Less than forty minutes later, they are downstairs. Freshly washed, dry, and clean. On edge from the two men that sit by the dinner table. Ward's leg is bouncing, and Lester is fidgeting. Neither says a word. Neither does Mitch as he skips towards the kitchen to make some coffee. And John stands by the staircase, watching, listening. He thinks of the events that led to this point. Thinks of the makeshift weapons in the barn. Thinks of the gun in the pickup truck. Almost misses the conversation that breaks the silence. Mitch has sat down by the end of the table with a serious look on his face like he's about to interrogate a hardened criminal.
"So?" he asks. "The Order is cruising around Hope?"
"They've been coming around from all over the country. That's what I heard. They are mostly at the motel though," Lester explains as he traces the rim of his mug and stares into his sweetened coffee.
It's a funny dynamic. Mitch puts cream and sugar in his caffeine, Lester puts sugar, and Ward puts cream. Such thoughts are silly given the weight of the situation they are facing. Only tempered by the tender peace that exists – even if it feels as if they are all sitting on a powder keg.
"Ward?" asks Mitch to nothing but tense silence as the other deputy stares down at the table, then tries again while his brow creases in annoyance. "I need you to work with us here."
"I'm not! I-" Warrd snaps his eyes up, then drops them down again. "I'm sorry."
He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes and rests his elbow on the table. "They are planning something. But I don't know what it is. Galt won't leave me alone. He takes me places. Linda is worried when I get back home late. Fuck, I'm scared, Mitch. The fuck do I do?"
Lester looks guilty now. He stares down the table and Mitch looks at them both in utter confusion until he latches onto one word just for a place to begin.
"Places?" he raises a brow, then looks over his shoulder at John like he's asking for advice but there is none to give so he turns back around and listens to Ward shudder.
"Outside Hope. Not the lodge but homes and sheds and abandoned buildings and stuff. They wanted Smith's farm. He doesn't want anything to do with them."
"Alright. Uhm…" Mitch sinks into his chair, then leans forward again. "Lemme just think about what we should do."
"They mentioned you too," Ward says directly and reacts quite vaguely to the way, everyone obviously flinches. "They'd like you to join them. Lacking membership. Too many feds. I…I…saw…."
The silence is booming. Choking. Heavy like an anvil that comes crashing from above, bellow, everywhere at once.
"Ward, look at me," Mittch says, calm despite the way his body trembles. "What did you did see?"
A better question would be what plans there are for Mitch but John keeps quiet, staring at Ward from the comforts of the kitchen. He wants the fucker to know that he better not be throwing anyone under the bus for his own inability to back away. Of the two, Lester is meeker but even he has more sense than that. But on the other hand, there's Galt.
Ward croaked out his words. "They got a list of goals. Places to be. Legislation. Future operations. People they wanna take out. They needed a base of operations."
"You didn't tell 'em the address to this place, did you?" asks Mitch.
Ward freezes.
"Did you, Ward?"
"No!" the older deputy protests vehemently. "No. I did not. I didn't. I couldn't because of him. He would…I get the feeling he'd kill me."
A hand gestures briefly at John and it fills him with something perversely dark and twistedly satisfied. Maybe a little relieved with the knowledge that the sanctuary that is the farmhouse remains left alone. Still, he doesn't let the man off the hook entirely. He narrows his eyes and utters a low; "Wise."
Before Ward can succumb to his fear, Mitch stands up, face pale, hands trembling. He puts his arms around his shoulders, inhales deeply, and, holds his breath for a few seconds, then lets go on a five count.
"Alright," he begins. "You can stay overnight and just…cool down. We got a mattress and a couch and if need be, we got a guestroom."
