It's a quiet drive behind the vehicle of Ward, away from the bar, away from the light. John looks at Mitch and sees the regret in his eyes for agreeing, for buckling under the pressure. He's still pale, hands tight around the steering wheel. He drives stiffly with his eyes on the road, taking the pickup truck down smaller pathways, through parts of town, John has never been in before. Through parts that he's certain are not part of Hope anymore.
The darkness swallows them in a jumble of uncertain silence until they take one final swing and roll to a stop outside what looks like a lodge in the middle of nowhere. There are cars already present and a dangerous feeling in the air as they step out. John doesn't relax. He clenches his fists in the pockets of his jacket and follows Mitch following Ward, Galt, and the others inside the lodge. Here is nowhere as filled as The Outpost. There's no sports talk, no TV, no cramped little corners with deputies. Some tables and chairs stand unoccupied. There is a podium draped in a cloth with some symbol over it.
It's an open room so John finds a spot by a wall and stays there in case he needs to leave quickly. There are a handful of men that Father Colin introduces Ward and Lester to. One of them is the man from Smith's farm. A tall, muscular fellow with a mean look on his face.
In the meantime, Mitch slinks away from John's side and makes way toward a girl sitting in an armchair with a magazine in her hands, legs crossed. She hardly looks up when he bends a bit in front of her.
"Hey, Patsy. What are you doing out here?" he's being nice but the nervousness is radiating off him.
"My dad," she gestures to the tall man from Smith's farm and Mitch gets a weird look on his face.
He nods slowly and lets the girl be, taking his spot next to John. He's gotten even paler. John wishes for nothing more than to reach for his hand and hold it tight, throw him a life preserver to save him from the feeling of drowning that comes from this lodge. As he turns to look at him, the room turns quiet. A few more men come trudging down a nearby staircase and gather at the front while Father Colin steps up to the podium.
The pastor speaks but his speech is more fervent and direct, more emoted, more blatant. Tradition, core values, and how it's important that they stand together. Much like his sermon. Much more fearmongering in a way that causes John's entire body to seize up. Time itself comes to a stop when Father Colin stares at him from across the lodge and says; "Hope is precious. Protect it at all costs against the freaks of nature, the rebels of tradition, the undesirables. Remind people where their place is for it is for the best."
A round of applause fills the lodge alongside cheers and other horrible things that hardly help John warm up to the people here. He scans the room a bit and sees Patsy curled into her chair with a sour look on her face. It makes a lot of sense how the man is her father; they look very similar. John feels her pain, the pain of a terrible father figure. He looks around the room, catching Lester slowly backing away towards him and Ward not too far behind.
"What our father is saying to say is that we make our own law. We are the patriots of the frontier. If and not when, we eliminate," Patsy's father takes to the podium and speaks with conviction and a southern twang that's straight out of Texas' deepest pits. Messner had that same accent and spoke it with such charm. There is no charm to be found in Patsy's father. Certainly not when he continues with; "Our country needs us. It needs The Order."
And then, it all falls into place. Like the realization that something you've been looking for is gone forever. Like bad news that can't be forgotten. John swallows a hard lump in his throat and understands, ever so slowly, that he's standing in a rally for an extremist paramilitary group advocating vigilantism. His eyes flicker towards the door, towards the window that shows nothing but the darkness outside and he feels a hand wrap around his forearm.
"We need to get out of here. We need to leave right fucking now," Mitch says, despondent but quiet. He stands upright but his forehead creases in discomfort and his mouth is slightly agape like he's struggling to breathe. "This is freaking me out. Oh god."
His grip tightens, constricts, and traps like he'd fall off the face of the planet otherwise. He keeps it there while the rally continues and the sharks are given more blood in the water to rile them up. He pulls away when Galt comes trudging right over with Patsy's father in tow who proceeds to stare Mitch up and down like he's a show dog.
"This is the young man, you mentioned?" he turns to Galt who nods, mustache forming alongside a smile.
"Yes. He's an obedient one, Jerry. Think he could do well with the cause."
