Hi. I'm back. Anyway, the longest chapter so far.

Mitch has some miserable holidays under his belt, so he knows what abject desolation feels like on Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, what have you. He knows what it feels like on New Year's. He now knows that he hates the start of 1982. First morning miserable, first breakfast nonexistent, first drink? Just water. Balford, Ward, and Lester have been in a glowing but lackadaisical mood on top of a night filled with alcohol, partying, and sex.

Maybe drugs. It's been the same fucking topics discussed over and over, even as they drive from Seattle. They talk of their experiences, of what they witnessed, of what they learned, how good they felt. They talk as if the world is made from cotton candy, rainbows, molly, and beautiful women.

Mitch wants to fucking kill all of them in a sudden irrational impulse that draws from primal anger. But he can't so he quietly sits on the backseats and steams with discomfort and homesickness. His body is heavy, his stomach is churning, and a pounding headache treats his mood with the gentle touch of a sledgehammer.

"You okay?" Lester leans in. He smells of women's perfumes. There are hickeys under the collar of his shirt.

"I guess," mumbles Mitch while he plays with the buttons of his shirt.

"Had a little too much to drink, eh?" Ward chuckles and Balford laughs behind the wheel.

Again, Mitch turns dour. "…I guess."

He falls silent and stares out the window at the remaining snow, landscapes, houses, road signs, and driveways passing them by.

It's a long way to Hope.

The house is quiet when Mitch comes home but there's an air of stagnation that upsets his headache. More worryingly, he finds Rambo sitting on the floor of the kitchen. He's got his back against one of the cabinets, his knees pulled to his chest, and his breath unsteady. There's a wild blank look on his face and he's pale. He's trembling. He's miserable.

Suppose misery loves company.

Only his eyes move when Mitch gingerly approaches.

"What's wrong?" he asks, his throat uncomfortably dry. His voice is little more than a hoarse croak.

"Why?" Rambo says, situated somewhere between a plead and a growl.

"…What?"

Rambo pulls his knees closer and stares long at Mitch. Steady, dark, hard, primal in a manner that makes the deputy's breath hitch.

"Why did you leave me in it?"

"I…" Mitch falters, not even remotely close to an answer. His mind is a mess and he can't go about it logically as he's used to. He feels a lump grow in his throat when Rambo breathes out through his nose and presses his lips into a thin line.

Mitch feels his entire being crumble, so he tries to breathe in some air that will glue his insides back together. It's like he's staring at an animal ready to maul him to death. It's that horrible reminder that he's living with a man who can quite easily break him in half and end his life like you'd snuff out a candle.

"It's not over," Rambo growls viciously. "Nothing is over."

"I don't get what the hell you're trying to say," Mitch tries, honest and bewildered, trying not to break down into a weeping heap of himself. "I'm sorry, I didn't call. I…I…"

No, he can't bring himself to say why. It's too shameful. He shoots his gaze down to his hands, lifts them to see them tremble, then looks up at Rambo to see him stare back incredulously and it's here, Mitch gets the feeling that they are talking past each other. Two separate issues. It's not the call. It's…

They stare at each other for long eternities of silence until Mitch furrows his brow. "Tell me."

Rambo shakes his head but he's still furious. The silence drags, the stare continues like a blade drawing across skin until it slowly sinks into flesh and cuts at vulnerable nerves. It severs through veins like it severs through Mitch's patience and he snaps.

"Fine. Whatever, fuck you! I'm not in the mood to play around. I can't believe you're fucking pissy over a phone call or whatever. I don't care. I so don't care. Fuck you and fuck New Year!"

In his short rant, he never says the words get out. It never crosses his mind, nor does he think to get his ass to the phone and call Teasle. At first. The thought flashes through his mind like bolts of lightning when Rambo's frown deepens.

Then he moves forward until he stands up unnaturally quickly, storms towards the young deputy like a bull seeing red, grabs him by the collar of his shirt, pushes him back against the wall, and pins him there. Somehow it feels like he's not even using all his strength. Mitch is taller, he reminds himself but fuck, Rambo is twice as broad. Thrice as strong.

Mitch closes his eyes, his breath staggering, his eyes watering. He feebly pushes against the man probably moments away from killing him, then slams his palms against his chest, against the scars but it's such a dumb move because Rambo tightens his grip, then yanks Mitch forward, lifts him off his feet, throws him onto the floor and he lets out a shocked yelp.