He's not happy to make that offer, that much is clear through his tone of voice but naturally, neither Ward nor Lester notices it or they do but they won't acknowledge it because it would mean leaving. Especially Ward who livens up just a notch. He stands up, a little unsure of his own two feet while he reaches for the empty mugs on the table and takes them to the kitchen, passing John a little too quickly for to not be deliberate. The fear and the rejection doesn't hurt. It doesn't wound the same way it would when it comes from Mitch. Now, it's a promise of a delicate peace; a temporary truce between the four of them which shouldn't be-
"Could I bring Linda? I'm not keen on her being all by herself," it comes from Ward with an awkward smile.
And there it is.
John scours his mind for a face pertaining to that name. Blonde woman, tall, taller than Ward, very friendly, even to the veteran living here. Helps with painting. There's a weird look on Mitch's face and he forces a smile as he nods. A 'no' but, 'sure, whatever'. John can only smell disaster on the horizon, and he can't stop himself from souring at the news. But he can't pout either every time Mitch lets people come by the farmhouse. It's all in good faith.
The issue is just…well, it's people. People remain John's biggest discomfort next to all the shrapnel embedded into his skin. But for once, he's not alone in this.
For a moment, he feels confident in his prowess to handle the storm.
Later that night, with the day passing like a whirlwind, there's a semblance of calm and quiet. Ward picked up his girlfriend a few hours ago and they have stuck to themselves. Lester has gone to sleep on the couch. The farmhouse stands quiet, but the atmosphere is different. Changed. It feels heavier but in a way that's neither homely nor safe. It's in flux, due to the unfamiliarity of the three other people now within its walls. That will take some getting used to. So will the possibility of conversations in case John has one of those nights where he needs to vanish into darkness.
"I'm sorry," Mitch tells him when he enters the bedroom and sits down on the mattress. Abject guilt is written all over his face. He pulls his legs to his chest and locks them with his arms. "I'm sorry for dragging you into this. I mean, The fucking Order is the last thing you need. And now Ward and Lester and Linda…"
But it wouldn't be right to tell the lot of them to fuck off, would it? Not for someone like Mitch who wants to keep the people in his life comfortable at all costs. He's too pacifistic for his own good. Too rational to cause conflict. He's ripping himself in part for others and it's a horrible thing to witness.
What John has, what he can give, is not much but he gives what he can when he swings his arm around the young deputy and keeps him there, makes him feel wanted, makes him feel the support he has, makes him shudder, and holds him a little more. Whatever it is that's going on or going to happen, it's pushed outside this little perfect bubble of theirs. In here, where time feels stagnant. But it's hard to sleep in a place where there are others less trustworthy. John tolerates Lester but he can't say the same about Ward, much less Linda.
It's a good thing that there are three people trying to make this lodging work – even if John still has a slight sense of disaster looming in the distance. On the other hand, it's hard to think about that when he's soon lying in bed with Mitch. Neither of them is sleeping, the nightlamp is on and noises fill the house on account of Ward, Lester, or Linda. He stops thinking about it when he feels the bed shift and two hands gently rummage through his hair.
It's been a shockingly thoughtful day so shutting his mind off feels nice and the matter of indulging in the safe space of intimacy becomes somewhat of a need. John moves gently and somehow the positions end with Mitch on top, still coy and sweet like he always is. Maybe a little more now when they are not alone. He shakes harder when touched and he moves slowly, hands resting on John's collarbones, then ever so slightly move downwards but lifts when they get close to the scars.
John flinches and closes his eyes with a sigh and reaches out to take Mitch's hands. Slowly, he guides them to his chest, to the scars, and presses the two together. Press them until it almost feels like there's a handprint tattooed on his skin – right where his heart is. Memories, images, and visions come flooding. He sees the jungles of Vietnam, he smells the flora, he hears the soldiers speak at him. He sees the blade and almost, almost feels it tear through his flesh. Drag across his skin in long and deep gashes.
"John…?" Mitch asks, like a buzzsaw through the past with the horsepower of a bird's dulcet singing on an early morning.
"It's fine. It's…" a stupid experiment.
