The window boxes have been long since mounted to the farmhouse and they grow ever so slowly. It's still a little chilly but these herbs thrive in it. Mitch occasionally tends to them although he barely has to because the real farm boy is John anyway, who treats the seedlings in the window boxes as if they were his babies. As the ground outside softens, he's often inspecting the orchard and testing the soil for agriculture, partly fascinated by the creek that runs nearby and probably connects to the river.

There's surely a whole farmer's meeting happening in his head.

Mitch has caught him one or two times out there behind the barn – or in the barn that has now been cleared. Mitch catches him again after work when the pickup truck pulls to a stop inside. Asking for things, unless actively encouraged, has never come naturally to John, Mitch realizes. It makes giving him things easier when you can tell him that he can have whatever it is he wants after he's reminded that he is allowed to want things.

He still dreams of horses, Mitch reckons as he hops out of the truck with some good news in his head and a flyer tucked in his pocket. He rounds the barns and spots John standing by the barn again and looking over the unused soil. They should fence it in when they begin planting. Until then, Mitch closes the distance between them and kisses him briefly. More and more often, the farmhouse feels like this sanctuary, disconnected from everything beyond these trees.

Mitch finds himself floating, happy, and safe. When he can get away with it, he dreams of living a quiet life out here, dreams of summer gardening and John working shirtless under the sweltering sun, happy as a peach. He dreams of strong arms around him, hands in his hair, and nothing but the seasons passing merrily between them. Dreams of fishing by the river, watching clouds in the yard under the old oak. For now, he gets a gentle pinch of his cheek that feels like a dandelion drifting alongside the wind.

"Got some good news, partner," he says merrily for the pleasure of watching John's eyes spark with interest. When he wants to, he can be quite expressive. His eyes befall the flyer that comes into view, and he takes it. Well, it's less of a flyer and more of a piece of paper with lots of information from Smith's farm.

Whatever John thinks of it, it's not quite apparent even as he raises his brow and looks up. "A fairer…"

Because some of the things listed are a callout for anyone interested in earning a pretty penny. Smith's farm has a little bit of everything.

"I bet you can hang out with them too if you do a good job."

John's eyes widen a bit and he almost smiles, dark eyes following the finger that glides across the bullet points until it reaches 'puppies for adoption'.

"All right," says John, breathing out deeply but looking mildly amused. He's never quite made it apparent how much he likes dogs, but he seems interested in the idea, and with the promise of horses nearby, he accepts the tradeoff.

"Good," smiles Mitch and lets him have the note. He makes a quick glance at the orchard and wonders what could be grown there. "What's the plan for this? With plants and all that."

"Whatever we want. It's good soil, just uncultivated. It faces south by southeast, so it'll get a lot of sun throughout the day. There could be a kitchen garden here too. Makes me wonder if the previous owners had one. Either way, we'll need manure and compost," John answers, quite lighthearted and uncharacteristically talkative. It's when he's at his most radiant, like there's a blooming field of fantastic things inside of him finally seeing the light of day.

It's a bright thing like the image of him coming back inside from a long day in the field, tanned to bits with a basket of veggies under his arm. Must be nice for him to really live out the farm life, he so cruelly couldn't indulge in during his youth.

Mitch hums ponderously and thinks of apple trees and whatnot. There might come some seeds at the department store as the weather grows warmer. He really doesn't know much about gardening, but he feels like he's getting a full farmer's education. So far, he has only watered the herbs under the windows of the house.

"You might have to fence it in then when we get the dog. Can't have it dig it all up," he quips with a smile that grows broader at the pleasant sound which comes from John and blushes a color deeper than his hair when he feels those arms around his waist again.

For all those things, John carefully maneuvers around asking for, affection is thankfully not one of them. It's been so long so he takes it while he can get it. And Mitch, albeit shaking, gladly obliges. One of these days, he ought to find a way to stop jittering so much. He's just not aware of how as he leans forward, rests his head on John's shoulder, and lets the tremble pass over him in a wave. It's strange to think that all this started because he needed a place to store a Vietnam vet for the sake of the town, he washed up in. And now, they are living here – because they want to. Out here where only good things exist.

It's becoming a little chilly so Mitch takes John by the hand, and they saunter back inside the house, chatting about what types of tresses they could plant in the orchard and how the creek can be used for irrigation. Well, mostly it's John educating Mitch who gleefully goes about tangents of fruit-related shenanigans at the summer fair of Hope. This leads to the story behind 'Holidayland' as tourists love coming to the fair for their vacations and, well, their holidays. Which doesn't lead to the story of how Mitch ended up in Hope with graphic detail. It's already out there – as is John's unhappy childhood in minor terms.