It's not that it hurts. It's just…it's happening. His death is happening. His mind hasn't caught up to it. And when it does, he flinches in terror, then frozen with fear. He looks up and stares into the wild eyes of a man not entirely there anymore. Still trapped in the jungles of Vietnam with an enemy by his feet.

It becomes a bit clearer what is going on, but it hurts the heart. December has been for naught. Goodwill is gone. The realization makes Mitch's body grow limp. He can already feel his eyes grow vacant and glassy. His headache worsens.

For a moment, he sees something else, realization flickering and drifting across Rambo's face, like the shadow of a bird flying past. Then it's gone, replaced by steely apathy, displeasure. He hasn't moved and Mitch is too scared and too angry to ask. He sets his jaw and glares up at him, hurt, terrified, actually confused. Fighting for his life next. He flails, bucks, twists, grabs, claws, punches, screams against Rambo until the man lets go.

"What did I do?! Just fucking tell me!" Mitch shrieks and his throat hurts by the way his voice cracks. He shoots his body upwards to sit, still mad, staying hurt. Now crying.

He feels like a child again. Twelve years old, stuck right halfway through middle school. Trapped in his parents' divorce. Alone, confused, sad and sorry. Desperate for meaning, desperate for a place to belong. On a course to years in a downward spiral. He lays down and rolls onto his side, curling into a ball as small as he can be, powerless against the shaking before he breaks into tears again.

His voice comes out as a meek, grainy whisper. "What did I do…?"

He closes his eyes and bites his lip. He's not a pansy. He's not weak. He's…crying now like he did yesterday. He's shaking and cursing, he wants to tear his own skin off for being so pathetic. Rambo doesn't say a word in response. He's so quiet, that it's almost as if he vanished into thin air.

He moves like a phantom then, shifts closer and reaches out but the moment his fingertips brush against Mitch's shoulder, the young man flinches and he pulls away. It makes him sigh, turn on his heel, and walk towards the door, heading outside into the wilderness.

Civilians are the same. But that is a foolish statement made by a foolish man, John realizes. He understands that his home, however temporary it is, is gone for good. It's almost not worth going back to the house at all. Certainly not while he's still working with the puzzle pieces of what happened to him yesterday. It's hard to put into words. Something like fireworks sounds stupid. It's not worth burdening Mitch with it. He wouldn't want to hear it anyway, would he? Would he even understand? Probably not. Especially after today. It doesn't matter anyway. It's over.

Still, it's a shock that the truck is there when John returns. As is the lack of a police car. John isn't sure what he expects when he opens the door, if he's going to get shot, if he's walking in on a phone call with the sheriff. But in reality, he walks in on Mitch still laying on the floor, curled into a ball. Much in the same position as before. His back is turned to the door so for all intends and purposes, he could be sleeping.

Or dead.

Rest would be good because he's been looking particularly wrong today. Pale skin, a blank stare, brittle mental fortitude, tired. Very unhappy. His mind still has bits remaining stalwart; he had actually, justifiably asked why he was being targeted. It had cut deeply and caused such hurt and anger. Ugh, there's another coin of guilt for John's bucket. And that's on top of whatever Mitch had endured. There is no way to guess what he's been doing, and John isn't upset at the lack of a phone call. It's not like he'd be able to answer with the visions and flashbacks going crazy.

"You didn't do anything wrong," John says as he crosses the floor and kneels next to Mitch, reaching out to feel his pulse, finding it quickening by the gesture.

He furls into himself just a little tighter, so he is awake. He's also shivering. He feels fragile to the touch, he looks like a wreck. He's always been lanky, but it occurs to John how thin he actually is. How his shoulder blades poke through his shirt. John sighs and cautiously eases Mitch to sit, feeling him flinch and shake through it.

"I'm sorry," John says calmly. "It's not your fault. If you want me to leave, I'll leave."

Instead of answering, Mitch just stares blankly at the floor. His expression is a void. His eyes a red. Not even a hint of a reaction. Something very is wrong with him.

"I'll call the sheriff," John offers, knowing full and well that he'll set himself up for his own end. It doesn't matter. He'll be gone here anyway soon.

"Why me?" asks Mitch, hoarseness replaced by vocal frying.

"Fireworks."

This causes Mitch to move. He lifts his head, slowly and asks; "Because of…what you saw in Vietnam?"

