The afternoon sun hides behind the Cascade Mountains, by the time Mitch pulls the pickup truck to a stop outside the church. The parking lot is empty so he's certain he can get in and out fairly quickly. He's not good with churches; he never has been. Being a good young citizen who attends service every Sunday doesn't come naturally to him; it's just a mask he's been slipping on whenever it's time.
The double doors of the building are closed shut and as usual, they are heavy, so Mitch has to use his entire body to push one of them open. It's quiet sans his own huffs, his own feet scraping across the stone floor, the door swinging to a close behind him. He can quietly pad down the aisle, past the pews, and pray that Father James is the pastor in charge today.
It's good that it's quiet. At the same time, it's not. Aside from echoing footsteps, endless silence is like a gateway to intrusive thoughts – especially when you're already on edge. Somewhere from the corner of his mind, he hears sin, abomination, unnatural, sodomy, societal destruction, degenerate, a disease.
The altar of the church vanishes momentarily and fades into a grassy field in the middle of nowhere; in the weeds, there are two men, beaten to a pulp. Still alive although barely. Still breathing despite the abuse. Galt stands over them with a bat in hand, covered in blood and smiling.
Sodomites. Pedophiles. Queers.
The summer of 1976.
It probably wasn't a warning to Mitch back when. It was probably just a coincidence that it had scared him absolutely shitless. An example of civic duty, Galt had called it. Protecting society, punishing degenerates. He had been drunk, some of the other deputies had been drunker and the two men who did nothing attracted wolves for reasons only Mitch could understand.
Reasons that only he knows to this day.
He tends not to think about it when at work. It's buried somewhere in his mind, but the effect lingers – especially here. He hates the fear, he hates the isolation. He hates how alone he is in this. He hates the danger of something he has no control over and the constant feeling that he's a mistake for it. Like there's something wrong with him but he can't fix it.
Is there something wrong with him?
It's a question Mitch doesn't want to answer for himself. He sort of got his answer in juvie anyway. Not a church or state issue. Just…people. He had been fourteen then and caught with contraband by a guard. He can't even remember what it was – probably weed or something. He can't remember where he got it either. He can however remember nervously fiddling with the blouse of his uniform to the point where he was exposing his stomach while the guard was inspecting the cell. He remembers being terrified.
God, sometimes he just feels so stupid over it in hindsight. The guard had suspected something else and slapped him across the face, sending him flying to the floor, shocked by the act rather than the pain that had his whole head rolling. When he caught the word faggot from the guard, he understood.
Horror stories from Rochester, he remembers too. Yeah, he knew what it meant even then. He read it in the newspapers. He saw it in the streets. It did bad things to him. It just never occurred to him what about him that made it obvious. Now, looking back, he understands. People can be truly awful towards what they see as uncommon. It spreads like a disease, and it attracts violence. Even innocent gestures are like a warning sign.
Horror stories from Rochester alright.
At times it feels there is no one like him and those who are get killed or live in some realm where he's barred entry. The sense of horror grows stronger by the time, Mitch is by the altar and takes a turn around the structure to the backdoor located behind it. It is here where the confessional is. It's about the only place in the church where Mitch feels like he can breathe – assuming he will be talking with Father James and not Father Colin; the one source of a lot of unbearable gay bashing services.
Today's confessional will not be about Mitch, his broken family, his misspent youth, his lack of purpose, lack of belonging, fear, doubts, loneliness, or road to redemption – or what he loves. So he closes his heart to the shadows within, opens his mind for the observations of the man currently on the farm, parts the curtains of the booth, and takes a seat on the bench.
The grill has been pulled so it's not easy to see who'd be sitting on the other side. Mitch can always remove it, but he'd rather not let the pastor see how pale he is. It takes a minute before the door to the backroom is opened and someone enters the other side of the booth.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned – I think. It's been a long time since my last confession. And I apologize for missing service on Sunday."
Too busy painting the stairs.
It feels odd yet familiar to utter those words. Mitch isn't a man of faith and never has been. But part of his counseling program after juvie also required confessionals. He came to like it. He came to like Father James.
So it's a treat when the man's voice speaks. "No apology needed. I'm glad to see you again. What troubles you? What do you confess?
"I took this man under my wing to protect Hope and because I felt a little bad for him. You know how the guys at the station can be. They already roughed him up and it would be a disaster if they continued. But he terrifies me. He's not trying to. He just does it unintentionally," Mitch bears his soul and feels some weight lifted off his shoulders.
