Peace is brittle at the farmhouse. Progress is made although it comes with a caveat. John has finished the bed for the master bedroom and there are enough wood pallets to build another, albeit smaller one. He hasn't even begun. He remains on the couch while Mitch moves upstairs.

That way, John can just as easily leave when that time comes. He has the bleary feeling that it's soon. It's like there's a ticking time bomb that will end with his eviction, one bitter way or another. At least, he can make the hunting trip a good final memory and not think about how somber the week is. And fragile the rare moments when Mitch is here.

He doesn't sleep here anymore.

John has to accept this. That he caused this. It is what it is. He handles it alone. Sleeps alone, wakes up alone, cooks, eats, lives alone. He doesn't like it any more than he did when on the road. But it is what it is, and he accepts that Mitch is just a civilian – more in line with the rest than a rare unicorn after all.

So when Friday arrives, there's a change. There has to be. It's the day of the hunting trip after all. John sits on the porch of the farmhouse, surrounded by bows, arrows, and spears. He misses his old knife but the one that he made from flint will suffice. He wishes he could have sat down with Mitch and talked with him on the merits of hunting without firearms, but the kid will have to learn as they go.

The spear is probably the easiest to use, John concludes as he hears the distant roar of a motor drive down the gravel road. The old pickup truck sputters and spits as it rolls to a stop in front of the barn and Mitch hops out. He has another bag of leftover food so it's a sign that he's staying for a little longer than a few hours. Of course, because he's a civilian, he stops at a safe distance from the porch, eyes wide at the weaponry.

"You made all these?" he asks like he can't quite believe the obvious. His expression is leveled. Still transparent but more conscious in attempts at obfuscation.

It's such a silly question but one John answers earnestly with a nod and watches the young man blanche. He swallows hard and nods, walking slowly past John and through the door. The air feels so uncomfortably cold now, but John has to accept this. He finishes the final spear and puts it aside alongside the arrows and bows, then stands outside while he occasionally catches glimpses of Mitch moving about inside until eventually, he comes out with a few bags of equipment. He doesn't smile, of course he doesn't but he does help with gathering the arrows and tentative thanks for the bow and spear before they set off.

They trek across the pastures and past the old fence in utter silence. Mitch stays behind John at a modest distance so obviously he hasn't actually explored this area. But as they reach the forest, the childlike curiosity grows too enticing and he breaks away, cataloging the flora around him. Oh, he's paying attention too because he follows wherever John is going but nature is a nice distraction. That way, John can watch him slowly recover from their scuffle and whatever bothered him before with a mix of gratitude and melancholy.

Gratitude because the peace is slowly beginning to gain girth. Mitch is trying, he really is but he's also human and humans tend to act irrationally when they are afraid. He could have called the sheriff and let the cops run John out of town. He hasn't. He might want to handle the eviction on a proper note. It's commendable. John is lucky that the kid has more sense than his coworkers. John is thankful that Mitch didn't break after their scuffle.

It's not that it would be the only factor; he knows it would just be the drop that caused the cup to overflow. The threat is still there as he has noticed it over the few hours that Mitch would be home across the week. Perpetually unhappy. Uncomfortably jumpy when John as much as moves, quiet and overly apathetic. No eye contact beyond the absolute minimum. Walking with an air of mental exhaustion. Always, always pale. Living in fear.

He buries it all inside.

It does things to John watching the young man like that. Even when afraid, he was expressive. Now he's off. Like he, Mitch Rogers, has completely switched himself off.

It's melancholic that things have come to this.

When John agreed to work for food and lodging, interpersonal conflict was not something he'd imagine that would affect him. But Mitch had been so forthcoming that John had let go of his barriers just a little and found himself, well not attached and heaven forbid dependent on but certainly fond of the young deputy to some degree. He probably never made it clear. He probably hasn't even made it clear how the farmhouse stabilizes him. So, he can't blame Mitch for being apprehensive now. The one thing he can do is to be angry with himself for ruining what used to be. Less goodwill, more hostility.