One that John quietly packs away and opens his eyes to a pair of cool blues staring back at him with pure worry and mild curiosity. He lets go of the hands and his heart stops racing for a moment. It takes a few seconds for Mitch to process what has just happened, and he happily accepts it, putting those nimble fingers to good use again, spreading them across John's chest, dragging them further and further south. Until he's at crotch level. His cheeks flare a furious red, his breathing quickens while he pulls the briefs down and stares headfirst at the flaccid member underneath.
John catalogs this under 'new experiences' and stares into the ceiling although his thoughts do a sudden skip at the feeling of a hot mouth over him. He looks down again and doesn't see much except a full head of red hair slowly bopping up and down. The thought of being very careful just barely passes before John gets swallowed up by the warmth. Mitch, in all his explorative inexperience, is eager and gentle, adventurous in the way he flicks his tongue and caresses every inch, readily accepts the way John hardens between his lips, and hums softly at the soft groans he hears.
The farmhouse not being their personal sanctuary anymore is going to be a loss and John will mourn the freedom. He'll mourn the liberty to feel another body under his hands whenever he desires. He'll have to find a way around the wordless ways he makes it clear how much he adores Mitch. In here, downstairs, in front of the fireplace. In the barn. So this exploration feels like a final journey. The thought of it gives John a new sense of perspective and so he cradles Mitch's head before he comes, guides him to sit upwards and switch positions so John is on top. He reaches over to the nightstand and pulls the drawer open for a jar of lubricants and condoms.
They've bought these but never used them – until now. John remembers how flustered Mitch had been when he came back from the pharmacist with these. He's flustered now as he lays there, blushing, shy. Perfect and adorable all the same. His eyes flicker upwards when John reaches down to cup his cheek and he smiles. 'Trust', it says. 'I trust you'. It's a paradoxical feeling to care so much for someone that you struggle with confiding in them. They put the utmost faith in you, but you can't return it. It's a massive boundary that seldom crosses John's mind, but he feels it now as he feels Mitch's hands on his shoulders.
Therein comes the guilt, unfortunately. A stark reminder that he very easily could ruin this single good thing he has been miraculously handed in life. How fragile it actually is. He stows the doubts away as he pulls Mitch's shorts down and parts his legs, settling between them. Freckles are everywhere and the skin they sit on shudders while John greedily touches them like there's no tomorrow and takes the lube. Mitch breathes deeply and buries his face in his hands.
A brief gasp comes from him here and there that turns a little sharp when his legs are parted further and he's slowly being stretched wide. His entire chest sinks and rises in rapid gasps and he muffles a yelp at the second, then third, finger inside of him.
It has been many years since John has done any of this but it's not like you forget how to just because you stay away from society for a decade. But there's a difference to it now; he's not tutored by a fellow, more experienced draftee. He loves the person he's with now. He might not get a chance like this in a while, so he does the selfless thing, gently adds more pressure, and takes in every single sound that comes from Mitch, leaning down to kiss the side of his neck, feeling the hotness of his skin and the way his thighs are shaking.
John moves away from stretching and more pumping, exploring to find that sweet spot. And finds it when Mitch's back arches and he muffles a high-pitched moan. Lips bitten, face hidden, quiet sighing. The sight causes John's breath to falter and emerge as uneven huffs of pure exhilaration. He pulls back and applies the condom with more haste than the situation warrants.
"Please," Mitch rasps with the faintest of sobs, laced with sugar and everything sweet in the universe. "Please."
He gathers himself, almost, sits up, and comes closer, draping his arms around John's neck and straddling him. Slowly, clumsily, he reaches down and eases John into himself. It comes with a shuddering but faint gasp. His body slumps forward, both hands on each side of the mattress, getting adjusted to the feeling as John gets adjusted to the warmest of warmth. He slides his fingers across Mitch's thighs, raises his own, and helps along in gentle thrusts.