"What is this man?"
Good question.
"Physically imposing, quiet, mysterious, sometimes skittish. He's working on the farmhouse and I get the feeling that it helps him mentally but it won't fix whatever he's dealing with. And as for his occupation? He's a vagrant. He's also a Vietnam vet. Green beret. Medal of honor. You wouldn't know from looking at him, let alone hear it from the man himself."
It's possible that Father James has already heard about John Rambo. News tends to spread fast in Hope, get gobbled in misinformation halfway, and faintly resembles the truth by the time it reaches the most socially deaf. So Mitch isn't sure what to think of the sigh that comes from the pastor who, to his credit, has never cared for small-town gossip.
"Then he's a man who commands respect. You once told me of a saying you grew up with. Respect the soldiers. But that's not the issue here, is it?"
The reminder stings a bit, but yes, it is true that Mitch has the saying drilled into his skull. It has since been fostered by Teasle and his stories. It's part of Mitch now but Will also isn't Rambo.
"I think with what's out there, I'd rather know how I can help him. Keep him stable. Keep Hope safe. I think something awful went down in 'Nam because he's like a turtle with spikes. Can't check the shell because you'll get pricked. And then he gets this…look in his eyes at times. I get the feeling that there's a lot of things boiling inside. You know, he got scars all over his body. Looks like he's been through hell on earth."
Father James hums ponderously. "I'm going to guess he's not a man of god."
"I think you're right, Father," Mitch finds himself smiling at that cheeky comment. "I guess whatever happened convinced him that God is dead. I could send him to you, but he got a bad first impression of the town. I don't think the sheriff will let him integrate peacefully either. So it's my job to be the bridge."
There is a long pause of something musing before Father James answers. His voice is heavy with intent – like it tends to be when he wants to prove a point. "You should be careful, son. What you're doing is a rethread of a past course. It's a heavy burden you're putting on yourself. Proceed with wisdom but take care of yourself too."
"Huh?" Mitch can only blink in the face of such a comment. What is being said doesn't occur to him at first – until it does.
"Heh, you didn't notice, did you? I hate to bring it up like that, but the parallels are strong. You couldn't stop what happened back then so you're trying again now. Use your experiences to move ahead but don't forget about yourself," Father James lightens up. Through the grill, he pushes his thick-rimmed glasses further up the bridge of his nose with a warm smile.
"Approach this person not as a son or a caregiver but as a fellow man. What he needs is a friend, community, someone he can trust. Out on the battlefield, there's a code of honor, comradery. Here there's nothing. It's a tale as old as time. Not enough people mentioned it though."
There's something melancholic in those words. It had been the same tone when Mitch came to the pastor about his own father's deterioration. Now, it makes shivers shoot up his spine. He understands. He really does. He knows what to do now but-
"What do I do about my fear? Join the army?"
It's a partly facetious question and the jest is easily picked up by Father James who laughs wholeheartedly.
"No, son. Meet him as a person, not a soldier. Despite what hippies say, he didn't choose the war. He's just a man-shaped cog. So, pull him out of the machine. Treat him as a civilian and don't get wrapped up in the mistakes of the top," The pastor answered. "Let us pray for him. Pray for…"
"Rambo," Mitch gathers his hands together as he steps down from the bench to kneel. "John Rambo."
It's a little close to evening when Mitch makes it back to the farmhouse, swallowed by darkness. By now, he's beyond exhausted and he could do with a nice nap, but it'd just disturb his sleep later tonight. Still, he moves like molasses as he drags himself to the entrance of the building and enters. The first thing he notes is a hearty, heavy aroma that hits him like a kiss. He doesn't get to identify it as he notes Rambo sitting by the dinner table, wrapping bandages around his hands.
He's been using the sanding paper too roughly again, hasn't he? Sounds about right because Mitch shifts his eyes a bit and sees that the staircase is finished. White and blue, all the way. And there's masking tape on the wall as measurements of the handrail. Immediately thoughts of handiwork and decorating the rail with holiday trinkets fill Mitch's mind and he zones out for a second until he hears a chair scrape against the floor and blinks himself back to the present. Rambo is staring at him and makes a blush spread across his face.
That truth about living with a dedicated super soldier slips again without grace or mercy, nearly making Mitch choke on his own tongue.
"S-sorry. I-" he stops abruptly and remembers the advice from Father James. "Got a few errands to run."