Oh. Even in his state, it's a shock how he connects the dots better than the man living through it.

"Yeah – I think. It's…" John ends it with a shrug, acutely aware of how much it costs him to even let a slither of whatever goes on inside see the light. It's like an anchor that can rip him to shreds if he lets it lose some more.

"They're not supposed to set 'em off here. The previous owners used to own horses and got the Board of Supervisors to ban fireworks one point six miles away from here. It's probably drunk teenagers ignoring the rules," Mitch says, his head lolls, his body sags until John lets him lay on the floor again. His voice is clear and silvery but every part of him seems hollow. Worn out, thoroughly upset like he's still haunted from yesterday.

"And the police don't check?" John asks as calmly as he can because he's trying to be fair and not drop an accusation that can cause even more damage.

Mitch's eyes flicker, then drop closed. "The ban still stands."

Because he's so fair now, John notes that he's been crying again. His eyes are red and cloudy, and a trail stretches down his temples and the bridge of his nose. It's one of those moments that reminds John that Mitch, despite the way he carries himself, is just barely an adult. He knows hurt but he's still marred by the lingering vulnerability of adolescence. It's a thought that sits in for a long, miserable moment.

Slowly, Mitch lifts himself to sit with a glassy, avid expression that does little to ease the cracked peace. He's always so transparent but it's surprisingly difficult now to discern what he thinks and how he really feels, what actions he feels compelled to take. He's not physically wounded after the unjust scuffle, even as his shoulders lift around his ears, then drop back down.

John stands up and gingerly offers the young deputy his hand, partly because he wants things to end on even a tiny positive note, partly because guilt is having a field day with him, mostly because Mitch deserves better.

But it's no surprise when he hesitates like he could be attacked again. Yet, he takes the hand offered to him and lets himself be pulled to his feet. Mitch stands at a distance and rubs his hand. He shuffles past John to grab his bags and scurry upstairs, remaining there for the rest of the day.

It's a sensitive start to the year. Well, that's putting it mildly. Within days, the snow melts, and bits of green poke out through the remains. Mitch leaves earlier, eats breakfast at the diner, and drinks coffee at the police department. It helps that it's going to be a busy week. It always is during the holidays. More trouble, more incidents, more paranoia. Mitch can do with some distractions as the past few days have already been bad enough.

There's no sign of the Christmas decorations so the station has a drab quality to it. Ward, Lester, and Balford act as if nothing has happened and it becomes clear that no one else knows about what went down in Seattle. Probably for the better. All that bothers him, the club, the drugging, Rambo, Mitch buries – like he usually does. But there's a persistent sullen look on his face, he figures as Teasle walks past and stops behind him while he stands headfirst over reports about to be archived.

"Not a good way to start the year of our lord, son," Teasle raises a brow as he adjusts his hat. He has gotten slightly paunchier over the holidays, which will inevitably diminish as the days get warmer. Anna tends to poke his belly to tease him. Memories like that make Mitch ache for home.

He pulls his shoulders into a light shrug. "Ah, it's been a tight morning."

"Yeah, Leroy did say you arrived early."

Yeah but…Mitch doesn't like the thought of Teasle smelling discourse at the farmhouse. It's a mess to be handled by one man only. But on the other hand, Mitch is beginning to feel a little homesick. He could do with feeling safe within four walls again. So, he bites his pride and looks away from the sheriff.

"Say, would you mind if I came over for dinner?"

"Do you need to ask?" Teasle snorts, patting the young deputy on the back.

"No, but it'd be rude not to."

"Right. Well, Anna is gonna be happy if you do."

Yes, Mitch can imagine so. It still feels good to hear it. By God, does it make him feel a little better. He lets the sheriff head to his office when the phone chimes and works on the last files, just as the door to the police department pops open and Ward walks in with a man in cuffs. The arrestee is not Rambo. He's more common, he's shorter, skinnier, and obviously drunk. Ward has to pull the cuffs to keep the man standing. It's a nice distraction from well…Ward.

"What did this one do?" Galt asks from the other side of the desk. His nose scrunches up from what Mitch can only assume is a bad smell. Again, it makes him think of Rambo.

"Public intoxication. Urinated in someone's backyard. Smells like a meth lab so color me unsurprised when I found this in his pocket," Ward groans and pulls out a set of small bags from the pocket of his jacket. A few pills, white powder, weed.