The hands around his head move about, cradling his neck, sliding over his chest, pressed against his ribs. It's been so long, and John feels the sensations in full force like a drug high; his head pounds, and his blood hums. His skin turns more heated at every lewd whine that comes from Mitch. It's electrifying like everything is a circuit board working in overdrive. John can't imagine the low, animalistic grunts it forces out of him. It tears into his self-restraint little by little and he turns Mitch over, pinning him to the mattress, and rolls his hips harder.
He can't help himself, can't help letting a little go to relish in the sensation, push deeper, thrust harder. He clutches a fistful of red hair and buries his guttural groans in Mitch's neck, laps, and kisses the skin there (it's hard not to nibble and leave marks). Keeps him close by like the winds could tear them apart, sucks on his thrapple and the sweet grunt that comes from him. Mitch drapes his arms over his face and jitters as John reaches down to stroke him in short quick bursts. Strokes him until he comes with an obscene moan, his back arches, and his head is pressed against the mattress, vibrant red contrasting sharply against hueless white.
"Fuck," Mitch sobs like he is about to cry and buries his face in his hands. "Sorry, fuck, it's so intense. Cause I-I haven't-"
No, suppose he has not. A moment's clarity makes John wrap his arms around the young deputy and pull their bodies close like they could merge while he continues to rock his hips at a steady pace. He feels the peak approaching like a wave on the horizon, he feels Mitch's legs wrap around him, and he notices that he's becoming slowly erect again. The dizzying sight of him, all red and pink, quivering and sweaty, brow creased in pleasure, reduced to an absolute mess, knocks any irritating thought out of John. It eradicates the aggravating sheriff or sharing the farmhouse with anyone not having a five-lettered name. For one merciful moment, the world outside these four walls doesn't exist. John forgets about it all as he leans down brings his mouth over Mitch's and feels a strangled moan vibrate against his lips, reverent, wet, desperate.
He grabs Mitch's dick again and gives it long firm touches yet the wave hits him instead like a high tide crashing into his body with raw pleasure. He groans hard and deep while the orgasm barrels into him then quickens his pace until Mitch comes again, his hands palming John's back, then dragging their nails over his skin to leave red, raised trails. The sting is hardly felt in the afterglow that comes afterward, threatening to make John fall asleep right then and there. Instead, he slowly pushes himself up and looks at the man underneath him.
Mitch has gone completely limp. His hands slide down John's back and drop lifelessly next to his scarlet body. His skin glistens with sweat in the lazy glow of the lamp and white trails of fluid stain his stomach. He breathes so deeply that it's very clear how awake he is – even if he's completely motionless. John has to untie a pair of long longs around his hips and slowly ease himself out. He moves sluggishly from the bed and disposes of the condom. Just to be safe, he reaches for the tissue box and tosses a few pieces on top after wiping himself dry. Dry, not clean.
They have both made such messes of the other, more so than usual. Because it's been the first time they've been inside the other. John feels as if some boundary has been crossed and they are both better off for it. He settles on the bed again and gently wipes Mitch dry. It's a workday tomorrow so John snatches his pants from the floor and heads to the bathroom with more tissues to wet them, then returns to get them both clean.
The house has fallen completely quiet and dark. Like an everlasting void has swallowed up the sun. It speaks to familiarity that John can navigate without issue in the dark. It marks one of those few times in life when he's comfortable in darkness.
Later, they too lay swallowed up in the dark. John's skin is still overheated but the breeze from the open window soothes it. He lets his eyes drop to half-mast, staring out the window at the moon that has made a sudden appearance. As they have no curtains yet, its pale glow cast a spotlight onto the bed. His heart slows down to normal and he has the feeling it'll be a pleasant night.
At this point, the nightmares are highly schizoid in their frequency. Periods of war where they endlessly torment him every night, where he trashes about, where he screams out the names of his dead comrades, screams in pain at the torture. Periods of peace where he can sleep a full night and wake up feeling refreshed. Tonight, with the soft, weary kisses on his shoulder from Mitch and their fingers interlaced, it's possible to not even think at all.