Why does it make John feel like this when all Hope is supposed to be a temporary base? He has no answer. He's just grateful for the chance to leave on a mildly positive note. Time will have to settle the rest.

Twilight darkens the sky somewhat when they reach a clearing in the forest. The last vestiges of daylight partly illuminate the shape of a wild boar foraging through the foliage. It's mostly quiet sans a few birds flying about overhead and the steady breathing of two men watching a wild animal go about its life. John gestures to Mitch to remain where he is and hold the handgun steady. The travel distance is short enough for a bullet to hit the animal but it's anyone's guess if it'll kill it too.

Either way, Mitch takes aim and sends a few glances at John while he skulks towards the nearest tree and climbs its trunk, using his strength and a makeshift knife to hoist him towards its lowest branches. He has to stop periodically when the boar lifts its head at the tiniest of sounds. John is positioned out of view for the animal so being seen is not a concern. Mitch's distraction by the method he's witnessing is one. But the kid stands his ground, really honing on the boar whenever it moves. As soon as John is in position, clutching onto a branch with one hand, spear in the other, he looks towards Mitch still holding the handgun.

And gives the signal.

A gunshot rings out, sending birds scattering from the treetops and the bullet hits the boar in its neck, enraging the animal. It snaps its head to the row of bushes. Seconds pass as it gears up to charge and seconds are all John needs before he leaps from the branch and aims the spear at the boar's gut. Time freezes in the heartbeats before impact but he stays leveled as the world seems to vanish for a moment. Steady, the head of the spar is driven into the animal and John stabilizes himself on his feet as the boar goes down. It squirms and whines but quickly uses all its energy before he has to stab it again.

The animal stills until John can lift it off the ground, just as Mitch steps out from the bushes.

"So that's how you hunt boars, huh?" he says but jumps in place and has to turn away from the blood that pours from the animal's wounds.

They head away from the clearing just as it becomes too dark to see much. Mitch has to walk next to John with a flashlight in his hand and subsequently guess what direction they will go in as the sound of water rushes nearby. Growing louder and louder until John knows that they've reached their destination.

"Here? Aren't we meant to go back?" Mitch asks and takes a few steps across the gravel while he directs the beam around their full surroundings, stopping at a nearby cave with its opening almost covered in vines. He's less upset about this than expected.

"Do you want to? Hunting trips tend to be a camping trip too," John answers as he drops the boar by the river. Above them, the moon shines bright across the sky that's not entirely black yet. He turns around when Mitch doesn't answer, spotting the young man partly inside the cave.

He has taken the light with him, essentially casting John into darkness to the point where he has to ask; "You know how to make a fire?"

"Yeah," the young deputy flinches before he scurries off across the gravel and finds a couple of large rocks for the base of the fire. John has to stay with the boar and watch him gather materials for tinder and kindling – and a few old newspapers he brought along. At least, he's quick and efficient, building the fire before he uses a match to ignite it.

A glow comes from the cave, and it provides John the light to work on the boar; skinning its body, slicing its stomach, and removing its entrails. The smell of blood is thick as it stains his hands, but he rinses them in the river and gets back to work. He can shower when they get back tomorrow.

The organs and part of the carcass are buried a few meters away from the camp before John has to partly submerge himself in the river again to get himself free of blood and viscera. The cool seeps into his skin and makes him shiver but it's nothing he hasn't tried before. Vietnam is always worse. He skewers the leg with one of the spears and snags a few branches on his way to the cave so he can build a rack for the leg to roast.

The boar is small so it will take little somewhere between an hour and two. He lets the meat be and sits on the other side of the fire with his back against a rocky wall. He can reach the cooling bag from where he is and so stretches his arm for it. Time tends to pass quickly in the wilderness, John reckons as he opens the beer can and opens it while the warmth gently greets his body. Other times, the world feels as if it's standing still. The sound of owls returns, aided by the rushing water but it all feels so dreamlike.