"Good god," bemoans Galt before he stands up from his chair, turns his head, and calls; "Mitch!"

"Yes, sir," the young deputy tries not to sigh.

"Help Ward take this fine specimen downstairs, would you? Looks like he could collapse at every second."

Without question, Mitch does as he's told. He rounds the shelves and heads to the door, typing in the passcode, and enters with Ward and the arrestee following behind. It's all so familiar, like the way Galt soon follows like a looming wolf. The arrestee rants and slurs his words, occasionally tripping over his own feet halfway down the staircase and has to be hauled to his feet by Mitch when Ward is too busy preventing himself from murdering the man.

By the time they reach the desk and Galt sits down to type out the report, Ward reluctantly releases the man from his cuffs and Mitch scurries off to find a chair, wondering why they just don't give him time to sober up so he can actually form a coherent thought. Mitch puts the chair down behind him and ends up briefly standing to the side of the arrestee when the man stares down at him with unfocused but potent distaste.

"Whaddayalookinat, brat?" the words fly out of his mouth with a good amount of spit that makes Mitch flinch.

Like a mountain lion, Galt strikes as if it's casus belli for his worst qualities. He jolts from his chair, lifts the baton, and smacks it across the man's face, sending him tumbling backward and colliding with the chair.

Shocked, Mitch turns to Galt and asks; "What the-"

"Shut up," Galt preemptively barks and heads towards the arrestee to apply the cuffs and lift him off the floor. "Thank me later."

Swallowing his protests, Mitch lets out a deep sigh. There's no point in getting surprised anymore. Galt being awful is just a law of the universe – as is Teasle's indifference to such. Down the hallway, Mitch stands while Galt kicks and manhandles the drunkard before throwing him behind bars.

"So…" Wards comes slithering up behind Mitch like he's attracted to the violence. He leans close and lowers his voice. "Had fun with Brenda? Told me you took a nap and where to find you but not much else."

Mitch's stomach drops. Well at least he doesn't have to explain the lack of intercourse, but he still feels moments away from drowning. He shrugs and looks around to ensure that they are out of hearing range. "…I think she roofied me."

"Experimental poppers. It was supposed to make you relax."

"It put me to sleep after I tripped out. That's not relaxing."

"Anyway," Ward shrugs and his grin widens. It's concerning that he glosses over the fact that his coworker got drugged by a stranger. "Give me the details. Brenda is a fine woman, so I bet you had one hell of a time."

"Actually, no. We're at work," Mitch shakes his head and tries, tries very hard, to keep his composure.

"Come on, Mitch. Don't be like that!" Ward flat-out ignores the discomfort of his fellow deputy and his face takes on a certain punchable quality.

"Can we just forget it ever happened?"

"Why? I thought you'd like it."

"Like what? What are you two schoolgirls whispering about?" Galt comes trekking down the hallway. His eyes linger on the youngest of the two deputies for quite a while. Like he's trying to intimidate the answers out from the young man. The atmosphere becomes thick with unjust tension, choking in a way that can almost knock out an elephant.

"Absolutely nothing, sir," Mitch answers, turns around on his heel and heads upstairs. He can't stand the atmosphere. He can't stand Galt. He can't stand Ward. In all honestly, he can't quite stand the police station either. He's about to seek refuge behind his desk when the door to Teasle's office swings open.

"Got a distress call from the pawn shop regarding a possible break-in. I'm checking on it," he calls out to the room, adjusting his hat as he stops in front of Mitch's desk. "And you. Go home. And by home, I mean home. Moody lawmen make people nervous."

Right. Well, Mitch can't argue with that. So, it's nice to leave early from work and mindlessly drive through the town until afternoon when he pulls up in front of the Teasle household. At this point, Anna should be home and it appears to be the case as her two-door sedan stands parked in the open garage. As Mitch knocks on the door, he reckons he doesn't quite feel better. He just finds it easier to breathe.

A little more so when Anna opens the door.

"Oh! Hey, you're early," she exclaims, then steps aside so Mitch can enter.

"Will kicked me out," he answers with a tentatively cheeky grin, making his way to the kitchen.

Naturally, she scoffs and storms off towards the coffee maker, filling it with water and beans. "Did he now? Why?"

"Thought I could use it."