Today, there are no leftovers from Anna but there is John cooking because the grocery store has corn for sale that he spent today steaming. Commercial farming and the luxuries of modern life. He has made it clear that it's not the right corn, but it will suffice with the dish he's making. It's…something not even close to English but John says its name with such ease that's far more interesting. Besides, when translated, it's steamed corn stew.

So Mitch leaves him to it while he dresses the table and eventually lets himself sit on its corner, feet almost touching the floor. "We should begin puppy-proofing."

"And the rug?" asks John, still stirring the pot. It's nice to know that he's looking out for the prize of his most impressive kill – and losing the hide to dog waste would just be a shame.

"On the wall," Mitch hops down and heads for the fridge. He put a water pitcher there in the morning despite reminders that he could just let his…friend, lover, everything at once, do it.

He smiles a little sheepishly and puts the water down on the dinner table before his hands are frozen off. "And the couch? Can the dog be up there?"

This time, John stares at him head-on with an amusingly stern look on his face.

"No."

A puppy preparation project rudely but expectedly shoves its way to the top of the farmhouse's to-do list and casually erases the idea of a painted barn for a week. The generosity of Hope strikes again as a dog crate sits at a comfortable viewing distance away from the couch, a fence has been placed around the fireplace and the pantry fills with dog food. The bear rug hangs on a wall upstairs. There are also bowls, toys, and a bed plus a growing collection of old newspapers to housebreak the pup.

Right. John has forgotten about that.

He doesn't hate dogs, but he prefers horses; majestic creatures that wisely consider whom to trust. Makes him think of his favorite mare on his father's ranch, Shysie.

Whatever happened to her, he will never know.

So, he'll take a dog and let Mitch live out his dream of having a best friend. In the meantime, his best friend will be split into many; the herbs growing under the windows. Nurtured with soil, water, and bone meal from the game, John manages to catch. He has never wanted children but as he looks at the first-born oregano, he feels like a father. And come summertime, the orchard, now fenced in with an irrigation skeleton, will be ready for harvest. On the other hand, blue corn is entirely alien to this region, so he'll settle for the green.

Thoughts like these are the only thing that prevents him from turning around towards the pickup truck that comes driving down the dirt road at a slower pace. Despite being modestly indifferent to the idea of a pup, he can't help but be mildly curious when the truck's engine shuts off inside the barn and Mitch comes walking outside moments later, carrying another crate. A cumbersome thing with a little ball of fur inside. The dog, off-white with black marks over its face, has a leash on it already and lays quietly until the crate is put on the porch. From the looks of it, it's already a quiet little thing.

The crate is put on the porch and Mitch bends over to open it, using treats from his pocket to lure the dog out, then showing it with encouragement. As it rises and sniffs, it becomes quite clear that it's a larger breed so that would explain the large crate inside. The dog comes outside and sniffs about a bit until it reaches the side of John's foot, leaving a smear of wet nose across the worn-out leather. Its large eyes stare up at him with its tail wagging before it lifts itself on its hind legs to inspect but is gently pulled back by Mitch.

"She's cute, isn't she?" he says and leads the dog around to sniff some more before they enter the farmhouse. The door remains open while the puppy sniffs around, gets shown her bed, gets shown a few toys, gets shown her bowls, and gets taught to stay clear of the couch – through the power of treats, affection, and a few gentle tugs from the leash. It's impressive how quickly the dog learns and understands, staring at Mitch whenever he tenses the leash to make her walk close to him.

And throughout, John watches him bear the biggest grin known to human history from the presence of a white puppy. Training the dog and letting her know where to go and where to leave her waste is what most of that day is spent on including treats for each step of the staircase that the puppy takes until she finds another crate – and has to learn that she can sleep there.

And through all of this excitement, it occurs to John by evening that; "You never gave her a name."

Mitch sits on the table with his legs dangling above the floor, occasionally brushing against the back of the dog lying there. His eyes have been closed for a while until they flutter open, cloudy from exhaustion.

"Rocky," he chirps merrily with childlike carefreeness and the dog lifts her head when his toes rub against her back. John stops dishwashing and regards her for a moment as she stares back at him, then tentatively pads towards him and sniffs at his feet. He hasn't actually petted her today because she's been up and down and all around, getting used to the farmhouse. And when he tries, she recoils and tentatively steps back to Mitch's side, in part due part to fear and part hunger after treats.

