A few weeks pass as the mystery of whatever happened on the farm fades into the ether of wasted memories. In the middle of it, Mitch finds himself thinking about the ways he can filter out the endless sports betting talk while he helps the old secretary with the number of reports that need to be filed and sent to a courthouse. Deputies come running in and out through the doors, often back from a patrol or with some troublemaker.
They are all adults – except for one.
The first juvenile offender comes trudging through the door with a sullen look on her face. She looks not a day over fourteen. Probably the reason why the one who arrested her, Lester, looks like he's taking an innocent prisoner to an execution.
Galt's brow lifts as he looks the girl up and down. "What did she do?"
"Vandalism, shoplifting, attempted assault," Lester says.
"Jesus Christ, a child?" Teasle bemoans from the doorway to his office but quietly stands his ground when the girl glares at him.
"I ain't n kid," she spits in a thick southern accent, sounding very much like one, then mentally curls into herself while Lester takes her to the basement. Mitch quietly sours behind the shelf. It feels too familiar, too personal. That youthful defiance on the verge of crumbling under childish fear. Shame under the weight of actual authority. The realization that bad actions have bad consequences. He knows it all too well and he suspects that it's why Galt calls him to join Lester in the basement.
The girl stands and pouts, mumbling terse responses to each question asked to her during questioning. But Lester has the patience of a saint, trying a few charming smiles to make her liven up. She just huffs and shuffles on her feet.
"You want something to drink?" he asks when he has gotten nowhere as to why they are even here in the first place. "Water? Maybe we got some soda. It's pretty chilly outside so there's tea as well."
The girl shakes her head, but her tough attitude fades a little as she asks; "Does my daddy know?"
"Let's call him," offers Lester and types across the keyboard, momentarily pausing when the girl's expression begins to twist and crack into a weeping grimace.
Mitch's breath hitches. His heart breaks. It's tough to stand here on the other side of watching a child getting into trouble. Hell, it's nightmarish being that child getting into trouble, asking for their parents. Probably a good thing teenagers being arrested is a rarity in Hope. He feels Lester's gaze stare at him, asking him for tissues for the crying girl and he obliges.
Right in the middle of it, Galt has come down to the basement for some arrestees who are ready to be sent in front of a judge. He doesn't head to the jail cells first but settles close to Mitch and asks; "You busy?"
"No but I don't like keeping a teenage girl crying."
It comes out a little snider than intended and Mitch feels a bit guilty, even if Galt has no reaction to the bite, gently directing Mitch down the hallway.
"Well, I'll make it short. You know, the Super Bowl is soon, right? I know how much you don't like sports. We both know that all the boys and their ladies are going to the Outpost so Father Colin and I were talking and we thought, why not use the night for something more fun when the game starts? You should join us. You can take Old Harry with you," Galt smiles. He tries to be personable but the low baritone of his voice makes the offer take the shape of a subtle threat. He leans real close and puts a hand on the young deputy's shoulder in a way that comes across as a warning.
An attempted nice Galt is a rare sight, it's not natural and it's not one Mitch is used to seeing. He doesn't like it either. He doesn't say 'yes' just quite for the worry that rolls over him. Father Colin, Galt, Rambo, all in the same room, in some mystery location? Sounds like a recipe for disaster. Sounds like a trap. And Mitch doesn't hate the Super Bowl enough to put anyone through that, let alone himself. Galt doesn't stay to wait for an answer, heading down the hallway for that arrestee. Meanwhile, Mitch takes some tissues from a box that stands next to the fingerprint inker and heads back to Lester and the girl and hears that her name is Patsy.
She has stopped crying but readily accepts the tissues and blows her nose. She's a little more open now, speaking of her troubled past; raised by a single parent, and moved from the most cowboy parts of Texas, hence the accent. That feeling of familiarity strikes Mitch like a belt across the back again. The proverbial welts begin to sting while Patsy rants about how busy her father is, how disconnected he is from her, and how she has been running with the wrong crowd out of boredom and longing for a place to belong.