A long pause fills the kitchen while the coffee brews and fills up the pot. Anna hasn't moved an inch in the allotted time, which is odd because she's always busy. And the urge is still there with the way she drums her fingers against the counter. It feels like the final moments of peace before disaster hits and Mitch freezes against the possible tsunami when she speaks without looking at him.

"You do look very tired. Is it the typical New Year hustle getting worse?" an innocent question but her direct tone and lack of mental contact make it clear what she actually seeks answers for.

Shit. Fuck. Mitch has to navigate around her lie detector. He hasn't always been lucky with that. Still, he tries with a partial truth. "I went to work early, Mom."

"Yeah, well. I don't think that's why you look very unhappy."

Christ, Mitch has heard nothing but that all day. It doesn't exactly make him feel fucking better. He can't just switch off and suddenly be happy.

"It's…my headspace is a little out there today – because I'm tired," he answers and squares his jaw when Anna looks at him - finally.

The coffee brews and the tension transforms, morphs, and changes. Whatever form it takes depends on what will be said next. And they stay like that until the coffee has filled the pot and the machine wheezes, empty from water.

"Nothing some caffeine can't fix, I hope?" Anna's lips pull into a small smile.

She truly has a knack, doesn't she? A knack for taking complicated situations and emotions and rework them constructively. Press until she senses the danger zone, then let loose before people get suspicious. Mitch lets out a breath of relief and runs a hand through his hair, heading for the cupboards for mugs.

Anna, briskly, takes the pot and some homemade cookies. She moves with purpose and returns for milk and sugar before she's en route to the common room. Mitch stays in the kitchen for a little bit, lingers, and collects himself, listening to the sound of tinfoil being moved and crunched before he follows the sound.

"Is the guy still there?" is the first thing Anna asks, the second he steps into the common room.

He can't stop himself from flinching as he sits down on the other side of the coffee table, in the old cushy chair that belongs to Teasle. "Rambo? Yes, he is."

"Oh, Rambo. That's an…unusual name. Will usually calls him every pejorative under the sun but always blows it off when I ask what his actual name is."

"Sounds like him alright," Mitch says as he pours himself a modest portion of coffee. He fills it with milk and sugar because he's not quite an adult yet. With the mug in hand, he sits back and ponders over the specimen that is currently living in his house.

"No, Rambo is…complicated. But I don't think he's a bad person. He really just wants some peace I think."

That's the gist of it really. It's just hard for the man with the platitude of demons roaming in his mind. Mitch tries not to think of the scuffle, of the briefly opened window to the absolute nightmare that looms behind solemn hooded eyes. He has suspected its existence, but he feels overwhelmed by the frank confirmation of its presence. At least he knows fireworks is one of its callings.

"Then why doesn't he integrate with the town?" Anna asks while she dips one of the cookies down the coffee. She asks like she already knows the answer and Mitch has a good idea of what it is.

"I don't think the sheriff would let him. Would probably see it as a malignant parasite."

"But he's your problem, right? Why don't you help him along? Prove Will wrong."

"That depends if he…" Mitch falters, trying to discern the fear from his logical apprehension. Yeah, it indeed would be healthy for the man to not linger at the farmhouse or the woods all the time. It would do wonders. A community could do a lot of good things. But…"I don't know if he'll let me. He's a man, not a dog."

He's also wary of Hope and its people and that says a lot when Mitch is the closest summation to a friend. Friend is generous. Friends understand each other. Mitch does not understand Rambo.

The silence stretches while Anna eats the final bits of her cookie. She reaches for a napkin and dabs the crumbs off her face before she asks; "Are you saying that because you're scared of him?"

"I mean…he's a war hero. Has a medal of honor. He got some badass accolades. It makes him a human weapon. That is bound to make anyone afraid."

"Will is also a war hero. But you're not scared of him," Anna points out with a look of pride in her eyes.

"He hasn't given me any reason to be afraid of him."

Which implies that Rambo absolutely has. There's a flash of something akin to acknowledgment in Anna's eyes like she has seen the suggestion like a neon sign on a dark highway. But she's wise and she doesn't push. She just…knows.

The door to the house opens and it's simultaneously relieving as it is terrifying. But for Anna, it's like every other day and she lifts her head to address the third presence.

"There's coffee and cookies. Don't forget your mug."