It's a busy workday so Mitch quickly realizes that he won't get much of a chance to talk to Will before afternoon or evening because, for one, the man is home with a cold. And Incidents are happening all over Ligget County, nothing violent, just minor petty crimes, welfare checks on elderly persons, and the occasional shoplifting. Life feels almost normal. Almost.
Mitch probably looks funny walking into the police station with Ward and Lester when they usually arrive at different times. No one questions it verbally anyway but there comes a little look from Galt who sits at his desk by the entrance, glancing upwards then looking down at the papers in front of him. There comes collective shock over the trio of men before they disperse and face the day. Buried in cases to be followed up with, bail being posted from friends and family of arrestees fills most of the day until the lunchbreak hits.
Until then, Mitch has been able to think about everything else except The Order and now when he's without work, he thinks about nothing else but The Order. It becomes overwhelming during lunch break when he spots Ward and Lester talking with Balford about something or another. The conversation grinds to a screeching halt because it turns out that they are talking about sports and Mitch is a famously avoidant person when it comes to softball.
Still, he stands in silence and lets the trio of men finish their conversation as it becomes increasingly clear that he wants something. It's kinda like being a kid politely waiting while they are staring at adults with a demand burning in their hearts. So when Balford leaves momentarily for more coffee, Mitch strikes.
"Alright, so we have to tell Teasle. There's no other way around it," he says and watches their expressions drop.
"But he and Galt are…" Lester begins but doesn't finish the sentence. Doesn't have to either. It's a fact set in stone that protects Galt from the consequences of his own worst qualities and everyone else just has to deal with it, pretending it's not an issue.
"Yeah," Mitch nods with a sigh. "I know. But still, it's our civic duty. And I need you two to back me up because he might not want to listen to me alone."
Certainly not with a special someone still on the farm. Mitch has the feeling that it will be brought up somehow given the track record between Will and John and his mood already drops, quivering with discomfort at the confrontation. He'll just have to brave the storm and keep his cool, even as the feeling of dread begins to replace the paranoia. It's not even the lesser of two evils; it's just one type of discomfort being replaced by another.
Lester clears his throat, mustache twitching upwards in a nervous smile. "So how are we gonna do it?"
Good question. Mitch looks down for a bit and tries to put something into words that makes sense. It's hard to plan with his usual fortitude for rationale when there are so many variables involving danger, love, and fear. Horrid little powerful things.
He tries though. He spits something out and hopes he has the confidence to not look like a pansy while he does it. "We'll drive to Will's house. Depending on how things go, you can probably go home."
It's not quite relief he sees but he'll fucking take it. He needs something right now to give him faith in whatever the future holds in store for him, his friends, and his town. And as the lunchbreak ends, he can go back to not think while the hours pass. He realizes that when the workday comes to an end, he hasn't eaten anything since a slice of toast this morning so he's feeling a little trembly, a little shaky, a notch sweaty. Still not hungry. It can be fixed come dinner time. John did mention this morning, he was thinking of making fry bread.
Going back to the farmhouse, alone, and just dropping today on the gravel road outside becomes Mitch's goal as the last lights are shut off to Hope's police station and he skips to the truck parked outside with Lester, who'd usually hop on the bus at this hour. Ward's car is nowhere to be seen so hopefully, he's already en route to Teasle's house.
Still, Mitch asks; "Where's Ward?"
"The sheriff's house…maybe?" Lester shrugs from the other side of the truck before he flings the door open and hops in.
He smiles again; he tends to do that when neurotic. It's been excessive today, but Mitch doesn't blame him. He enters the vehicle and ignites the engine. He can't remember the last time Lester and Ward have ever been at the sheriff's house. He doesn't keep track of that. Maybe he should just, to keep himself sane. Such thoughts are pleasant when you feel like you're about to jump headfirst into the maw of a lion. But one won't know if they look at Mitch, who carries himself with as much dignity as he can conjure up.