She got a lot of spunk and the whole incident came from trying to throw rocks at a cashier at Fields when she got caught shoplifting candy bars, smashing windows in the process. Her humor is crass, calling Hope 'a dumpster of old people and raccoon shit' which makes Lester laugh awkwardly. But her father likes it, has friends here, has "business" here.
The difference between her and Mitch is that her father is alive. He too is a war vet. And the information stings something fierce.
Ah, well at least there's still hope for her.
The offer from Galt weighs heavily on Mitch's mind for the rest of the day. The old man has been acting like nothing is amiss since the run-in at Smith's farm so what has been the point of that little invitation? Maybe it's the traffic at the station, the rush of arrestees heading for court, the teletype being used through and through that might be overwhelming for a young deputy. Might need a special offer to unwind a bit. But why? It's no longer a fresh year but crime has risen a bit over the county. And whatever happened with the people at the motel anyway? And why is Hope feeling as if it's beginning to grow now? Or is it change on the horizon? A calm before the storm?
Mitch's head hurts a bit as the pickup truck rolls to a stop outside the farmhouse and he hops out late at night – again. It's been a busy time. He relaxes as he sees light in the house and hears a dog barking when he enters. Attached to a leash by John, Rocky has her tail wagging, itching to run but she learns to sit quietly and watches Mitch get rid of the coat and toss the car keys on the dinner table. In the background, the radio plays at a comfortable volume and there's a faint smell of cooking in the air. The fireplace is in full blaze, casting a coat of pleasant warmth through the common room.
Really the photogenic idyl of the American homestead.
For the first time, it feels as if the world Mitch lives in is permanent. Even as he is, the world is stable, and the unconditional love is truly unconditional. He has the landmine but here, it won't matter if it goes off. He can forget about sports, bars, weird offers, and teenagers getting dragged onto the wrong path of life here. It's just about what he needs to melt the stress away, snatch a blanket from the couch, and curl up next to John, wrapping them both up while Rocky lays down to sleep nearby.
There's a deck of cards in John's hands so they end up playing Go Fish and catch murmurs of the Super Bowl coming very soon. John cares little for sports nor does he understand it, but he does understand being a sweet pea to get up from the warmth of the blanket and get tea or a beer for the both of them while Mitch sits cross-legged and basks in his own personal nirvana, tossing a log or two into the fire.
Beers are kept at a minimum so it's mostly tea they consume as Mitch asks for all the queens and gets the last one to complete his set – and win the game. He smirks, then glances up at the serious expression on John's face while he sits and shuffles the cards. So far, it's three-nill. When it comes to head games like Romy, Poker, and War, the man is ruthless. But a game of chance is a whole other matter. Mitch sips his peach tea with a smug look on his face and giggles a little when he feels a hand brush against his bare legs. It comes to an end when a fucking horse bite causes him to jerk under the blanket.
"Eeek!" it comes from him, high-pitched in a way that startles even him as he falls backward and finds himself lying on the floor. The cards fly everywhere but the teacups remain out of harm's way. The ceiling soon gets blocked out by John hovering above him, dark eyes almost black despite the glow from the fireplace. Rocky comes trudging over and sticks her wet snout in Mitch's face until she figures he's not dying. Still, she lies down within viewing distance while there comes a playful warning from John despite his complete and total lack of smiling.
"Never underestimate the enemy," he warns and plants a hand on each side of the deputy's head.
"Point taken, dear."
Mitch is still in victory mode, so it doesn't occur to him what he has just spat out of his mouth until he sees the shock in John's eyes. For a moment, he expects the man to recoil and revert to an enigma of a steely exterior but instead gets a tiny smirk in return. And a kiss for his efforts. Deep and all-encompassing that leaves him warm all over. Melts him to a puddle of himself, boneless and cuddly like a plushie. Like possessed by some sudden force, his hands move on their own and merge with the roots of John's hair. It's rare that they lay like this, tangled up in one another.