Jerry hums ponderously and stares at John, stares down at him as the taller of the two. Only a few inches slimmer. "And this one?"
"A soldier," answers Galt and it pleases Jerry. "He ain't much of a talker."
"I can see the fighting spirit in him," the Southerner smiles a bit in a way that makes it clear that he does not do that often. "Welcome to the cause, sir. It's nice to meet a fellow patriot."
John holds his stare and nods, catching a wince from Galt. This Jerry is a musclehead but he's not an idiot. The way his eyes linger and quietly file and observe says so. That he's a soldier doesn't fill John with solidarity as it did with Father James. It feels like a threat. Galt and this Jerry walk away, discussing something or another while Mitch quietly slips out of the door when he thinks he can get away with it. No one notices so John follows behind outside to the dead of the night. The only light source is from the building but muscle memory takes them to the pickup truck. It's a quiet night sans the voices that talk inside and Mitch panicking.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck. What now? What do we do?" he asks, arms wrapped around his slender body. He's almost blending in with the formless black.
"We relax," John tells him and puts a hand on his shoulder. "I'll watch over you."
Mitch is nowhere near relaxed as evident when he pops the door open to the passenger seat of the truck and hops in. A few more figures come from the lodge as John buckles the seatbelt, but he doesn't pay attention to any of them, not until someone knocks on the glass to the driver's seat. John's fight senses trigger and he snaps his head to the dim visage of Lester smiling nervously.
"Uh, you guys mind if I drive with you? That really freaked me out inside and Ward is apparently staying so I'm without a ride," he says when John rolls the window down. A quick nod from Mitch greenlights it and he shifts to the middle of the seat as Lester hops in from the other side.
It's an uncomfortable and long drive even if John mapped out the route on the way to the lodge. He drives responsibly, first to Lester's apartment in the inner heart of Hope. His home looks to be part of a regular residential house but according to him and his endless chatter through the ride, it's been converted into apartments though he'd love to find himself a house one day. Apparently, he had eyes for the farmhouse himself too but didn't want to live there alone. John files him under "harmless," especially when he makes it a bit clearer that he too found the experience uncomfortable and disliked the rhetoric.
After he's dropped off, the rest of the ride goes to the Teasles for Rocky. Mitch has regained some of his colors by the time they pull to a stop outside the house. There are two cars parked there already, which means that the sheriff has come back home. Time has sort of decided to fly at breakneck speeds because John realizes it's far past midnight. He sort of feels it now with how his eyes blink more frequently than usual and how Mitch sinks further and further into his seat. There comes a deep sigh from him before he removes the seatbelt and hops out of the car.
The Teasles live in a nice white-fenced community that's like something out of a postcard. It's a far cry from the rustic charm of the farmhouse. It's even a further cry from the barely functional abode that was the old ranch. Mitch knocks on the door and sticks his hands down his pocket, rubbing his nose as it opens. It's Anna with the dog. They hug, they talk, she glances over his shoulder at the pickup truck and hands over a leash attached to a larger puppy with all her belongings.
It doesn't take long before they hit the streets again and eventually drive down the familiar gravel road.
Back at the farmhouse, it's a quick nighttime routine before they are finally in bed, alone, private. Safe. In the dark, Mitch reaches up and laces his fingers with John's, brushing a thumb over his knuckles.
"I'm sorry," he says, and John looks at him in surprise but it's not much of a shock as to why an apology would be needed. Even if it's not warranted. John wraps his arms around Mitch's waist anyway and pulls the young man into his chest, trembles and all. Right where the scars are. It sends a jolt of something in John but he relaxes a little at the hands that grip tightly at the rim of his undershirt.
"You need to get some sleep," John says into the roots of fiery red hair. "We'll talk about it tomorrow."
Mitch doesn't say much but he shakes like he's unable to give in yet and John holds him tighter, cradling him until he stills. He's still awake so John reaches up to seize his face between both hands and says in a comforting but stern tone that's reminiscent of the colonel; "Sleep."