Ward's car already stands parked by the road, outside the sheriff's house and the deputy enters at the sight of the old truck. It makes bravery grow a little stronger yet it all almost comes crumbling down when Mitch knocks on the door and it moves quickly afterwards.
"Oh, my. What a pleasant surprise!" says Anna with thickly veiled shock. She whirls around and calls out through the house. "Will? Some of your blue boys are here!"
"Right, just let 'em," it comes from the living room and Anna leads the men inside. On a couch, Will lays under a blanket. Paler than the greying hair on top of his head. He sits up and rubs his face while Anna skips to the kitchen for coffee.
"Holy shit, Teasle…" Lester utters in disbelief. "You never call in sick unless you got your own head under your arm."
The sheriff shrugs as he swings his legs over the edge of the couch. He wraps the blanket around himself and stares at the men with a few sniffles and a hazy stare.
"The law ain't got time for me being ill."
"Well, we have been busy today so you got a lot to come back to," Mitch smiles a bit and gets to see sparks fly in Will's eyes just as Anna comes from the kitchen with mugs and a pot of coffee.
"Oh don't say that or he'll be going back before he's well and keel over," she scoffs while she dresses the coffee table and ignores the displeased glare from her husband. "Anyway, is there a reason why you're here? Something special?"
All three men freeze.
They look at each other, then at Ward because he brought the storm to the farmhouse, then at Lester for spilling the beans, then at Mitch because going here is his idea. And the stare lingers.
"Fine, shit-I mean, damn," he pinches the bridge of his nose and looks at the overt concern from the Teasles. "It's about…Galt."
Thankfully, they are quiet, so he takes the time to watch their expressions closely as he continues. A cup of coffee is put in front of him but he can't drink any of it while he feels like he's about to see the world end as he throws himself into doomsday. "And The Order. I-we think, we know, we have credence to believe he's a member."
A pause falls over the house. Silence stretches it to long and undefinable proportions. The world falls quiet. Mitch can't hear a thing. He feels the weight of Will's stare bears down on him like a thousand boulders. He feels Anna's scrutiny drill a hole into his heart to peek at what's inside.
"The-the game night, on the night of the game, Galt took me and Ward and Mitch to-to this place and uh…there was a rally and-and they said some disturbing things, claiming to be The Order," adds Lester, hastily and stumbles over the words partly through but gets the gist of it.
Will's expression flickers just a notch but he's quiet. Uncharacteristically so to the point where Anna has to flip her journalism switch and ask; "Who else was there?"
"Father Colin, Henry, who's the dad to that little girl I brought in, some other people I don't know. Some of them have become my neighbors," answers Lester while she soaks up all the information. She mulls and builds, then stands up and heads to the kitchen and comes back with a notepad, vigorously writing.
"Has something happened?" she asks and this triggers something in Will that makes him whirl his stare to her.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Anna's lips thin a bit. "If The goddamn Order is running around in Hope, we need to stop it."
"How do you even know it's true?"
"Excuse me, Will. Because there are three of your deputies sitting here and telling you about it."
"Art is the finest lawman, I know. Why would he be a crook running around with a bunch of lunatics harming innocents?"
"Because he roughhoused John in the jail, Will! You can't tell me you don't know what he's willing to do," Mitch cuts into the bickering, nerves overriding his usual pragmatism. He knows, he's aware; baby gloves when handling the sheriff's need for being in the right.
Will stares at him now with a glare that speaks rude things about his willingness to listen and Mitch cowers a bit. "Please, Will. If you don't want to handle it, at least call the state police and the FBI."
Not or.
Will says nothing, lips thinning, eyes shooting lightning and Mitch gets the feeling that this mission, has become bit of a failure so he looks to Ward, who has been as quiet as the grave for the entirety of the conversation. His eyes seek refuge in his lap. He too has not touched his coffee. His voice comes out in a thin, throaty squeak when it occurs to him that he'd be best served if he fucking tried to add something. "They have a hitlist. I don't know who's on it but…it's small. Th-they got a plan, I think."