He's used to the silence, used to contemplative reticence. Used to handle them alone. He's used to the musing air, undermined by the calls of nature. Owls and a species that John remembers to be the Eurasian collared dove. Its calls strike a weirdly nostalgic note but it's hard to contrate on it while he's sitting here, staring into the flames to not stare at Mitch.

He's not used to Mitch.

Mitch who sits huddled up with a blanket around his shoulders and a soda in his hand, blue eyes taking a warmer color in the fire. His expression is situated between exhaustion and deep thought. The silence takes on a desperate quality. It's pathetic, it's strange, it's unfamiliar. John isn't one of those people who need to fill dead air with words but the urge to just talk comes rushing at him like a bayonet charge. It pulls him to straighten his back like a fishhook under his breastbone but the tiniest of movements causes Mitch to stop staring at the flames and simply watch him as if he's a caged animal on the lookout for danger.

"What happened at New Year's? You looked…unwell when you got back," John asks like he's stepping into a minefield and Mitch flinches again.

"You too, huh? Is my misery that obvious?" a bitter smile spreads over his face.

"I thought people asked because they care about you. It just wasn't my place to interlope."

"Why?"

"Because this is temporary."

For reasons, John has yet to figure out, this stills Mitch and he looks up, brows pinched together in confusion. He looks…wounded.

"I'm sorry," John gives in to the sudden urge to apologize. It comes sneaking up on him like a snake and he feels so suddenly small and weak. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"I know. I know, I know, I know," Mitch raises his hand and squeezes his eyes shut like he's sick of the world and its people. "You had this weird look on your face like I was Viet Cong. You didn't look present is what I'm saying. But I get it. I know."

He's awfully observant as always. One can never take that away from him. It's almost scary how right he can be.

"…Yeah," John nods. "Sometimes it feels as if…I don't know where I am. The triggers do that. It's a mess so I don't blame you for not understanding. I don't even understand it. You probably don't want to hear about it."

Mitch opens his eyes and stares straight ahead. His gaze is clear and steady as if his fear has vanished into thin air for a moment. "…I think I understand it more than you'd imagine."

"How?"

A pause falls between them as the young deputy crumples a bit again. He pulls his legs into his chest, puts the soda can down, and stares down into the flames. Then he sighs and finally answers.

"My dad was in the Second World War. Enlisted at fourteen but lied about his age. Got kicked out after injury because they discovered the truth. Got drafted for real in the Korean War. All my single-digit years, I've heard countless stories of warfare and comradery. Of how brave soldiers were, even if they didn't want to be. Of how they only did as they were told for the glory of their country. But as we got older, the stories got gorier, and I suspect that the increasing violence was a sign of the truth coming out."

The son of a veteran. Now it all begins to make sense. All of Mitch's forthcomingness and lack of vitriol towards vets take on a whole new quality. But is this the way to learn about it, when he's sitting here, furling into himself like the admission itself wounds him?

Is it really John's place to ask; "Where's your father now?"

"Oh, he's dead," Mitch chuckles with no warmth whatsoever. The bitter smirk returns with a side order of trembling. "I suspect I might have killed him – indirectly with my rap sheet of being a fuck up. He must have been so ashamed of the wasted youth of his own son. Never got to see me do anything in life except going round and round with juvie."

There's something about listening to this, witnessing a young man's slow unraveling of his secrets, noticing how deeply it costs him that makes John's breath hitch. He shouldn't be happy and really, he isn't. It's not happy things that are being revealed. But it does make him feel honored to be privy to this and it feeds that growing attachment. It feeds compassion. It births attachment. A deep sense of it.

When Mitch lifts his head again, he's no longer smirking. His eyes glisten in the flames and he speaks quietly.

"You know, you remind me of him. By the end of his life, he had this hollow look in his eyes much like you. Had nightmares, crying spells, sleepless nights. Perpetually miserable. It had been like that since we came to Washington. It just got worse then. But he'd always say respect the vets. You wonder why I don't give you crap about 'Nam? There's your answer."