And so Mitch does.
Morning comes hard and fast like a kick to the face that stirs Mitch awake. His head hurts and it takes a moment for him to remember that he's back home. The farmhouse stands quietly like it's stuck in its own frozen dimension. For a moment, it's entirely possible to forget everything until the memories come bum-rushing him and he whimpers as panic makes sure to leave his breathing in pieces.
He's slow today. Slow to get dressed, slow to brush his teeth, slow to shave what little facial hair he has, slow to go downstairs. Slow to catch John and Rocky make their way across the pasture from the forest. Slowly, yet again, Mitch begins to put some coffee over and considers making breakfast, but he just can't get into the headspace of even eating when the weight of The goddamn Order hangs over his head. God, he has to tell Will. He has to. But Galt is also Will's best friend.
What to do now?
Mitch stands so deep in his own thoughts that he doesn't notice John enter the house with Rocky running up to him and bumping his shin with her nose, leaving a wet spot on his leg.
"You're okay," John promises from across the room, in the face of his obvious antsy discomfort. "Galt can't touch you if you're the sheriff's kid."
Mitch breathes out in reluctant relief and puts that dammed coffee on. He knows – now at least. He has always been aware but that's only half the issue. He remains where he stands while it brews and feels two hands on his shoulders. Intimacy in their day-to-day life is fleeting but as of late, as with bedding the other, it comes more often, and Mitch can't deny that he enjoys it. Enjoys the quiet, warm breaths against the back of his neck and the feeling of protection they grant him.
"Could you tell the sheriff?" John asks.
And Mitch…admittingly falters for a bit. He draws a shuddering breath while the coffee brews and fills the pot with black liquid. "Without evidence, it'd be hard to prove. It'd be my word against Galt's. I'm not too keen on someone getting hurt because they got set on by wolves. I don't want to get hurt because I snitched or what we do out here."
The words come out a little breathy, a little weak, a little hesitant. Apologetic because he got nervous and dragged them into this situation. His fault for dragging them into a lion's den, giving the beasts potential prey, knowing where said den is – maybe. For a moment, John is quiet and just pulls Mitch's back against his chest.
"I won't let them," he tells Mitch against the back of his neck. "I won't."
His grip gets a little tight to the point where Mitch shudders. Shudders on behalf of Hope's destruction. Shudders at the possibility of John's demise. Green beret or not, he's but a man. It's so awful; this confusing, bloody, terrifying hypothetical. The truth is that he's a one-man army willingly going up against half a dozen men. It's horrible. Mitch spins around and does that thing again, putting his hands on John's chest. Briefly forgetting what it does to the man, fully telling him that he will be hurt if blood is drawn. John breathes out deeply, tenses and his eyes go blank. His hands clasp around Mitch's wrists like they did on his arrest. Just as fast, just as forceful. But he keeps the hands there, keeps shaking palms pressed against the scars, lets trembling fingertips feel the lines of raised marred flesh through the fabric of a thin shirt.
"I'll be on the lookout," he says firmly. "You're more important to me."
It's a bit vague but dammit, it makes Mitch so relieved for the promise of peace that he's almost breathless. He thins his lips and swallows, almost not registering the kiss against his partly vanished mouth. It's so easy to sink into that he happily does, fingers spreading across the broad chest under his hand. It costs John to some extent but he's being so sweet about it until he can't stand it anymore, stepping back with a deep but quiet sigh. He rubs the scars a bit over the t-shirt with a thoughtful look on his face like he's pondering that particular trigger.
His hands shake as he turns to one of the cupboards and takes some mugs. It appears that he's not hungry this morning either. The coffee brews and the pot ends on the dinner table with milk and sugar because Mitch isn't fully grown up yet. For once, they don't sit huddled up in front of the fireplace but instead, they are at the table. Rocky lies on the floor between them, chewing on one of her toys. It's a quiet one because those squeaky toys would just drive everyone insane.