Ignoring the rejection and how it pricks, John ought to remind Mitch that Rocky is a boy's name but it fits the dog who responds to it with the aid of treats. He nods his approval and finishes the dishes while Mitch takes the dog outside for a bathroom break by the edge of a yard where wild grass grows slowly. With just him and Rocky during weekdays, getting the dog to trust him is going to be bit of a challenge.

The chance for that comes later that day, in the middle of the night where John finds himself thrown in the middle of a nightmare.

He breathes in deeply and stares into the endless dark, surrounded by wilderness, surrounded by gore. His heart slams against his chest, his scars almost ache and the ringing of a landmine going off slowly dissipates. His body trembles. His breath hitches. He doesn't close his eyes for fear of finding himself lying in a ditch, almost dying from dysentery so he moves, eyes wide open through the jungle, floating through the flora. His body is light, the world is dense. His ears are ringing. He falls into a trap and finds himself surrounded by the Viet Cong. They stare him down, they bind him, drag him across the dirt, and string him up. Let him watch how they murder his comrades. The terror in their eyes in the moments before their life ends sears into some deep part of his mind, reminds him that he is-

Something touches him. Something real and heavy that breaks the barrier through memories of gore and guilt. Something from the mountains of Washington but he can't focus on it, flailing about against the soldier that's about to dig a blade into him. Same cold eyes, same steely dedication to his mission. He opens his mouth and says; "John? John, you're dreaming. You're okay, partner."

John's body shakes something fierce, and he remembers, tries to remember, where the hell he is, floating between the past and the present. That he's here, at a place he can call home. He lets the knife slice across his skin, body tensing, mouth opening. He hears no scream. He feels no pain. The world floats into darkness as he jolts fully awake. His body is clammy, his throat feels dry. Desperate for something, John pads the sheets until he reaches the other half of the bed, feels a body under his fingertips.

Warm, still, corporal. Non-hostile.

Time has thrown itself down into complete entropy, lines between the past and present are blurred and in his moments of weakness, he clenches Mitch closer against his body, tight and firm like the mildest of wind could rip them apart. He holds him like the world is about to end, holds him while he squirms and groans, then holds him a little more.

As with so very few times in John's adult life, his eyes burn and sting with the threat of tears. He's too good at hiding it, despite its rarity and he could let go but that part of him, that inner wounded shell of a man never settled with the people around him, holds it in, holds it all in. Hides and buries it all but still seeks warmth in the only place he can get it. John breathes deeply and lets his senses settle on the four walls around him; the snoring puppy, Mitch's scent, his soft murmurs, the way he jitters but remains still, the feel of the sheets under them, the soft blanket that covers their bodies.

"Hey," whispers Mitch with a yawn, barely audible. They lay face to face in the dark. Unable to see one another but present.

John shudders but his mouth and subsequently his throat snap shut, and he lies there, almost gasping, still dizzy, still feeling the nightmare breathe down his neck. There's an urge, a need to just let a storm of words fly out of his mouth in search of an outlet but he can't. Fuck, he can't. He doesn't want to do this in the middle of the night when he can't hold himself together. But he can't hold his own either. Even when there's a voice in the back of his mind that tells him that he doesn't have to.

Another tells him that he should be embarrassed of himself.

Sighing, Mitch shifts until his hands find John's and holds them, thumbs brushing over knuckles. He's quiet for a very long time while he slowly ponders and problem-solves, trying to go about this like he's fully rested. Time begins to move again when he finally asks; "Remember where Rocky's shit spot is?"

It's such a random thing that it makes John smile, reassured that someone is looking out for him and treating him like he's normal. Elated that's Mitch. A tiny notch calmed at feeling his hand press against his cheek, indifferent to the layer of cold sweat.

"By the foot of the yard, far from the old oak," John answers hoarsely. He doesn't smile but he feels prickles of happiness settle over him.

It's good that it's still dark so the shame isn't so clear, but he has a feeling that in the morning, Mitch might want to discuss what happened, work through it, and go about it as best as he can. He's a good kid and he's gentle with the people around him. It's very difficult to not adore him. It's equally herculean not to fear losing him. It feels horrible to even think how easily John can fuck something up, push Mitch away, and never see him again.

But for now, as he wearily whispers about converting some of the unused pastures into a poultry coup because it wouldn't be fair to the birds if they were to reside in the same building as a car and falls asleep mid-sentence in detailing old man's Smith's horses, John feels momentarily secure that they won't be separated so easily.