"Fine. I'll look into it tomorrow," Will softens his indignation a bit. He rubs his eyes as active relief washes over Lester and a little bit of Ward.
Mitch however finds it hard to relax because he feels the undercurrent of something wafting in the air. It just about confirms it when the sheriff pins him with a look and says; "And you and I are gonna talk."
Mitch looks over to Anna and Will answers the question with a dismissive wave of his hand. "And her."
This sends a message to Ward and Lester who quietly excuse themselves and leave to go outside, probably to debate what to do now while Mitch sits like he's staring a beast in the mouth and is being forced to crawl in. Will sits like a predator ready to pounce; despite being knocked the fuck down by a fever, he's still built like a silverback gorilla. And he stares, long and hard at Mitch, who can't help but to shrink in his seat as he prompts; "So…what's the deal?"
"Was it Rambo's idea? Going with Galt?" asks Will.
Here they go again. There are only so many times a man can say "I don't like John Rambo" before it becomes annoying and repetitive.
"No. I talked him into it since Galt suggested it. Hell, I had to talk him into going with me to The Outpost in the first place," Mitch sighs in the face of this horrible fucking sense of déjà vu. He can steadily feel his mood circle the drain, picking irritation and exhaustion along the way with anxiety. "It's not his fault. He's scared too."
Will mulls on the information, really lets it sit there and marinate in whatever flavor he can or cannot stand to taste, then snaps his gaze upwards. "And when this is over? When The Order leaves? If it's not a hoax?"
Love is a powerful tether. Sometimes Mitch worries that it becomes too obvious how much he adores John. With the way, Anna has silently been sitting and observing, he fears she can see the landmine he's sitting on.
And it becomes a little hotter. There's smoke in the air.
"Things go back to the status quo. What do you want from me, Will?" unintentionally, Mitch lets the rebellious irritation slip through in small shards.
It's pretty obvious what the sheriff wants.
"It's not your job to fix that lunatic," the sheriff says, so sharp that it stings. He thoroughly ignores the disapproving look from his wife or the way Mitch's mood sinks further into the abyss. He's tired. Tired of it all. Tired of the stress of it.
"God damn, please. Just leave it alone. Leave us alone," it comes from him in a shuddering plea before he's aware of it. The realization hits him like a kick to the teeth and he watches Will's expression sharpen, then turn red and wild.
"The fuck do you mean 'us'? I'm trying to help you here!"
"I know! But-"
The sheriff cuts him off, fists clenched in anger, which so seldom happens. He jumps up from the couch, the blanket drops to the floor and his entire body is shaking. "But nothing! That piece of shit out there is poisoning your mind and turning you against everyone! We are your family, Mitch! Us. This us!"
"Will-" Anna tries to reel him back in and stands up, putting her hands around his arm before he jerks it out of her grasp and interrupts her in the tune of shouting like he's never done before. He can get angry. He has a temper but never like this.
"Telling me that Galt is part of some nutcase domestic terrorist group. Galt is the finest deputy there is. We've been friends since your mother wiped snot off your nose when you were but a brat! He would never do such a thing. You would never suggest such a thing if that lazy asshole out there wasn't stealing you away! Is he queer? Is he a fag and that's why he can't leave you alone? Are you?!"
It's like staring into the lights of an oncoming train. The words he's spitting feel like slaps across the face, like little knives that fly toward Mitch, hitting him in the chest, and spilling blood everywhere. It hurts like nothing else since the day when his mother abandoned him or the day when his father took his own life. Back then, Mitch fell into a deep hole of grief and regret. Now, he feels different. Still hurt, still wounded but angry. Furious to the point where he jolts from his seat and meets the train head-on, shouting back with equal rage.
"What the fuck is the matter with you?! What is your problem?! So what If John is living there? Who fucking cares?!" the words fly out of him, equally corrosive.