Noises ring through the house and the shape of a man swiftly crosses the doorway to the common room. More sounds come before Teasle enters with a grey mug in his hand. He steps up to his wife and kisses her gently on the lips like he's always done whenever he comes home from work. It's nostalgic to look at it.

Teasle takes the couch and passes his mug to Anna for a generous pour while he stares at Mitch. His entire mass is mild, compared to the hard-ass sheriff he tends to be. Doesn't shield from the bluntness of his request. "Now that we're all here, don't try to cower and tell me what's bothering you, kid. Your face has been like a thundercloud all day."

"Says he's tired," Anna interjects and Teasle stares at her with disbelief.

"Yeah, well. I've seen him when he's tired. And I've seen him when he's upset. Could write a whole book on his emotional spectrum."

No getting out of this one, Mitch realizes. He holds his mug in his lap and stares down at his knees. Shame wells up in him and all the terrible smog that almost choked him earlier returns like a ghost.

"Well, had a weird New Year," he mutters and keeps it at that. "Nothing serious."

There's a slight pause before Teasle bristles. "Did Rambo do something?"

Normally, that'd be a no. But it's a yes. And at the same time, not really. It's an aftershock, a ripple of something else. But the reminder hurts. The urge to just nod becomes almost overwhelming but that's just scapegoating, Mitch realizes. It's not the seed, just a root.

"N-no, I was in Seattle – without him. And the house is still standing," he answers and keeps his head down. He's not convincing, he knows. But trying to sort of present Seattle in a way that doesn't rip him apart from the inside turns out to ruin his mood.

"But?" the sheriff asks, naturally pertaining to Rambo of course, and not the revelation that Mitch went out of town or any details of it.

"Uhm well…"

This time, he makes the stupid mistake of looking up at the Teasles staring back at him without judgment, without anger, with unconditional love and empathy. Genuine worry. He has met those stares many times. He has felt undeserving of them countless times. But now, it all feels temporary. Like the safe space he has here with these people could disappear at any moment.

Unconditional love but how unconditional? Mitch has no answer to it. He really doesn't. His eyes shift for a moment towards the shelf above the fireplace with its framed photographs of himself on the days of his graduations; GED and police academy. He thinks of how proud the Teasles were, how the guys at the station, the townsfolk, and Father James, all congratulated him. Of the putlock party afterward.

He thinks of this imperfectly perfect bubble he's living in where Hope is his home, and its people are his friends. It all feels temporary. So crushingly unstable. The balance all relies on Mitch but he's sitting on landmine that could go off at any second. If he makes the wrong move, says the wrong thing, gives the wrong impression, it's all over and they'll know.

And no one knows it's there. No one but him, anyway. Because there's something wrong with him but that error, he keeps it locked inside and sits on it alone. Bites his tongue and holds his breath. Lies and lies until the day he's dead. Lies to the people he has left. Lies to keep them. Lies to stay alive.

People like him don't submit. People like him walk alone. People like him don't breathe unless they want the world around them to vanish unless they want their lives to end.

Seattle has uprooted all those thoughts before he can go about them naturally and untangle the mess that they've turned into. Now he's not drunk or drugged, sitting in the company of men and women, trying to make an impression because he's expected to. Now he's just sitting in the common room of some suburban house belonging to a small-town sheriff and his wife.

Temporary.

Mitch tries to collect himself, but his head drops and his gaze lands on the mug. Fuck. Fuck. It's too late. He draws a shuddering breath and his chest hitches; he closes his eyes against the increasing burn and trembles. He can feel his expression grimace into something pathetic and ugly as he sobs. His mind goes numb, and he can't really feel anything other than hurt. Pain from the overwhelmingly heavy boulder grinding his shoulders into dust.

He can't stop crying now either and by God, he hates the feeling of it. He hardly notices Anna jumping from her seat and winding her arms around him. She sits on the armrest of the chair and embraces him, strokes his hair, offering words of soothing comfort to ease his woes.

"Fuck, sorry, damn. Ugh," Mitch utters into her arm and she slowly lets go so he can wipe the tears and snot off his face. "It's fine. I'm fine. Everything is fine."

"If that's fine, then I'm the goddamn Grand Duke of Luxenberg," Teasle leans forward with a hard look on his face that softens when Mitch can't quite stop himself from laughing at that not-joke.