The leg has browned and roasted throughout their conversation. So, the scent and frying momentarily distract John enough to lean forward with a knife and slice the meat to check its temperature, which turns out to be a medium rare. He takes the outermost pieces first, gathering them on plastic plates. The rest is probably in the rarer end if not outright raw. Arrangements of meat, bread rolls, slaw, and beans are made a little less than gracefully because John has never been and never will be a culinary expert.

"…You're better than you think you are," he offers while he hands over the plate, trying to meet Mitch's eyes. "I think he'd be at peace if he saw you now."

Mitch lifts his eyebrows, then scoffs and stares down at the plate.

"That's what they all say. Their tune would change pretty fucking quickly if they knew the whole truth of me. Shit, sometimes it feels like…I'm not even meant to be here. I got given things I'm not supposed to have."

He knows pain. He feels guilt. That's becoming increasingly clear. It's not born in the jungles of Vietnam or the reservations of Arizona but it's something that has left endless pieces of shrapnel embedded into his flesh. John finds himself…curious in return. Curious for the first time in a very long time. Empathy is what births it. That's a feeling John hasn't felt since he washed up in Hope.

"But you have the sheriff and his wife. You have people. Whatever that truth is, I doubt it will make them drop you," he stands up and carefully, slowly, takes the chance of sitting right next to Mitch.

Surprisingly the young deputy does not scurry away, but his trembling worsens and fear flashes in his eyes like he's moments away from dying. Thus, it's no surprise that he shakes when he utters; "Y-you don't understand. You wouldn't."

Right. In the face of unflappable logic, that's right. They come from different worlds with different problems and different demons. But the scars that they have appear to be similar at least. It's a brave assumption but one John feels confident making. Just as he feels confident in sitting next to Mitch and poking at the bread roll, leftovers from Anna. She and the sheriff must have known of Mitch's sordid past – and accepted him regardless. But guilt does horrible things to people.

"Maybe I don't. My parents weren't stellar. My mother died early," he recalls solemnly. "My dad was-is a piece of shit. Don't know what happened to him."

And he doesn't care enough to find out.

"I wonder if Dad wouldn't have deteriorated had Mom not left him. Maybe we'd still be in Rochester," Mitch quietly muses and John has a sudden epiphany that almost makes him stare at the young man for a bit.

That's where the accent comes from. It's New York but not quite. It makes so much sense with the rah in Rochester that it's almost funny.

"Ah fuck, sorry. I shouldn't be whining about my problems like a pansy," Mitch shrugs and punctuates his own dismissal with a light nibble of the bread. "I think mine pale in comparison to yours anyway."

"It's not a competition," John protests bluntly.

"No, but I bet you're probably looking at my non-issues and thinking 'this dumb fucking kid and his illegal weed and his theft and his vandalism and his B and Es and his shoplifting. Why doesn't he stop being such a little bitch and just pull himself together, huh?'" Mitch says tartly and stabs a slice of meat like it's the face of a person who has said those exact things to him.

"Because you already have."

John keeps his gaze on the young man to let him know that every word is meant. And the silence drags.

"What?" Mitch jitters, fork partly submerged in meat. It's part fear but a sweet form of it and part boyish annoyance.

That doesn't quite make John smile, but he feels himself warming up a little as he stabs the slaw. He doesn't actually like slaw but it tastes a little better when mixed with the juices of the boar. The meal feels a little better overall so he says; "It's nice to have a conversation with you again."

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, Mitch blushes. His cheeks flush a bright red and it's a treat to watch, a pleasure to witness, like always. He lives up a little and so does the smile that spreads over his face.

"…Aside from that, I hate this year, honestly."

"New Year?" John asks and his distaste for Ward grows just a little stronger.

"Yeah but…I can't…I don't want to talk about it," Mitch utters quietly and drinks the last of his soda.

"It's okay," John inches away a bit. "You don't have to."

And the brittle peace grows a little stronger.