Without a word, Rambo tilts his head back a bit and sighs quietly like he's accepting the explanation. He pads over to the sink and the garbage bin underneath it with scraps of bandages and cotton. He must have really gone above and beyond. Mitch has given up on guiding him. The man is stubborn in his work. It's admirable as it's mildly frustrating.
"Please be careful with the sanding paper," the young deputy smiles anyway while he drops off his jacket on the coat stand. Next to the jacket with the flag.
Rambo huffs like he's almost offended at the suggestion that he's not a good listener. "I was. I went hunting."
"Did you find anything then?" Mitch comes into the common room and gets his answer when he's waved over to the stove where a pot of something is boiling – turning out to be stew with veggies, spices, and potatoes. Yeah, it's a stew alright but what the hell is the meat?
"A boar," answers Rambo like it's the most normal thing in the world. "The rest is in the freezer."
Ah. Well Mitch is happy he's being told whenever the other man leaves but that's only one positive in the slither of fear that washes over him involuntarily. It's hard to remember Father James' advice in the face of such ruthless feelings.
"How did you do that? I don't have any hunting rifles out here," and handiwork tools make for poor hunting equipment anyway.
"I don't need one. Made a spear and a knife," Rambo gestures to the barn as if to suggest the tools are out there. He's so casual about it too, Mitch can't decide if he's amazed or terrified. It's basic things they teach Boy Scouts, not that he has ever been one. It's just that…tools for killing and hunting…Well, at least Rambo's explanation in the police station is beginning to make much sense now.
"Oh," Mitch nods and draws a deep breath. "Yeah, that doesn't come much as a shock to me, if you came from the wilderness and all that."
If you're a guerrilla warfare expert trained in living off the land.
Briefly Mitch thinks of the rat poison in a bucket under the sink, under all the plastic bags, thinks of the handgun in the truck's glovebox.
He hardly mentally registers that Rambo actually knows how to cook before he sees a spoon passed his way. It's fully clean but it won't be once he realizes what he's asked to do. Right so John Rambo can cook, and Mitch takes a spoonful of stock, blows on it until it cools, and tastes it – regretting it immediately. It's soothed by herbs, but the spices are so strong, Mitch drops the spoon and scurries to the fridge for a carton of milk and drinks from it directly, fuck getting a glass.
It takes a moment before the burn subsides and he breathes out in relief. Wiping his lips clean with the back of his hand, he sheepishly puts the milk back and for his efforts, hears a sound that has the guise of a chuckle. It's short, it's sudden and it's over before it registers but it's such a nice soothe on the burning from the chili that Mitch lets a ginger smile spread over his lips. Rambo is a man of guarded emotions, but he looks genuinely amused; head slightly tilted, posture relaxed, expression not steely for once.
"Yeah, I think I'll be the one to cook," Mitch reaches for the milk again while Rambo reaches for the pot with a triumphant huff, carrying it to the table.
Dinner is pleasant but familiar.
It's Mitch ranting about whatever goes on at work. Mostly broad terms regarding his own thoughts and musings. Whatever stupid shit Balford or Ward are doing. Whatever nonsense poor Lester gets dragged into. What he doesn't mention is the file on Rambo or the fact that the man is now widely known as a war hero. It tempers the jokes – it gives way to darker, more serious jests. The types of which that drive Teasle up the wall because Mitch is in the middle of it.
It will help when the holidays roll around. Speaking of…
"Oh, forgot to mention I'll be gone for a bit by the end of the week," Mitch says as he balances a piece of bell pepper on his spoon. It's the red kind so the taste is sweet, contrasting with the ruthless spices. "It's Christmas and I usually spend it with the sheriff and his wife."
He swallows a mouthful of air and watches Rambo's reaction – or lack thereof with a bated breath. Instincts compel him to drag the man along because being alone on Christmas just adds another layer of unbelievable sadness.
Yet Rambo rolls his shoulder into a shrug and mumbles into his stew. "Okay."
He's probably used to it. Apathetic to the general discomfort such a scenario would produce. Spending holidays, birthdays, days, weeks, months drifting along the roads – alone. It pokes at something existentially, alienatingly unfortunate. As if Rambo is some alien from one of Jupiter's moons with customs so incomprehensible to the human mind.
It's just what he's used to and still, Mitch's heart breaks a little on his behalf. No, Rambo is not a friend but he's a fellow man deserving of basic decency, and it's that decency which makes Mitch propose a simple question.
"Do you want a present?"
"…No," Rambo answers before he eats another spoonful. He's a slow eater, probably savoring what he can get while he can get it. Presents are not one of those gets.