"I got emotional for a second. It's…" Mitch puts the mug down before he makes his coffee any saltier. He takes a few short breaths to really gather himself, though his throat is wet, and his voice is grainy. "He makes me think of Dad. He doesn't know and it's not his intention but it…just happens. Thought I was over it but apparently not."

It's a convenient half-lie. It almost fits because well, Rambo does carry similarities. But the man is so alien that direct comparisons never cross the young deputy's mind.

"In that case, a break would be good for you. Stay for a while," Anna reaches for the coffee table to offer him a napkin.

The sheriff stands up and puffs up. "And let me handle 'im."

"No, he hasn't done anything," Mitch has to feebly stop him and is thankful that the pathetic sight of him makes Teasle hold off for a second. "It's not his fault. But a break would be nice."

Yes, it would. If things are temporary, he can fall back on this safe haven. At least, while he still has that privilege.

Rambo comes trudging down the stairs as Mitch enters. His arms are bare, his pants are saturated with sawdust, and his posture stands a little tense. Tense like the atmosphere that fills the house. Yet his eyes aren't shooting lightning like on New Year's Day. He's overall placid, if not on edge. Well, lucky him because that feeling is mutual. He doesn't ask about the lack of a phone call or why he was left alone for a few days. Good.

Mitch briefly tips his head before heading towards the fridge with the leftovers. He resists the urge to look over his shoulders and opts to just listen after the tiniest of noises. By the time he's done, he turns around to see Rambo still standing by the staircase. The man has not moved an inch. He has not made a sound. It's terrifying how quiet he is. It's things like these that make remembering Father James' advice very difficult. It would make integrating him into Hope a herculean task.

"I think after what happened, you owe me some things, partner," Mitch says gently, gripping his hat so tightly, his hands ache. Just to contain the dread and the urge to run for cover.

Rambo's body moves just an inch like he's fighting some other instinct. He's aware he's at fault here at least so he quickly concedes and asks equally mildly; "Such as?"

Mitch has to level his breathing for a minute and not let fear have a field day with him. He swallows and squares up, fights to stare the vet in the eyes.

"Such as telling me what sets it off – aside from fireworks."

"I'm sorry," it comes from Rambo instead. He lowers his gaze and looks defeated. He's still here so he hasn't declined the request, but Mitch is still overwhelmed by caution to believe anything but.

He speaks like he heard a no, his voice wavering in confidence.

"Look, I think I have a right to know because I'm living with you. I can't guess what makes you snap and walk around on eggshells in my own damn house. And you don't want to…I don't know, end up on death row for accidentally killing me because you got reminded of some horrible 'Nam shit happening to you. I'm not entitled to know why you flip out. I just need to know what makes you flip out. It'll make it easier for us both. Alternatively, I'll have to kick you out. That t-too will be easier for us both."

It's the ultimatum that almost causes him to cower. It makes him flinch rather, but the cat is already out of the bag anyway and has landed directly in front of Rambo, who quietly mulls over it. He's back to his steely look that makes his thoughts a mystery. Of course, he is.

"Fine," he nods after a sigh, but it's filled with uncertainty and it brings the question of whether he's even aware of his triggers.

Mitch tries his luck anyway and heads for the kitchen counter for a notepad and pen, stopping abruptly when he hears footsteps. Briskly, Mitch turns around and sees Rambo sitting by the dinner table, staring out the nearest window with a solemn look on his face.

It's the same expression from his arrest. God, it feels like they took one step forward, then went ten steps back. Mitch knows that Rambo doesn't take joy in him being afraid but he doesn't seem to like the reality of it either. Like it's frustrating. Of course, he's not doing much to rectify it either. It's probably because he doesn't know how. He's so used to instilling fear in people, he doesn't know how to switch it off.

Screw him, Mitch wants to think but keenly keeps his distaste away. He trusts the good that exists in most people. He needs to give this a second chance. So, he heads to the table and sits on the other side. This makes Rambo focus at least. They haven't been eating together lately, have they?

"Aside from fireworks, which would sound like guns and the barred windows in the police station's jail, what more is there…assuming there is more?" asks Mitch as he writes on the notepad.

Rambo tilts his head back and draws another deep breath. To his credit, he does look like he's giving it a try, thinking and navigating through his problems without hurting himself. It's admirable that he's putting some effort in.

"But what are you going to do about it? If I switch off?" he asks instead.

Mitch can't help but shudder when their eyes meet. It's not a threat; at this point, they know the other well enough to disregard that possibility. But there's a warning in there. Fine, Mitch will take the bull by the horns.