On most days, busy and easygoing, a touch here and a kiss here can go a long way to just forgetting that the world exists. But this is different. It's a rarity that makes Mitch savor every moment like a greedy leech; thoughtless as his hands slide from a full head of hair that's grown longer to a strong pair of shoulders and further down across a broad, warm chest. He breathes, he breathes in deep, takes in the scent, feels excitement run roughshod inside of him, presses his hands gently against-
Startled by the way John jolts upright, full disorientation stretching his eyes wide. His body is tense, his chest heaves with sharp inhales and Mitch quickly realizes his mistake. He puts his hands over his eyes and tries to calm whatever the hell he's feeling right now.
"Oh! Sorry," he whispers and expects the encounter to end here. John leans back down to kiss him gently and he lets out a shuddering sigh, kissing back fervently like he wants his mistake to be erased from history. It lingers in the back of his mind, this slight reminder that he has to meticulously love John.
John, who makes that very hard when he wraps one arm around Mitch with the other cradling his head, grabbing a fistful of red, kissing him for all he's worth, kissing him like it's the first and last time. Mitch's hands, screw it, his entire body trembles, habitually or from something else. He can't really tell. He doesn't think much of it, running his fingers alongside the sides of John's ribcage, shifting his leg until he can fit him between them. It's probably not by coincidence that John moves about with his knee carelessly brushing against Mitch's groin. It lasts for but a second but it sets his body on fire.
And it occurs to him that it's the first time. Not just with John. The first time period. He imagined he'd be scared. He's not. Not when John sits up and reaches for the rim of his pants, slowly loosening the belt, opening the button, pulling down the zipper, and pulling them off his body. He does it like he's waiting for a no.
There is none.
Mitch helps himself out of his shirt and gets the pleasure of watching John pull his t-shirt over his head and reveal his bare chest, scars, and all. His eyes have turned black again but it's not the kind of which where he's on guard from the rest of the world. It's enticing, inviting, gentle, warm. It's the look that makes the mood quite clear. Mitch doesn't ask because of it but he can't quite help but smile when John snatches a nearby blanket and covers them both before laying down on top of him, pelvis to pelvis.
In his briefs, he feels everything and he can't stop himself from letting out a shuddering moan that immediately gets swallowed up by John's lips against his own. It's different. It feels right. It's not Brenda. It's as if their bodies merge. The sensation, the intensity, it all sends tremors across his body; from the tips of his toes to the longest tips of his hair.
He thinks of New Year's, of the two men he watched, of how want filled him then, of how it fills him now. He thinks of how he wants that and wonders why he's not getting embarrassed. He's getting greedy, and adventurous, head tilted back against the hard wooden floor while John pulls his briefs down. With the blanket over them, it obscures everything Mitch gets curious about while he watches John spit into a hand and reaching it between his legs.
Without hesitation, that same hand strokes him, slow and testing. It goes a little faster as Mitch's body grows tense and he gasps quietly, startled at how good it feels in the hands of a man and not a woman. He buries his face in John's shoulder, hands clutching his upper arms, breath coming out in frantic huffs that turn a little louder when he has a fistful of his hair grabbed.
A moment's clarity strikes him, and he drags his hand across John's arm to the front of his jeans, and gets the button and zipper undone. He hasn't thought to spit in his head to make it more pleasurable before he strokes John or rather clumsily to try and find a good pace and finds it when he hears a low groan vibrate against his ear.
God, the way their bodies connect, even on the floor is so good. John in his hand feels so fucking good, the warmth of his skin, the hardness of his muscles, how precisely correct the weight of his body feels.
Mitch wraps his legs around him, locks them tight, and feels the hand move from his head and drag an entire arm around his arching back, warmth swallowing him. His eyes squeeze shut, his mouth opens wide, any semblance of decorum hanging on by a thread. He can't recognize the sounds that come from the pits of his throat; his horny teenage days were quiet displays of shameful lust. He revels in the low, primal growl that comes from John.