"I care because I am the goddamn law. My town, my rules. You're just some punk that washed up at my doorstep. Don't forget who helped you out after your daddy blew his own brains out because he couldn't handle his son being a good-for-nothing fuck-up!" Will shouts somehow even louder and the veins on his neck pop forth so aggressively, it's like they are about to burst. His eyes are stretched wide, and his glare is evil.
Mitch aches and finds his expression scrunched in agony, then pulls a smile of utter shock. His stomach twists and turns, his eyes sting, the world blurs momentarily before he feels something wet run down his face, leaving a hot trail. Just for a second, he notes something come over Will's face. Awareness, realization, regret, and guilt. It lasts for but a moment before his expression glows with rage and antagonism and it makes Mitch equally hostile.
"William Wright Teasle!" Anna bites out her words, seizes her husband's arms, and attempts to drag him down with a tone so edged, it can cut through a diamond. "That is enough! You will sit down and apologize. How can you say that to him?"
"Because that's what you think of me," Mitch sneers, his expression stuck between a smile and a grimace. "Just because I'm not your fucking monkey that dances when you say dance. Fuck you, Will. You and that psychotic asshole, Galt. Fuck you both!"
"Mitch Rogers, stop! Enough of that," Anna tries in vain to stop the hurricane that has already entered her living room, whipping up a storm and causing untold destruction, swallowing her up even as she tries to stand between the men.
It's like a vase that has been tipped over, falling to the floor, and shattering into a million pieces. It changes the world irrevocably. The sheriff shoving Anna out of the way and circling the coffee table as Mitch gets up to leave is the force that crushes the shards into dust. In the blink of an eye, he reaches his hands to the young deputy, grabs him by the hair, and yanks him forward until they stand mere inches from each other. The adrenaline dulls the pain.
"I swear to god, you take that back right now or so help me, I'll give you a whopping so bad you won't be able to sit down for a week, boy!" Will growls, the words flying out of his mouth with the speed of a fighter jet.
"Fuck you, Will!" Mitch shouts at the top of his lungs and grits his teeth against the burning in his scalp.
He can't stop. It's too late to stop. No one stops. The landmine, a different one, explodes around them and destroys everything. Every single thing that has been built over the years. All the tears, all the joys, all the memories. All of it, gone as Mitch feeds into the unstoppable spiral. "Fuck you and your stubbornness, and your abuse and your ignorance, and your-your everything. Fuck everything. Go ahead! Beat the ever-loving piss outta me! Let's see how good you'll feel when you spent the night in jail, you fucking pansy."
The world has been moving so fast for the entire exchange. It moves fast again by the time, Mitch catches a glimpse of the darkness that looms on the sheriff's face, moments before he's punched in the nose and flies down to the floor, barely missing the shelf on his way. He writhes for a bit and his vision spins while the pain returns full force to rattle his skull. He can't breathe through his nostrils and as he rolls onto his knees and tries to get up, he understands why.
Blood is pouring out of his nose in endless streams that stain the beige carpet floor. Splotches of red drip onto his hands, then down his shirt when he sits upright. And fuels the anger simmering like a volcano. It's a different brand of it; frigid and disturbingly calm.
"Oh my god! Mitch, sit down, please," Anna shrieks and tries to come closer as he slowly tries to stand up.
She touches his arm, and he jerks it away like she's a corrosive acid. She says something or another, pleads with him to stop and take it easy so she can look at his nose but he doesn't hear much of what comes out of her mouth. He can't stand to be here anymore, can't stand the way the walls around him begin to feel like a cage. He practically runs out of the house, past Ward and Lester who stand by the former's car and stare at him like he's gone insane.
Momentarily stuck in shock, Lester tries to offer some consolation, but Mitch is not having it. "Wow, man. What happened? Are you-"
"Go the fuck home. Do not come to the farmhouse," he storms to the driver's seat of the truck and hops in, igniting the engine as quickly as he possibly can.
Driving away from the house that will no longer be part of his life, away from the people who are no longer his parents.