Not until Rocky begins to whine and he gingerly climbs out of bed to comfort the puppy, letting her slowly get adjusted to the smell of him through the door of the crate. When it's not enough, he figures, correctly, that it's a bathroom break that's the issue.

Finding the leash on top of the crate, John opens the door to let the dog out.

It's quiet when Mitch wakes up in the morning. The world around him feels different not in a way that makes him anxious. He's still getting used to sleeping so close to John; ever since the 'incident' to end all misunderstandings, it's been a few times since they've shared a bed. It's far different than just resting within close proximity with each other and last night is probably a good reason why. He knows John tends to have a disordered, enigmatic sleeping pattern. He knows the man sneaks into the woods to collect himself after nightmares. He does not know about the night terrors or how animated the trauma tends to be.

He sure does now.

Father was a weeper. John is a fighter. He flails and he groans, he gets incoherent and jittery, he speaks a language that Mitch assumes to be Vietnamese. That's on top of the other language, he utters through one-worded replies which sounds different from that.

Mitch slowly uncurls in bed but finds the mattress unusually light. He rubs his cheek and finds it a little tender from getting decked in the face. At that moment, he almost panicked and retreated but remembered that it was wholly unintentional. And a calm voice through whatever the hell John was dreaming of, brought an end to it.

At the moment, Mitch becomes slowly aware of the cycle he's entering; watching a man fight his inner demons by shielding them from the world. He will never know what his father's vision entailed fully when the point of no return to a broken mind came. But maybe, hopefully, he'll get a look through that window of a nightmare inside John Rambo.

John, who's currently missing.

The house is quiet in the mornings, but it feels deafening today. So his body jitters when he hears a door open and close alongside paws treading against the floor. A dog panting, footsteps coming closer, whimpers, and teeth crunching treats. The doorway to the bedroom stands wide open when Mitch rolls in bed and eventually sees a dog with her black marks entering. Of course, kept on a leash by John.

His expression is dour today. Steely and guarded, even as he gently leads Rocky into her crate. Mitch crawls out of bed to get dressed, catching John quietly leaving the bedroom. It's quiet like when he's alone and the air feels a little cooler in a way that he doesn't like but at least he knows why. Today is his day off so he can get away with trying to sort this out and just talk about last night.

Half an hour later, he's downstairs and making pancakes. The radio plays at a comfortable volume and it fills the dead air just a notch so he can concentrate on not burning the batter. John has taken a page of out Mitch's book and sits directly on the dinner table. There's a slightly greater distance between his feet and the floor than with Mitch. He's bare-armed thanks to the fireplace currently cackling. His hands rest in his lap, but his face is still sour yet lights up a little when Mitch hands over a plate of fresh pancakes with butter and syrup.

They don't actually sit and have breakfast, just float about in the kitchen. Mitch sits on the kitchen counter eventually and instantly regrets it with a patch of water that soaks his left ass cheek. He tries to scoot away a little when John poses a question that takes him by surprise.

"Does it hurt?"

It takes a while to realize that he's talking about the accidental punch. It wasn't even such a rough jab, but knuckles can do a bit of damage.

"Not much," says Mitch and stabs a pancake for emphasis, while John quietly mulls until he counters with; "But?"

Mitch looks him in the eyes and smiles, despite the sharp cheekiness in his voice. "But nothing."

"I could kill you," John almost trembles when he utters those words like he got a gun to his head.

Naturally, Mitch lets out a shuddering breath and glances down for a second. Correct but on the flip side if efforts are made to handle it head-on, that's the first step away from death. So he asks; "Did you ground yourself?"

"…I tried. I don't know it if worked. But I guess I was less…lost."

"Which is good. It's better than not bothering, partner. Sounds like progress."

But…

"I hurt you," John frowns, not in anger but abject guilt and miserable ache. Mitch puts his plate down and hops down to the floor. He recalls that his father was never this reflective so it's a good sign that John is.

Mitch stands in front of him now and slowly cups his face in both hands, telling him nonverbally that there are no hard feelings, that John isn't worth less because of his faults. It's the same lesson Mitch had to learn in his youth, the same lesson he failed to teach his father. It seems that John understands it very quickly though by the way his entire being softens.

"I used to touch my dad when he had nightmares and it made everything worse. I now know that voices do better. So it's nice that I can touch you when you're awake," Mitch readily admits and his cheeks burn as bright as his hair. And for his bravery, he gets the pleasure of watching John's steely exterior melt like a candle and light up like a dazzling sun.

John tilts his head back just a notch. "What did he dream of?"