Mitch speaks partway into his coffee as his mind clears, and he stares out at the poultry pens. "Smith is coming later with the baby birds. Thought it'd be good to let Rocky get acquainted with them if she's gonna guard them."
The feed is in the barn, the basins are filled. Everything is ready.
John nods into his mug but the shine in his eyes hints at his excitement. He drinks the last drops before he heads outside with Mitch and a coffee cup. It's a warm morning, the trees are gaining their green sprouts and there is no snow. There hasn't been any snow in a while. With Rocky on a leash, they observe the pasture, the coop, the wire around them, and the basins rippling from seismic winds.
And then, from the realm beyond the trees, there is a slight sputter of an old truck driving down the gravel road. It drives Rocky into guard dog mode, and she barks relentlessly at the vehicle and the man who steps out of it. Smith waves and gestures to a crate in the bed of his truck.
"Here's the critters! Thanks for ridding me of them. Got too many," he calls, and Mitch leaves the pasture to inspect the animals. It's just two people out here and a dog so there are ten young birds; one drake, one rooster, eight females. Four hens, four ducks. All quacking and chirping, making Mitch's heart melt.
Rambo comes out of the pasture and there's a certain glow on his face. He's not smiling, far from it but he is very happy. It says good things about their relationship when Mitch can recognize it.
After a few cups of coffee and some poultry talk, Smith drives home and it then takes two people to carry the birds into the pen, walking side by side and holding onto one edge of the cage. Rocky has been sitting patiently and observing but excitement gets the better of her so she sniffs the crate, whines, and yelps softly at the animals inside.
The birds are let into their new coops, running around to take in their new home while the dog tentatively investigates the animals. A few tugs at her leash teach her quickly that they are friends and more importantly, her instincts kick in, making her keep watch of them and follow them around while they familiarize themselves with their new home.
"I don't know if I've ever mentioned it before, but it really feels like all my problems are gone out here," says Mitch, sitting on the fence. The sun begins to peek through the clouds and makes the day a little warmer. "It sounds so corny but it's true."
"And me staying here?" John asks. He says it so calmly, slightly facetiously that it's not much of a consideration for his sake. But rather that of a typical small town where everyone knows everyone. "Is there a law against me being here?"
"Nope. I'd like you to stay forever – or however long you want to. Looking at you, knowing that you do odd jobs around town, it's not hard to conclude you fell on hard times and you like doing farm work so no one is gonna question you being here. You know, roommates and all that," Mitch says to him – just as much as he says it to himself. He recalls hearing that codeword in juvie.
Quickly, something resembling harmony is established in the flock while the ducks take to their basins, swimming and splashing while the chickens circle Rocky who simply lays down. Mitch thinks of teaching her to handle eggs and drop them in a basket when the birds begin to lay. It helps that they are young so they can get acquainted with her early. So far, it's working out even if she squirms when they begin to crawl on top of her.
Mitch takes the empty crate and puts it right by the gate. Eventually, some of the birds figure out where their feed and water are while the others scratch at the ground and begin foraging. It's gonna be hard to eat one of them in case they get more than two roosters or drakes at a time. Mitch will let John handle that despite feeling a pang or two in his sentimental heart. Maybe it's a good thing they aren't getting cows.
The weather gets a little warmer and spring takes over Hope in earnest when Mitch heads to work. A weird feeling fills his stomach as he enters the police station. On the surface, it's normal. It appears normal. Inside, it's talk of the big game and nothing else. It sounds normal. The crime spree has quieted down. No more constant reports, emergency calls, or rotations of arrestees. It passes as normal. The people act like they normally do – almost. Mitch senses the changes as he's stuck sorting through reports of drunk drivers during game night.
None were killed, just a bunch of crashed cars.
He takes a slight break and looks up from the folder in his hands when he sees Ward come back from patrol. There's a hollow look on the man's face. He's usually placid or completely blank to a pleasant degree but today, he doesn't seem particularly aware. It suggests a lot of horrid things when Galt comes up to him, puts a hand on his shoulder, and whispers something brief to him before taking a seat at the front desk. Ward stands, expression blank, and moves like a machine to the basement. Did he stay that night? Did he see something he didn't want to see? Is he trapped? As much as he tends to be frustrating at times, it's hard not to ache on his behalf.