"God, John, please…" Mitch begs. He actually begs and the realization of this causes his entire body to shudder with the thrill. He tosses his head back in shock at John increasing the pace and trades the ability to think for pleasure. Mitch tries to repay the favor, partly distracted by a fervent kiss, that's kinda like getting mauled by a mountain lion. But it's a loving hunt, akin to the shyness of a coyote when he feels the tip of a tongue briefly brush against his own in the blink of an eye, then retreats. But he notices it because he tasted it, so he chases it because he wants it.
Through all the trials and tribulations of building a life here, through misunderstandings and trauma, through mistrust and war, Mitch Rogers kisses John Rambo like he's trying to erase all of it. Clumsy, deep, passionate, loving. Kisses him like there's a way to take back Vietnam, an unhappy childhood, loneliness, isolation.
Kisses him harder through the orgasm that comes washing over him like a tidal wave, leaves him drunk and dazed, and throws his whole body into an afterglow that he wishes he could swim in forever and always. John shudders between his legs and plants a few breathy kisses against the side of his neck until he comes with a growl of long-pent-up release, hips thrusting forward through the hand still wrapped around him, then settles.
They lay on the floor for a while, sweaty with dirty hands and stained thighs, with the glow from the fireplace slowly dying out. Mitch's legs have dropped down and gone limp. It occurs to him that the radio is still playing but he can't even think of shutting it off, let alone thinking about what's being said. Instead, he remains here, breathing deeply and listening to John's soft pants against his ear, feels the stubble nuzzle against the side of his jaw.
John stirs a little and murmurs a gentle question. "You okay?"
Mitch can't help but grin and runs the cleanest across the side of his ribs. "Mm, I feel great."
He feels a nose brush against his out briefly and then the comforting form of John's forehead pressed against his own. Mitch has always believed that you don't need people to complete you but here, he feels whole and shares that sense of completion with John in the shape of a tired kiss that's lovingly returned.
Much later after a shower and taking Rocky for a bathroom break, they lay curled up in bed, wrapped up in sheets, wrapped in blackness, wrapped in each other. It's here where Mitch decides to spill the beans because the power to think has been returned to him. "The boys and their girls are going to The Outpost to watch the game. Galt said I could take you along. Said something about going someplace else if we got bored."
Despite the hand that thoughtlessly card through his hair, the deep sigh keeps his eyes wide open. As usual, it takes John a very long time to respond when it comes to things like this. It's warranted when he asks; "Why? We're not friends."
"I know," answers Mitch and rests both his hands on his chest. "But I think he figured he can't push you around anymore. So he's not gonna bother. Might as well throw you a bone of civility and see what happens."
Of course, John just scoffs at this, clearly skeptical but he has every right to be.
"And the others?"
"Truth be told, John…you scare them shitless. But…" Mitch trails off without any idea of what else to add. John makes it easy for him, actively concerned.
"You don't like the idea of having to choose between me and them?"
"I don't like the idea of anyone being hurt, especially you. You're too cute for that."
John smiles ever so slightly and snorts as the bedroom falls into silence like an open invitation to call it a night. On the other hand, Mitch's increasingly tired mind does a rewind and mulls over today, saying; "Lester brought in a girl today. Just a kid who lost her way. It was hard to look at because it's…it's too familiar."
He has been able to push it away, but the image of Patsy's crying face and youthful fear comes back with a vengeance. He's not surprised by it at all. He's not surprised by how open he is with his past, his doubts, his worries. To an extent. That thought tempers him a bit but so does the thought of opening old wounds.
"And what happened? What did she do?" it's the first time John has asked about the details of an arrestee.
"B&E, vandalism, attempted assault, and shoplifting. Her dad picked her up while I was on patrol. Was pretty cool about it, I hear," answers Mitch and curls a little into himself, leaving the details out because he still hasn't heard them. "I hope she'll do better than me."
"I'd reckon you've done well. It's because of who and what you – as you are."
John says it so warmly and it's like an arrow has been shot through Mitch's chest. Compliments are so rare because a touch or a stare is usually enough. Mitch doesn't need reassurance for their relationship, but he feels blessed to hear it now. He just about melts when John reaches for his hand and gives it a firm squeeze – and gets a sleepy laugh for his efforts.
