tugging him close.
"That's my boy. Now go get changed," he grins and the nature of Jogn Rambo is swiftly forgotten.