Mitch thinks to intercept him and offer some solitary relief until the growing thought is thoroughly snapped in half by Lester suddenly standing on the other side of the shelf.
"Thanks for helping me out the other day," he laughs, skittish, and paranoid. Eyes dart around a bit, head turns for a moment.
"No worries," Mitch tries to smile but really cannot. He looks at the basement door briefly and then at the man in front of him. "And Ward?"
Lester freezes. The smile shape of his mustache drops swiftly, and he looks outright guilty as he answers. "I-I don't know. I think he stayed but he's been acting kinda weird since. Maybe something happened."
Certainly, something happened, and Galt got Ward wrapped around his little finger. Leverage? Blackmail? Witness to a crime? It's not like even half the people in the building have clean records, certainly not Lester and his looming gambling debt-related past theft. But no one has killed anyone here. Hurt? Certainly but murder? Does Mitch even want to entertain that idea? Whatever he feels about it, is quickly pushed aside when he is called to the sheriff's office. He finishes the files and pads to the room, closing the door behind him.
Will sits in his chair, leaning back with his hands resting on his stomach. He's portly as usual but he lost that Christmas weight. He's not smiling however and it makes Mitch shudder a bit. Even his voice comes out strained when he asks; "How's the farmhouse?"
"Great," answers Mitch and sticks his hands down his pockets. "You should come visit one day – wellness check aside. We got the birds and Rocky is getting pretty good with them. She's learning to guard and sleep outside. The orchard and the kitchen garden are growing strong. In a month maybe, we can harvest. Might go to an animal shelter Walla Walla for cats to root out rats in the barn and-"
Will lifts his hand to shut the young deputy up. Right. It's a trap, is it not? He leans forward in his chair, his eyes turn sharp, and he breathes through his nostrils, heavy and bull-like. Will is already bit of a buffalo-taken human form; he doesn't need to square up for the sake of intimidation. But of course, he does, and it makes it crystal clear why.
"How long are you gonna let him stay with you?" he asks because of course he does.
"Until he leaves," sighs Mitch, already on edge whenever the topic of John is brought up. He can see the words of protest formulate on the sheriff's tongue but preempts him. "Look, Will. There are reasons why I can't just let him go in the wild. The farm does good things to him but for lack of a better word, he's a bit…precarious."
"Precarious of not being a freeloader?" Will scoffs.
"Precarious to things that don't face most people," Mitch squares up a bit. "He's well at the farmhouse and he's adjusting to the town. He goes to church, he helps Preston and now Leroy with favors here and there, and he tends to Smith's horses at the farm. No, he's not gonna shave or cut his hair but he doesn't need to. I think he likes it here."
Of course, Will doesn't back down. Of course, of course. "So why doesn't he find his own place in town? Why still live with him?"
"Because I like his company. And farmhands live on site, don't they? Besides, he likes to go hunting."
"Hunt?" Will quirks a brow.
"Boars. Taking that knife away from him did nothing because he knows how to make new ones," Mitch says and lets his tongue poke the inside of his cheek for comfort at the wild look he gets.
It's surprising how leveled his voice comes despite the subtle rebellion, he's pushing. He's aware that the sheriff prefers gentle suggestions than outright disagreements or insurrection but when it comes to Rambo, gently shattering any preconceived ilk is like an uphill battle that will end the same way as if someone just flat-out begged the differ. He sees it in Will's eyes, the obstinate defiance that flares up at being wrong, being told that he could be wrong.
The silence that follows is like the deliberation between two hostile animals that wonder if they should engage or go their separate ways. Mitch stands his ground but he sure as hell doesn't love the feeling it leaves him with. He has bickered with Will before; it comes with being a teenager but whatever they've disagreed on has never lingered for as long as John has.
That it's him is a horrible feeling.