For the night, out here, the world feels eternal again. And it grounds the both of them.
There's a nice calm before the storm at the farmhouse. Rocky grows bigger and quieter as she maps out her territory. She learns quickly that she can't go beyond the fence to the forest unless she's with either of her owners so she spends her time watching John fix up the fence with some wire to predator-proof it.
He'll need a basin for the ducks to swim in too. In between being submerged in rows of tall grass with a dog that often goes in white and comes out green, he also plants the orchard with seeds or trees, Mitch comes home with, or he cooks cornmeal dumplings like his mother used to and teaches the young deputy that they are called K'íneeshbízhii.
Mutton is a rarity at Hope's butcher so deer, beef, or pork soup is on the side. The dinner table sits as an ornament as they eat in front of the fireplace more often and teach Rocky not to beg. It's a series of stubborn, repeated lessons between card games and tournaments of tabletop games – not played at a table. Mitch turns out to be a devil when it comes to Scrabble. He's eye-rolling silly with youthful cockiness when he wins Which Witch.
He's irresistibly and tenderly adorable when they have sex. Out here, where it's just the two of them, there's nothing stopping them from the rare instances of lovemaking whenever and wherever the chance arises. Mitch, as it becomes quite apparent, is nervous but on the other hand, he's eager to please but cautious to proceed – even if it's little more than mutual touching. When he feels like he did something out of bounds, regardless if it's warranted or not, he climbs a little closer in the aftermath, unconditionally tends to John on his worst nights, or kisses him a little longer when he's back from work.
Today, he's in the pastures and helps with the final constructions of the coop, filling up the basins for the ducks, and setting up the feeders and bedding. John finds himself transfixed by the way he moves so quietly yet efficiently and importantly of all, quickly. He's conducting himself like a phantom, wary of startling others since New Year's. Hell, even on the first day at the police station; John heard his name but didn't quite notice how a head of red came floating to his side before he felt slender fingers on his arm. It's only when Mitch talks that his presence becomes obvious, and today he's bubbling with excitement.
Names for the birds keep pouring out of him alongside plans for selling eggs in the town in case they get too many. John occasionally chimes in with facts about what poultry do well with foraging and the changing weather of Washington while he secures the coops. A doghouse for Rocky is also built so she can keep dry and shaded when she's here. Occasionally John steals glances at Mitch; the way his shoulder blades move under the fabric of his clothes, how his hands twist around the wooden planks and sheet metal for reinforcement of the structure, how his spine bends when he pets Rocky, how his hips swing when he moves, entire torso expands as he breathes in the smell of grass.
John is happy that he has steeled his discipline to not get distracted. That's one of the benefits of being a soldier. That instinct will never leave him, but he has accepted that now. Just as he accepts the beer that comes from Mitch while they stand by the fence to the pasture and watch over their finished work and Rocky mapping out the changes to the pasture. It's late afternoon and the sun is fast sinking behind the trees of the forest on the horizon. The weather is getting a little chilly so Mitch slinks up next to John and stays there for warmth.
"You really are an everyman. A handy one. No wonder Preston is so happy you're here," he mewls. Since they stand shoulder to shoulder, the sigh that comes from him is directly felt.
"You learn a bit of everything for survival," answers John and looks down at the feeling of Rocky running towards him and sitting on his feet. He hates to admit that he's grown fond of the dog.
"And cooking?"
John shrugs. "A luxury. I got the stomach of a furnace and the taste of a goat."
It's such a flat joke but it makes Mitch giggle like a schoolgirl. He leans close and rests his head on John's shoulder, which is a little awkwardly positioned given he's taller. The gesture is deeply appreciated though. Therefore, it's hardly a match when he says; "Got drugged at New Year. I figured I should tell you. It's not so much your fault what happened afterward. Just bad timing."
John lets the news set in. It would explain the odd look on his face when he came back from Seattle. He swings an arm around the young deputy and turns to look him directly in the face. There is a smile but it's a shameful one. He might have gotten the courage to finally talk about it, so John wants to assure him that he's being listened to.