Morning comes with a strong scent of petrichor that stirs John awake. It rings a bell of nostalgia, for better and for worse. He uncurls from his position and stretches his sore limbs. Damn, he's gotten used to the comforts of an actual bed but the hardness of rocks and a blanket steel the soldier within. The sight of Mitch furling into a ball on top of a sleeping bag with a blanket over him melts it. His eyes are impossibly blue in the pale light that comes peering through the vines, cloudy with sleep then clear in a matter of seconds. For a long stretch of silence, they simply stare at each other while the water rushes through the nearby river and John feels his heart make a beat extra.

"Beans and bread for breakfast," he gestures to one of the coolers and internally winces at his lack of humor. "With meat."

"There's some juice boxes somewhere in the cooler," Mitch yawns as he sits up, running a hand through his hair, then rubs the sleep out of him. "I'm gonna take a leak."

He crawls out of the blanket and stretches his arms but rubs his hip with a frown on his face like he's sore there. How can he not be with how slender he is. It lasts for a moment before he scurries off past the vines, into the blinding daylight and his footsteps grow fainter against the gravel. Alone again, John finds the matches and lights the bonfire to heat up the frigid cave. He searches through the cooler and indeed finds the juice boxes. A whole eight of them. Grape flavored. He opens one and quietly sips on it as the fire begins to cackle.

The world feels nice like this, out here where nature rules supreme. The farmhouse is on the precipice of that; a bridge between the prejudice of society and the indifference of nature. He likes the Cascade Mountains for how crisp the air is, how it can clear his head. He likes the farmhouse for giving him peace. He likes the progress made. He likes Mitch. He likes him a lot. John can admit that now. It's temporary he remembers but the companionship, the mending of such, does wonders. It's unreal how well he feels this morning. He thinks of visiting Hope again, of coming by the farmhouse when he's long gone.

Thinks of coming back and seeing the young deputy recover from his misspent youth and build a typical life for himself. Wife, children, and whatever else is common for a civilian. John has long since come to terms with the fact that he himself will never achieve those things. The world doesn't care enough to foster its most expendable citizens. But he can still be distantly happy that someone else managed through the suffering and found joy. Assuming the future will play out like that.

Fate has a funny way of turning things upside down.

Just like how the world likes to surprise its subordinates. Because it hits John that it's been a while since Mitch left. Considering he didn't bring anything with him but a jacket and his gun, it's unlikely he went back to the farmhouse. Not that he could find his way out here. A nagging thought begins to brood in the back of John's mind, but he lets it-

And then he hears it.

Distant but sharp. A blood-curdling scream comes further down the river. Like a shock of lightning has jolted through him, he jumps to his feet and grabs s spear, a knife, a bow, and arrows before he sprints out. He doesn't think, doesn't consider what compels him to move south to the location of the scream – and the animalistic growls of a larger beast. But as he walks in on what can only be described as a horror scene, he recognizes the feeling as worry.

Because it really is a fucking horror scene he's staring at.

No landmine has gone off but there's Mitch on the riverbank, gritting his teeth and clutching his stomach. He's partly submerged with his legs in the water but what's more alarming is the hulking bear less than a few feet away from him, occasionally slapping him with its massive paws. The petrichor turns metallic with the aid of blood and John freezes momentarily like he's about to watch a friend get blown to bits and pieces in front of him. Momentarily the image flashes before his eyes and his body grows stiff. It comes back; the screams, the ringing, the sulfur, the taste of dirt in his mouth, the bits of flesh and-

"John!" Mitch's voice cuts through the jungles of Vietnam, shrill like a siren. It kicks John into gear as his body moves like a machine. He steps back and grabs the bow, reaching for one of the arrows while the bear growls.

It paws at Mitch some more, more aggressively until he whimpers, claws stabbing his flesh. It's hard to stay leveled when desperate fear laces every noise that comes from him but John swallows hard and focuses, just fucking focusing on nocking the arrow across the middle of the bow with the bowstring. The bear is at a good angle so he draws the arrow back as far as his muscles will let him. He aims at the broadside and hopes to God for a double-lung shot, stays disciplined, and holds his breath. He thinks of the Navajo elders and their teachings about the bear's contorting body type that makes it hard to kill with an arrow.