Mitch grows curious and diverts the topic a bit however because presents are such a broad theme. "Say, when's your birthday? Mine's May the thirty-first."
"December the fourth."
"Oh…" Mitch can't help but deflate when he realizes it was the week before his arrest. Maybe some sweetening is in order anyway. Makes the numerous bitter pills a little easier to swallow. "You know what, I'm going to find you a present anyway."
"You really don't have to," Rambo says as he lifts his head from the bowl, eyes narrowed, dark with suspicion, bright with surprise.
"No, I don't," admits Mitch with a smile, taking a sip of victory milk. "But I'm doing it anyway because I want to."
Rambo mumbles something or another that is nowhere near the same dimension as English and Mitch can't even begin to identify it but it's uttered with the tiniest hints of a smirk so it can only bode good things.
It's Christmas Eve, 1981!
Mitch has switched out his deputy hat and uniform for a Christmas hat and an ugly sweater by the time, the old pickup truck rolls to a stop outside a modestly typical idyllic house, painted white with a white fence around its front yard, situated in the typical picket fence suburbs. Lights have been strung up, illuminating the entire building. A wreath hangs on the door decked out with pinecones and red bows. It's a bit misshapen, meaning that Anna probably made it herself this year.
There are already a couple of vehicles outside the garage and in front of the house, so Mitch has to park on the other side of the road and skip across the street until he reaches the front door. With his arms holding onto presents, he has to gently bump his shoulder against the door as a knock before it opens with Anna standing in the foyer.
Hi, Merry Christmas!" he huffs with a smile but nearly drops one of the presents when Anna catches one with a sigh.
She loads some of the gifts into his arm and sighs. "Oh god, Mitch. Let me help you before you fall over."
The scent of ham fills the entire house and thoroughly overpowers the familiar smell of old antiquity from Teasle's old furniture. Like usual, there are decorations everywhere; more wreaths, reindeer figures, a garland around the handrail of the stairs, ornaments, a few tinsels, putz houses, and of course the Nativity Scene in the dining room they pass as they make their way to the living room where the Christmas tree is. Already there are a few presents, probably from the other guests. It's all coming back to Mitch. It all is as it has been before.
It's just that Galt and Kellerman are here. Suppose one cancels out the other.
Another ring of gifts sits under the tree by the time Mitch goes to the dining room and Anna goes to the kitchen. And sure, on each side of the long oak table, sits Tease, Galt, Orvall Kellerman, and the wives of the latter two, in the middle of a full lively discussion, in full Christmas outfits. Mitch can't remember what Mrs. Galt is called but he remembers Bea Kellerman for she likes to bake with Anna sometimes – even when he used to live here. And she was the one who made him the ugly sweater.
"Yo. Happy Holidays," he greets with a smile that's a little strained from how practiced it is. He barely moves a muscle before Teasle whips his head sideways and his eyes glow like the smile nearly breaking his face in half.
"What are you doing over there? Come 'ere, have a seat!"
And so, Mitch does, greeting the other guests on the way to the end of the table. By the time he's seated, Anna comes with the last dishes; mashed potatoes, roasted turkey, stuffing, greens, gravy, cranberry sauce. And finally the Christmas ham.
"Good god," she huffs and swipes her hair back from her head. Her eyes stare at the completed feast in a haze and it's quite apparent that she has been working hard.
"It looks lovely as always, Anna," Mrs. Galt says and gets an exhausted thank you in return. But Anna looks proud of herself, and she has every reason to be.
Teasle, never the most graceful, stands up to slice the ham, and as usual, the end result is a bit uneven and messy, but he laughs it off and so do the rest of the guests. Meanwhile, trays are passed around the table and Mitch's plate gets subsequently filled. It feels natural, it feels like home.
It feels like nothing changed at all. Like he still lives here, sixteen years old, eased into having a stable home again. He smiles, he eats, he talks, he jests with Bea about more sweaters, he laughs genuinely like he has done years before, he finds out that Mrs. Galt is called Margarete.
But in the back of his mind, there's something that hasn't been there years before. It's a tiny nagging feeling that springs into full thought when Orvall Kellerman asks a question with his mouth partly full of turkey.
"Say, Mitch. I hear you got yourself a houseguest. How goes it?"
Bea Kellerman tilts her head in solidary curiosity, dapping her lips free of cranberry sauce though some of her lipstick gets smeared across the napkin. Her brown eyes shine warmly of genuine ignorance and good faith.