"Ward and Balford took me to this place where strangers hook up. They had a lot of fun, but I couldn't. Was so scared they'd find out about what I was," Mitch continues, quiet and hesitant, gaze moved downwards. "Some lady took me someplace private, and I panicked and she gave me drugs to make me relax. Ended up tripping out."
John soaks it in. All the information and the anxiety behind the experience. Appreciative of getting his curiosity sated, and of being trusted with such confidentiality. He's not too keen on how it costs Mitch to talk about it but he's happy to pull him close as a reassurance. Even if he suspects that the reason it's mentioned at all is because it might get referenced at The Outpost.
"You are you – as you should be," says John after a long pause and watches in delight how Mitch blooms again and laughs, relieved of his shame and fear as collared doves begin to sound their calls from nearby trees.
It's the Super Bowl and the realization of that does absolutely nothing to John. He has never been a man into sports, even if he got some baseball experience from his school years. It's nice to know he's not alone in that feeling, even if he hides it better than Mitch who's driving with a sullen expression on his face. It's been there since they dropped Rocky off with Anna who'd rather watch new episodes of her favorite sitcom at home. It's great that she fell in love with the dog at first sight. Makes leaving her a little easier on the side of John who wants to protect and preserve the few things in life he holds dear.
The pickup truck pulls to a stop at the one free parking space outside the bar. Judging from the number of vehicles present, it's a packed night and John can already feel his insides clench. It must have been radiating off him because they sit in the truck for a while and let the silence stretch to the point where it's preferable to just back out and drive away. The proposal sits on the tip of John's tongue but stays there when Mitch turns his head.
"You ready?" he asks, wide-eyed, a little paler than usual. The glow from nearby lampposts is dim here and almost obscures half his face. And John, against his own desires, nods.
They leave the truck and slowly head inside, heading into a den of sheer people. It's a typical establishment with a few televisions haphazardly strung on the walls over the masses with the feed of footballers lining a massive green field. Yes, it's game night alright. The room is hot with regurgitated air, the noise is deafening, and John feels like he's drowning in the middle of the ocean until a hand-shaped life preserver wraps around his arm and drags him through the bar until they find a set of tables pushed together with the best view to one of the televisions.
A handful of men sit there already, people John has met before under less than pleasant circumstances. Some, he has grown to tolerate like Preston and Leroy. Others, he's neutral towards like Shingleton. A few he hasn't met. The rest he dislikes. Ward, Galt…and the sheriff. There are women too including Jenny whose eyes shine bright like a dying sun at the sight of Mitch. She's about the only person who notices them because everyone else is watching the opening ceremony or whatever those things are called. The national anthem is sung, and the rest of the bar sings along horribly out of tune.
A mustached one, the one Mitch calls Lester, turns his head and looks at John – then the person next to him and momentarily freezes like he's been caught in a robbery. He slaps the sheriff across the arm, and it becomes a domino effect of lawmen and their women noticing that they got company. Preston, bless him, has no idea of what unspoken discomfort permeates the gathering and so makes room for the two of them to sit – and orders beers for them as well. He knows the owner of the establishment but then again, everyone knows everyone in Hope.
"Say, Mitch. You lack a washing machine, right?" Preston says a little later. The young deputy opens his mouth to answer but Teasle barges into the conversation and answers for him. "Yes, he does. Still washes his undies at my house."
Mitch only smiles and nods, but John silently fumes into his flat beer while Preston continues. "Well, my brother saw the new machine I got and he and his wife want one too. But they can't have two and the old one is fine so I thought, I could pawn it off to you. How about it?"
"That'd be great. Thanks."
They talk a little more about the logistics of washers which leads to stories about Preston's family, then extended family. Then family stories. Then just…stories. Names and locations get mentioned that John has no context for, so he zones out and sips, catching glances at Mitch listening intently even if half the tales come from before, he was even born.
"What about you, Old Harry? Any mom and pop to speak of?" Galt asks in the middle of it and the table falls into a tense silence. A few brave souls dare to look at John while he drinks the last bits of his beer.