There will be no forgiveness if he misses.

Before the bear has moved little more than an inch, Jogn loses the draw and the arrow cuts through the air until it sinks deep into the bear. A growl comes from the animal as it stands on its hind legs and is about to slam its front paws back onto the ground, directly on Mitch until he rolls into the water and narrowly avoids being crushed to death.

His hands shake something fierce when he pulls the handgun from his jacket and takes aim, shooting the bear in the face while John nocks another arrow, draws, and lets it zoom through the air until it hits the bear again. This time, the arrow passes through and lands a few feet away from the animal. This time, the beast finally dies, collapsing onto its side with a few grunts of exhaustion.

And then there is Mitch.

John's attention forgoes the bear entirely as he hurries to the young deputy pulling himself out of the water. Upon inspection, he has been clawed at in the side of his stomach and a gash bleeds a furious red across the side of his neck. There's a smaller wound judging from the dark spot that spreads over his thigh. John gingerly opens his jacket and sees a pair of two gashes embedded into his chest. The blood makes it look far more gruesome than it actually is – thankfully but every touch causes him to flinch and yelp in pain. His eyes stretch wide with absolute terror, glistening in the dull daylight.

But he is alive.

That fact is what stops a million thoughts from running in circles behind John's forehead. It stops the trigger. He helps Mitch to his feet and supports him towards the cave. Something has to be done about that bear but it's a thought so distant that John has almost forgotten it by the time they make it back to their camp for their belongings.

By midday, they are back at the farmhouse. Wet, cold, bloodied, and already tired. John takes off his jacket and shirt while Mitch limps to the couch and collapses onto the cushions, right on the bed there. He's lying on his back, his breaths coming out in quiet little gasps and his eyes fly open when John approaches him.

"I need to look at the wounds again," he says and Mitch slowly wrings himself out of his shirt, pants, and jacket, letting it all drop to the floor with a wet thud.

His hands pass over his chest and rest right on his ribs. Fear permeates his eyes again but it's a warmer kind. "Is it…okay? With the blood?"

His skin is damp from the river, stained with blood and a little bit of grime from whatever floated in the water. His chest heaves quite visibly and his entire throat with a few hard swallows. He's so pale, he's almost blue.

Yes, John nods and swallows the tenseness that stiffens his entire body. Grounds himself. He closes his eyes for a moment against the image of dying comrades and looks at Mitch again before he makes his way to the kitchen and its cabinets, particularly the pantry where a small red bag is; the first aid kit. It has bandages and Band-Aids but not needles or thread. John has to find those in one of the other cabinets alongside a bottle of ethanol, paper towels, linen napkins, and handkerchiefs.

And finally, a whole sewing kit that has never once been used. It's going to sting, and they don't even have painkillers. Just to ease Mitch into it, John starts by wiping away the blood from the larger gashes on his stomach, so they don't look as gruesome as initially perceived, and then dabs them with paper towels dipped in ethanol. The wounds on the neck and leg get the same treatment. It's bit of a battle as expected, because Mitch flails and yelps at the slightest touch to the point where John has to scoot back lest he gets punched in the face by accident. He can use these breaks to collect himself in the meantime, inhaling deeply to remind himself that it'll go well, to ground himself.

Tears gather in Mitch's eyes but he never says stop. His brows pinch together, and he swallows again, muttering incoherent words of encouragement to himself. John can't blame him for reacting like that; rather the commitment to brave through it is admirable. The kid knows pain but it's becoming clear that it's ethereal pain. Doesn't make it hurt any less, John reckons as he disinfects the tools and occasionally catches a wild glance thrown his way that turns into actual terror when the needle arrests its attention.

John nods briefly and gently, as much as he possibly can, pushes the needle through flesh closest to the first wound and meticulously sews. His arm winds up resting firmly on Mitch's stomach to hold the young man down while he works. Each breath is like a panicked gasp that moves like waves. Of course, Mitch is cold to the touch everywhere except the tender areas close to his wounds, but his skin is soft elsewhere.