"Oh yeah, the pet project," Galt smirks with sarcasm while he slices into a piece of ham. "Is he still a little sore?"
It's an evil twist of the knife and Mitch feels it right in his gut. His eyes dart down at his plate for a moment while he struggles to keep his spirits up. He will not have his evening ruined by nonsense. But it's difficult when the elusive topic of Rambo rouses intrigue that's too powerful to ignore.
Margarete, picking up the sore of her husband's mockery, nods along with her own flavor of distaste and adds; "Oh yes. The solider. He spent time in Vietnam, didn't he? Saw active combat, got stories to tell. Didn't fight hard enough but I digress."
Anna turns a shade paler than normal. She quietly puts her fork down and stares tight-faced at Teasle – like he hasn't told her much of Rambo. Mitch can already foresee an argument after dinner. He has seen them bicker, he has seen them outright argue. He has come to understand that his introduction into their lives put a damper on their frequent fights.
But Rambo…Well, that's not fair to pin it on him either, is it? Certainly not when the atmosphere takes a dip because someone thought it appropriate to take jabs at him.
Respect the vets, respect the vets.
Dad didn't ever talk smack about the Vietnam War or its soldiers, did he?
"Things are good. He-" Mitch stops momentarily to not run his mouth. Nerves shoot tingles up his spine when he looks at Galt's gross smirk. He squares his jaw and settles for a technical truth. "He talked about hunting so I might drag him out to the woods when the weather gets warmer. It may not be deer season but there's boars all year round."
Teasle quietly lifts his head and stops chewing. He still hasn't looked at Anna but he looks at Mitch with something that rattles the young deputy.
"Remember when you were younger, and you got lost in the woods after a bad rainstorm? Oh, you were soaked," Anna smiles, warm, gentle, avoidant and it lifts the mood up a notch.
The memory is simultaneously amusing as it is bitter. Mitch had gone out after classes with a fellow classmate – earning his first kiss from the boy as it had begun raining. People just assumed they went out to mess around in the woods like teenagers and Mitch kept it that way. Neither Teasle nor Anna suspected a thing.
Mitch thinks not of how much he liked that boy who moved away soon after. He does think of the aftermath of running around in the rain for too long, smiling into his cup of hot buttered rum for reasons only he knows.
"Think it gave me a pretty bad fever afterward."
"A good way to avoid that is to train your heart and soul like I trained Maggie, Hooch, and Thunder," Orvall adds proudly but sours when Bea snickers from across the table.
"Who by the way are total couch potatoes when not on duty."
It's true. Very cuddly dogs when not on duty. Mitch would like his own dog one day.
Dinner passes without incident as he spends his time divided into three fronts; eating, talking, and thinking about dog breeds. No Dobermans, he concludes in the breathing room between dinner and dessert of key lime pie, chocolate lush, and pound cake. It's a team effort between Mitch and the Teasles to clean the table, restock the eggnog and other drinks, and store the leftovers – with bits pawned off to Mitch for tomorrow.
As Anna lists off all the things for him to take home, he thinks of how acutely familiar he has become with the taste of boar meat over the week while he's washing the dishes. There's a lot of food, far too much for one person to eat but he suspects Anna's hospitality extends to Rambo as well – even if she hasn't met him. Yet.
"Say, Mom. Could I borrow the phone?" he asks while drying his hands in a tea towel.
Anna quirks a brow while she is arranging the candy canes and Christmas cookies. Her mouth pulls up to a testing smile. "Of course. Calling a girlfriend?"
"Not tonight," Mitch smirks despite the awkward flinch that curls over his body. "I'm just making sure the farmhouse is still standing."
"Oh, honey. I hate that you live all the way out there with that man. And I didn't even know he went to 'Nam," Anna bemoans while her shoulders slump in defeat. The colors have returned to her face, but the worry is active like a powerline. God only knows what Teasle has said to her. Not much as she never brought up Rambo until tonight.
Mitch pads towards the telephone hanging next to the fridge and slowly begins to type in the number to the farmhouse while saying; "I guarantee it, Mom. He might look scary, he ain't saying much and it's hard to know what he thinks half the time but if you treat 'im right, he'll give it right back to you. Oh, and he likes your cooking."
"Well, I'm happy to hear it," Anna isn't. The hesitance of her smile says so. But she sells it and arguments on Christmas Eve ain't needed. She picks up the plate of sweets and hurries to the doorway. "I'll make sure to save some cookies and canes for you when you're done. You know how Art can be with sweets."