He clears his throat and puts the glass down, facing Galt head-on. "Got a few in Arizona. Horse ranchers."
It's a convenient explanation. It's true to a degree yet vague enough to leave the false details at bay and believable to shut down prying. The last thing these people need to hear is that Mrs. and most likely Mr. Rambo are dead or that Arizona is really a reservation in the state. John has the feeling they'd just try to drag him further if they found out about his Navajo heritage. Galt looks at him, scrutinizes him, and employs that lawman instinct that his badge is a sign of. He holds that stare for a long time, mustache slightly curled into what almost resembles a smile. It's the same challenge from the police station, the same look that threatened to break a few noses.
"Oh yeah, Smith did say you did wonders on his horses," Galt says in a slight, almost thin mockery but it's there. Alive and well. Tempered by the fact that he will not survive a fight with John. Tempered by something a little more human – maybe. "Sure surprised me."
Whatever he intends to say next however is shoved into the ether as Preston interjects like an angel. "He's a crafty fellow though."
More stories come from this although not pertaining to John in any way. He sinks a bit into his chair and prides himself on the useless ability of being able to hold his liquor. His leg bounces a bit under the table because he's bored. He's honest to God bored. He doesn't bore that easily, but the game is dragging, and he's agitated. He looks at Mitch and notes how quiet he is, how he's being stared at by Jenny.
And when the game finally begins, John quietly lifts himself off the table and heads outside into the chill of the night. The bar has been choking, hot, and reeking from alcohol and regurgitated air so outside, he finds himself a little more at ease. Away from the weight of people, away from the occasional stares, away from the urge to steel himself. He walks across the parking lot to the pickup truck and hops into its trunk bed, looking upwards at the stars.
He tries not to and it's not a trigger but in his mind, he thinks of Danforth. Of how it had been a night just like this; bar packed, choking air, many, many people. Tonight, there's no explosion to blow a man in half and it's not why John is on edge but he almost wishes it was. Patrons come and go, in and out, though far more come than they leave. The parking lot is already full, so they have to park further and further down the road. Steps across the pavement disturb John and he thinks it's just someone heading home. He's pleasantly surprised when he sees Mitch's tall frame stand by the truck.
"Are you okay?" he asks as he climbs into the trunk and sits on the other side. There are two cans of beer in his hands.
John nods but no, he really isn't. He just doesn't know how to say it.
"Yeah, the game has begun, and they are really loud in there. Gives me a damn headache," grins Mitch as he rolls a can across the ridges of the trunk. Upon further inspection, they turn out to be alcohol-free. Which makes sense if he's the one driving.
His cheeks are a little apple-red which happens only when he's flustered, crying or randy. Suppose overstimulated can be added to that. John wishes he could get away with crossing the trunk, sit next to him, and just hold him while they watch the stars together. Maybe then, if they were alone, John could get away with baring the bleeding flesh within. It's been pretty well established that Mitch wants to see what's inside of him. It's just that John can't grant that. He really fucking wants to, he realizes. He wants the hand that reaches out to him. It's so strange to be wanted but by god, does he want it more than anything. Mitch, observant as always, carefully walks across the trunk and squats at a comfortable distance to not make onlookers suspicious.
And it occurs to John that here is not good.
Certainly not when their quiet moment is rudely interrupted by a balding, slightly portly man coming to the truck. Mitch slinks back a bit as the colors drain from his face.
"So, considered my offer? I'm gonna take my leave soon and it would be a shame if you didn't join. I may have said you'd already come," says Galt, the vocal fry in his voice apparent. Behind him, Ward, the stupid prick, comes walking and stops to peer at the scene.
Mitch looks at John; John looks at Mitch.
The truth is that they haven't actually talked about going at all. The truth is that neither really wants to go and no one is forcing them to. But on the other hand, John can see Mitch buckling a bit under the pressure from Ward, then Father Colin who comes into the parking lot. Then Lester. Then that stranger from the farm. They all stand and stare like there will be a fight if they aren't obeyed.
And so, against all good judgement, Mitch nods.