"I don't know. What do you dream of?"

John's eyes turn blank for a moment, and he looks down, lips thinning. He draws in a very deep breath and points to his chest, implying their origin. It costs him to even admit this so anything more than that won't be possible this morning. That's okay, Mitch tells him by kissing him gently.

They'll get there.

It begins to rain by the time, the pickup truck rolls to a stop outside Smith's farm, raindrops pattering on the roof in rhythmless drums. Rocky sits on John's lap because she whines if she sits by his feet. There's going to be an issue when she gets bigger, Mitch reckons. Maybe they can attach something to the trunk bed for her. Right now, she seems far more occupied with rediscovering her old home. Old man Smith stands in the stables when he is found.

"Ah, there you are! This old boy could use a trimming of the hooves. I already soaked 'em," he gestures to one of the horses that stands calmly with its legs in basins. It's a brown, massive beast with visible muscles that move under its skin. John's eyes ignite with something akin to instant affection and he gently pets the horse, casting a brief glance at the tools that he'll be using and asking; "A Mustang?"

Smith nods with a charmed smirk on his face. "You'd be correct."

They chat a little more about horse breeds and their functionalities while John applies the gloves and goes to position himself with the hoof resting on his thigh. It's an awkward thing to look at as Mitch can't really determine if he's doing it correctly or not. He quietly observes while Rocky rests at his feet at a comfortable distance from the process. Smith showers John with praise as he works with each leg, working like he knows what he's doing. He has to if he grew up on a horse ranch. So watching him trim each hoof, littering the floor with clippings, watching him work fast and efficiently is hypnotic.

Even if it's over too soon.

"That was very impressive, son! Thank you. I'll make sure to pay you well," laughs Smith and gleefully smacks John across the shoulder, wholly ignorant at the brief flash of hostility that flashes in the man's eyes. He steps aside, walks past Mitch and the dog, pets her, and heads outside the stables.

"So what do you think?" Mitch asks and lets Rocky sniff around some more until she finds herself outside in the petrichor. Everything is wet but it has stopped raining.

"Good," answers John after a long pause as they find themselves at the fence of Smith's horse pasture. then bends over to pet Rocky when she sits down and stares up at him. It's nice to know she's become quickly aware of his permanency at the farmhouse.

"Would you be offended if we fixed up the pastures and reinforced the fence?" he asks.

"No but why?" objects Mitch albeit with curiosity. A few other horses prance by, finding new spots to graze with a single fat one coming over for pats. Apparently, she's a pregnant mare as mentioned by Smith in passing with the father being the horse that needed its hooves trimmed.

John gestures to Rocky with an almost-smile and then says; "Until she learns to herd. Thought of putting the pastures to good use."

"For chickens?"

"And ducks. They forage more on their own so we save money on feed. Just a thought," adds John and pets the nozzle of the curious mare.

Mitch hums ponderously. It makes sense when he thinks about it. The pasture is large enough to have a sizeable population of birdlife, the river is nearby so water can be gathered in a basin there and Rocky can watch over them.

"And cats? For the rodents?" he smiles, although they haven't actually gotten a problem with vermin. Come summertime, they may be attracted to whatever will grow in the orchard or the adjacent kitchen garden. John nods.

Voices from around the corner of the stable bring a sudden end to the pleasant atmosphere of a homestead. It's old man Smith…Father Colin and a third person, Mitch can't recognize. It's a deep Southern accent though. He looks at John who has no doubt heard them too, staring in their direction. Whatever is being talked about, it leaves Smith agitated. And then a fourth voice speaks. One that leaves Mitch's blood run cold.

It's Galt.

He looks at John and sees his entire body turn stiff. And they can't leave because the truck is parked right where the men are. So they can only stand here and wonder – or worry as the conversation comes to an end and Smith comes trudging back with three men behind him. Father Colin, Art Galt, and a stranger.

"Oh, Mitch. Didn't expect you here," Galt says, then shifts his glance to John and cools somewhat. His bravado is a little diminished from the first meeting at the police station. "Or you."

Probably because he knows John Rambo can snap him in half like a twig.

"H-he just trimmed the horses…" Mitch quietly interjects, feebly trying to cut through the tension that arises in the following pause. He looks at Father Colin and his stomach twists a little. He can't figure the stranger out for the life of him, but he can see from the tight scowl on Smith's face that the meeting has been a bad one.

"Sorry for the wait," he says and gently wedges in between Galt and John with a stack of dollar bills in his hand. "Here's your pay, son."