It's Christmas Eve, 1981…
Like the previous years, John spends it alone. Unlike the last decade, he spends it with a roof over his head and food in his stomach. It's cozy in a way he hasn't experienced in a while with the fireplace cackling and the wind howling outside. The stew sets heavily in his gut, warms him up, burns comfortably through his innards. Because he's alone, he can actually get away with lots of spices.
John expects the night to fizzle out in a quiet hum. He sure as hell isn't expecting the phone to chime, basically taking the atmosphere and smashing it with a sledgehammer. It's annoying but John gets up from his chair to answer. He's expecting the voice of a stranger asking for a certain redhead. He's expecting the sheriff to hassle him. He's not expecting the voice of Mitch to fill his ear.
"Yo. Just calling to wish you Merry Christmas. Everything alright, partner?"
Oh.
It…honestly comes as a shock that this is happening. It's even a bigger shock that John somehow feels good about it. That is by far the biggest surprise. It's so sudden that it stuns him silent for longer than what's socially acceptable. Feels weirdly psychotropic in how John's evening brightens a bit.
"Hello?" Mitch asks gently and that accent slips in again. His voice is clear despite the numerous voices in the background that get picked up by the receiver. Just for a moment, it'd be nice if he said John – or Johnny.
John clears his throat a bit. "I'm good. I'm…I wasn't expecting you to call. Happy Holidays."
"Thanks. Truth be told I've been thinking a lot about you tonight," Mitch's smile is audible down the line, then makes a strange sound when it must have occurred to him what it is he has just said. John can already imagine the furious blush across his face.
It's an amusing thought.
Mitch tries again as his accent slips through, "W-what I mean is it's because I'm here and you're out there – alone. Thought it would be heartless of me to pretend you don't exist. I'll be home tomorrow though so you won't get rid of me just yet."
Home.
It does something to John.
'"Alright," he says, and the world falls quiet again as the call ends. He remains by the phone and looks over his shoulder to the dinner table, then at the staircase.
It's been bit of a slow week because Mitch has been busy with preparing for the holidays and John has been in a weird state of mind. The handrail has been measured, the tools are present, and the two-by-fours are ready.
Suppose John can start building after dinner. Make it a present to Mitch.
And so he does. It's a job that comes fairly easy when all he has to do is screw, saw, glue, and sand.
He sleeps that night, a full night. A dreamless night. His mind is at peace, but it thinks. Thinks of Mitch and the efforts of companionship he's making. There's still fear, yes but it's fading. Bit by bit. Day by day.
John at times finds himself forgetting that his days are numbered in Hope. He's nowhere close to getting attached anyway, he reminds himself when he closes his eyes against the darkness.
It's late morning when John awakes to unusual white light peering into the common room. He lifts his head and gets up from the couch to see a layer of snow painting the world white. It's blinding but calming in its serenity. It, on top of a decent night, is what makes John move a little faster through the morning. He settles for toast and jam with coffee, sitting at the dinner table in silence, and looks down at his hands. Non-bloody, not sore.
Things are changing. Maybe it's a good thing.
The quiet is quickly disrupted by the distant hum of an engine pulling closer to the farmhouse, trudging through snow until it pulls to a stop outside the building and Mitch spills out from its door, dressed in an ugly sweater under his jacket. His hands are bound by plastic bags so John gets up to open the door for him and watch him saunter inside.
"Merry Christmas! You get to taste Anna's ham after all!" he grins, cheek and nose as red as his hair. He doesn't stop to wait for an answer, dropping the bags and heading right for the truck again.
John, simultaneously exasperated and mildly amused at his energy, gathers the bags and carries them to the kitchen. He steals a peak sees plenty of food and opened gifts.
He turns around and sees Mitch slowly close the distance between them, holding a flat present in his hands. His face is still red like a cackling flame as he gingerly offers the item. "Happy very late birthday."
John flinches for a moment while reality sets in. He stares at the present and feels heat creep down his neck when it occurs to him what is happening. He's not dense, he knows social cues. It's just…it's been a while since someone has given him something that's not shit.
"Thank you," he accepts the present, perplexed as he is grateful. It turns out to be a jacket – flagless.
He lifts his head from an eyeful of green fabric and stares at Mitch who's fighting to keep his expression still. John so seldom smiles. Even he knows that. But he smiles now and it's effective in melting whatever resolve Mitch has.
It's a treat to watch.