"Not get anyone killed."

Rambo stares at him for a very long time. Probably anyone being the part that catches his attention the most. Finally, he deflates in his seat and looks genuinely unhappy. That solemn look has taken a more potent turn like he's exhausted by himself. Mitch considers breaking the silence but falters in the ensuing quiet. The rat poison under the sink crosses his mind just briefly. No. No. He can't even convince himself that he wants to do that.

So it's a relief when Rambo says; "Razors. Don't come running at me with those."

"Uh-huh," Mitch writes that down. It's a given.

"Restraints. Things around my neck. Sudden touches. Touches in certain places."

Given the scars, it's hardly a surprise. He threw Mitch to the floor because of it.

"More?"

"Blood – human blood."

Makes sense. He slaughtered a boar and felt fine after all.

"The smell of sulfur."

"Like gunpowder. Got it," the young deputy lifts his head from the notepad. "What else?"

Rambo turns his head for a moment, then stares straight ahead at Mitch. His jaw moves like he's chewing on the next trigger, trying to predict how it will land, how it will taste coming out of his mouth.

"…People," he says at last like it's a shameful admission, hoarse and almost mumbling. Would explain how vague it is. Still, Mitch is astute enough to understand what it means.

He grew up under the weight of people's reactions to war. He can only conclude what that would mean for a man like Rambo who lived through it from the other side. And the assumption tightens his chest. In fear? Worry? Sympathy? He doesn't know. He just writes it down on the notepad. Rambo must have noticed it too as his expression turns flat.

Admittingly, Mitch is afraid – much like the hippies, the protestors, the families. But he's not at the point where he feels their hatred. He thinks of his father, of the saying drilled into him during childhood. Respect the vets, respect the vets. The world goes mercifully blank for a moment. If everything else is too complicated, at last Mitch can live by his father's words. He has the knowledge, he has the wisdom of Father James.

And then he remembers said wisdom.

"What do you want me to do? Like what do you need from me?"

It's a question, he wishes he could have asked someone else before they left this plane of existence.

But the question surprises Rambo and leaves him stunned, probably wondering if Mitch is serious with that attempt at a lifeline.

"Advice?" he answers, bewildered to the point where he's inclining into a question.

Mitch begins twirling with the pen. At this point, all the talking points from counseling and church visits are like second nature.

"Well, whenever I deal with my nonsense, Father James has told me to breathe deeply, talk myself outta it, get moving, and talk to someone. He gave me a cross for me to carry around. So whenever I'm afraid of the past, I can remind myself that I'm in the present. To ground myself in reality."

It occurs to him that he hasn't been doing that lately. New Year is a lingering, acidic nightmare. His faults just sting. Talk about those? No. Never. He should really follow his own advice.

"Where's the cross?" Rambo asks.

"Upstairs. I don't…I don't feel good wearing it," answers Mitch for reasons, he will never articulate.

By the way, Rambo snorts, there isn't even a need for that. "God is dead, is he?"

"God is…God is unfair in the way he makes people. Let me put it that way," Mitch sighs and rips off the note from the pad. For safety's sake, he writes a second one – just in case.

"Do you believe in him?"

Mitch flinches. It has always been assumed that he does but no one has ever thought to ask him. Now when that moment comes, he feels like temporarily drowning. "…No. I…I can't."

It's a blessing that Rambo doesn't either – assumedly. Still, he presses further. "Yet you go to Sunday service."

"It's tradition here in Hope," Mitch sheepishly folds the notes. "You should come with me next Sunday by the way. Would help you get a look into the town. You can meet Father James. Get some positive relations in your life. Would help with…people."

Good people do exist. At least Rambo should have the chance to know that. And it seems that he accepts this, nodding slowly. It's a weirdly pleasant thing to witness.

"On one condition," he adds.

Without thinking, Mitch's head perks right up.

"Yeah?"

He shouldn't ask. He really shouldn't. But respect is a two-way street and it's not right to expect it all without giving some back.

"Go hunting with me," is Rambo's condition.

Oh. Mitch has been out hunting before. He'd go deer hunting with some of the guys at the department. Still doesn't prevent his stomach from churning. The face he makes must have been quite visceral as Rambo explains further.

"Bonding experience."

It's still quite a lot to take in. But Mitch nods anyway.