It's like Mitch is being subtly forced to choose between the two. He loves the Teasles like his own parents. He loves John like cups of tea in front of the fireplace after a long day. Will's stare makes it clear that this issue is not resolved. It probably won't ever meet a resolution before John has been run out of Hope, never to return. Mitch does not want that.
"You used to go hunting with me. Us," says Will at last with a level of hurt that's faint but present and it leaves a wound.
"It's not deer season yet. We always go deer hunting. You don't like boars," Mitch shrugs. It occurs to him now that he hasn't actually made any plans for the yearly hunts. He looks down again and feels a little guilty over the direction, this conversation has gone in.
Will deflates into his chair, and it creaks a little under the effort. He's not bristling anymore but he's still defiant. "Look, son. I worry about you. I worry that he's taking your life away, being a leech and all that."
"I promise you; he's a good person. You should still come by and visit. You can see the birds and Rocky. She's getting big."
It takes a while before Will answers reluctantly. "Fine. Fine. I'll bring Anna along."
That softens the impact of reality a little more. Anna, the mediator will make this a little bit easier to swallow.
Father James is quietly sweeping the church aisle when Mitch skips inside. It's not chilly so he can walk slowly without hungering for warmth. He does not. He's not quiet either as the good pastor lifts his head and smiles. Forthcoming as always, he says gleefully; "What a pleasant surprise! All is well, son?"
Mitch can't entirely nod as nerves prickle his gut like pins and needles. He pulls a strained smile and waves. Despite his best efforts to not proverbially vomit all over the floor, Father James notices his discomfort in an instant and gestures him to sit on one of the pews at the furthest end of the church, staring at the altar and the imagery of Jesus on the cross. They sit at an arm's length apart from each other, in utter silence until Mitch speaks because it all comes down to him.
"What should I do, Father? Feels like a lot of things in my life are hanging by a thread. What can I do if I know or suspect something is wrong, but don't have the leverage to expose it? If it could be the end of me or the people, I care about? Or if I feel like I have to choose between the people I love?" he looks down, arms around his body, eyes cast at his feet.
"You are your own man. Don't let others rule who you care for. As for the things you know…I assume it's bad?" Father James smiles ever so slightly to ease the tension.
Mitch nods. It's a question that's a little dicey to answer directly. "I went someplace, and it turned out to be a bad idea. It was just talking but…I just have this bad feeling when I think about it. And someone who was also there might have been witness to something bad."
"How bad?"
"The Order," Mitch whispers as the hairs on his neck stand on end. Father James is quiet for a long time while he regards the young deputy. His careful consideration feels like some maladapted relief.
"In Hope? Hm, yes this is bad. And I believe there's a good reason why you haven't told Teasle, right?"
"…Galt."
The good pastor grimaces. "Ah, yes. That a-hole."
It's juvenile but warm with good humor that makes Mitch laugh a bit. Feels good that someone also aware of Galt's tendencies remains unsurprised at this bit of news. Father Colin is going to be a little harder to mention. Father James is a goodhearted man who wants to believe the best in his fellow pastor.
"As for the threat at hand, who else is involved?" the pastor asks and it's somewhat easy to answer.
"Ward."
Father James puts his hand on Mitch's shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze. "I'll talk to him, and I'll be on the lookout."
From then on out, they talk about the farm, plants, animals, names for the possible cats. Mitch mentions the uneasy visitation plan from Will and Anna and the growth of John while Father James writes down the address to the most trusted animal shelter in Walla Walla and talks of his little beagle from his childhood, hears of Rocky, and gets added to the guest list for the Teasles' visit.
For most of it, he regards Mitch. Looks at him long and intently with nothing but warmth underlying quiet contemplation. Mitch notices it but doesn't ask about it. He thinks, wonders if the good pastor can see right through him. See his memories and see what John truly is. Wonder what he'd think if word does come out that the "temporary lodger" is something more. Without the presence of a woman, there could be questions. Could. That landmine, Mitch is sitting on, could explode if he makes the wrong move.
He sits there a little longer.