Momentarily, John is struck with the urge to press his fingers against it, but the feeling passes like a faint breeze. Its aftershocks on the other hand…

He closes his eyes for a moment and doesn't allow himself to even ponder it through. He just breathes deeply through his nose, breathes in the smell of blood, and exhales vestiges of panic. Then he continues sewing and wraps up the wounds on Mitch's stomach, moving on to the gash on the neck.

It's smaller than the others and not really in need of stitches but he still raises himself until he's face to face with Mitch, holding onto the back of the couch for balance. Under him, the young deputy winces but keeps his head turned while the wound is dabbed with ethanol. To actually apply bandages, he lowers himself and gestures for Mitch to sit up, which he slowly does.

John takes the bandages and wraps them around the young deputy's neck, using both hands to work. Momentarily, he looks up and finds both of Mitch's cheeks flush like the color of deep fires but he's quiet and placid. It's bit of an awkward position so John doesn't touch him more than necessary but the times he does, he can feel the wincing of a human pulse. When he grabs Mitch's leg by the thigh, it rockets off the pace. He doesn't look anywhere else while he wraps the wound there in bandages, his grip isn't tighter than it needs to be in order to hold the leg in place, his fingers don't dent the flesh more than absolutely necessary.

John finds it easy to think about literally anything else but the softness of the skin under his fingertips, the freckles there, the soft startled gasp that comes from Mitch when his leg is gently eased down on the couch. The house is too quiet for it to be forgotten but John pretends he's gone deaf for a moment while he steals a glance at Mitch and sees him cover his face in abject shame and subtle horror.

Finally done, he wipes the blood in his tank top as he stands up. It's laundry day soon anyway so he'll add it to the pile later. The bear is still outside, and he'll still get dirty.

A breeze causes him to shiver a bit as he looks down at the couch and waits until the young deputy is a little more lucid before he talks.

"You're okay. You did well so you can rest."

Without a moment's hesitation, Mitch pulls his hands off his face to reveal his eyes have fallen to a close, and falls asleep like a candle being snuffed. Just to be safe, John puts a blanket over him and heads outside towards the forest, scouring through the wilderness until he finds the bear carcass. It's too heavy to carry back so he has to skin it and bury the remains here. The massive frame of the bear is still faintly warm to the touch even as the blood has dried. Thus, removing the flesh and fat is easier than he expected it to be.

No head. The pelt will already be big enough for a decently sized rug and Mitch probably doesn't want to look at the face of an animal that almost killed him. Or John can take it with him when he leaves Hope. As he walks with the skin, he thinks of the ways it can warm him on winter nights. He worries about maintenance. He thinks of the several bags of road salt in the barn, probably left over from the previous owner.

Internally, the house is basically done sans a few luxuries and superfluous decorations so painting the interior is the next step unless Mitch wants the unpainted brick look. They haven't even begun to consider the barn. Mitch has not at least but for John, it's his unintended sanctuary for the sheer amount of old equipment and scrap in there. Therefore tanning the bear hide shouldn't be much of an issue. Inside the barn, the hide is laid on some tarp and covered in pounds and pounds of salt.

For the next twenty-four hours, John can only leave it there. He heads inside, up the stairs, and to the bathroom for a shower before he skips down to the ground floor again. Mitch is still sleeping. He's without pain meds so naturally he'd be in discomfort. As usual, his rest is quiet and he never moves.

John, although he should not, regards him for a little longer and remembers that for the first time since he came to Hope, Mitch called him John and not Rambo or partner.

So silly to get giddy over that but giddy, John Rambo becomes. It's like it hit him in the face and it makes him feel weird or warm all over. Maybe a little hopeful. Whatever is filling him, it's enough to pull his lips into a faint smile and quietly step away from the couch.

Normally Sundays are the days of lackadaisical timelessness but with the sun vanishing behind endless gray clouds, time feels frozen. John spends his day puttering about and reading the books in the growing collection – if not writing the recipe for a tanning solution to the bear hide. They'll need a wire bristle brush too.

A rug would look nice in front of the fireplace.