Hi. I'm new here.
I watched First Blood some time ago and this is the end result. That and I read the book once upon a time.
Heads up if you read further. It's a slash story so there'll be overt references to period-typical LGBT attitudes (early 80s, man) and some not-so-nice language. And some violence and PTSD stuff. I mean, it is First Blood after all.
Anyway; as always, thank you for reading.
Mitch has learned the hard way that it's not a good thing when Galt is excited. And he is brimming with glee at the man Teasle has brought in. Appearance-wise the stranger looks as disheveled as they come. He has a hollow look in his eyes and a steely expression. But there's something about him that makes him a different arrestee. Not someone to be pushed around either.
Teasle lists off the charges; Vagrancy, resisting arrest, carrying a concealed weapon.
That last charge causes Mitch to shudder a bit when he dares to look up from today's paperwork and sees the sharpened knife. It looks twice as cared for as the man who carries it – that cannot bode well.
Mitch looks down again, swallowing hard. A strange feeling settles over him. Not quite familiar; he doesn't know this man. Just a bad, persistent, lingering feeling that speaks of something ominous. Amidst his thoughts, Galt chuckles with mockery, now holding the knife while he stares at the man like a wolf stares at a rabbit.
Something has been said to him that makes him ask; "Huntin'? What do you hunt, elephants?"
The stranger is quiet, staring down at Galt in a way that makes Mitch shudder on his behalf. As usual, he's the only one who notices the finer details of the people brought in.
Similarly oblivious is Teasle who shoves his hands down the pockets of his jacket and trots towards his office. "See if you can clean him up a little. He smells like an animal."
That is true. Mitch can pick up a faint scent of body odor and wilderness. He can't quite determine its nuances although he gets the feeling that he just might get a chance to when his name is called by Galt.
"Escort that young man downstairs, would ya?"
"Yes, sir," Mitch rounds the table and closes the distance to the vagrant. His stomach feels like bottoming out, but he won't live to hear the end of it if he as much as hesitates. He can't quite help his hands from trembling when he puts a gentle hand on the stranger's arm to drag him towards the door, letting go for a moment to release the lock.
The man follows, no questions asked, and bears the entire weight of his stare on the young deputy in a way that's uncomfortably primal. Mitch feels shivers shoot up his spine while he fumbles with the password and wishes, for once, that he is as brazen as Teasle. Galt looms behind them when Mitch opens the door and holds it open, follows them down the staircase, and grows ever so excited to just pounce.
It's the same old. It just won't end the same, Mitch concludes.
Uncertainty breeds panic, which he hides as he hands the knife over to Ward and unlocks the stranger's handcuffs. His life flashes before his eyes when he sees a pair of hands move about. Walking over to a desk with the cuffs gives him room to breathe, to think, to process the feeling of walking into a lake filled with piranhas. He recognizes pretty quickly that it's that primal fear, the sense of one's life being on the line which he is feeling. It's not unfamiliar to him. No, of course, it's not.
Galt asks the stranger for his name and gets nothing but a thousand-yard stare at a window. He repeats the request but gets nothing and Mitch turns around to see something terrifying in the stranger's eyes. They turn blank and dark and he visibly shudders.
It just about knocks Mitch off his feet, and it confirms, suggests rather, something unnerving.
Of course, Art doesn't notice and just taunts the man. "Hey. You're lookin' for trouble? You came to the right place, buddy."
Mitch, in some vain hope to de-escalate, makes the mistake of heading toward the stranger and spots a set of dog tags under the jacket. He breathes in, raises his arm, and stretches it to inspect them. The second his fingers brush against the chain, a hand clasps around his wrist like a bear trap. The stranger's eyes snap sideways to meet his and the grip remains tight like a vice.
It happens so quickly, like a strike of lightning but it hits all. Galt has jumped from his chair, raising his baton, just itching with the urge to crush. "You got three seconds before I break your face in."
At this point, Mitch can't tell if he stops breathing from fear or the discomfort. Shit, fuck. He feels moments away from dying. You don't need a knife to kill a man, do you?
Mitch has to avert his eyes when the stranger looks at him and feebly backs up the warning with; "…He means it."
And only then is his hand released. The feeling still lingers across his skin, still warm as the imprints of fingers fade. His hands tremble again as he reaches for the dog tags, inspecting them. He has to swallow yet again lest his voice comes out as a meek squeak. God, he feels like liquifying.
"John J. Rambo. A soldier." he reads and tugs the tags back again. By now he has identified part of the scent as petrichor and dirt.
Galt's lips curl into a smile in rhythm with the butt of the baton he presses against Rambo's chest. "Well, what do you know? I didn't expect that from Old Harry here. Then he should know orders. I'll make you talk one way or another."
"Uh, sir," Mitch cautiously pads to Galt's desk, eyes shooting upwards to quickly glance at the stranger slowly steeling himself yet again. "Before we continue, I'm just gonna go upstairs and talk to the sheriff. Maybe do a run on the guy. Put his name in the Teletype."
"What, gonna cry in Teasle's lap, Mitch?" Galt laughs like he doesn't understand the bear he's about to poke.
"No," Mitch shakes his head, exasperated with the same song and dance he'd been privy to. "But we might need some backup down here. Call it a hunch."
He doesn't wait for Galt to answer, heading away from the desk, down the unpainted hallway, past Leroy and his ladder, just to get away for a bit although he figures he has to hurry. Away from the stranger, his insides don't quiver as much but he's still racing against the clock here, powerwalking towards Teasle's office and praying that the man is still there.
When he knocks, he smiles at the confirmation that he is.
"Come in," the sheriff huffs behind the door and Mitch can't get inside fast enough.
"What's the matter, son?" Teasle looks up from his desk to quirk a brow. He softens a notch, just for the right people to notice. It makes the task a bit easier to handle.
Taking a deep breath, Mitch skips to the desk, folding his hands together in front of him as he lays his musings bare. "I just had a thought about the guy you brought in, Will."
Teasle isn't concerned, nose deep in some reports. "Don't you worry about him. Art will handle that riffraff."
And then what? Sooner or later, someone is going to bite back. That time feels like it has already arrived, looming on the horizon like a storm.
Mitch clears his throat, scratching at the cold sweat that has run down his neck. "Yeah…I don't know if that's a good idea. I just have this feeling that if we let Galt handle him like he handles everyone, things are gonna end really badly."
Only now does Teasle actually lift his head, eyes narrowed, lips parted slightly in doubt. "The hell are you talking about? Galt is the finest lawman I know. If one of my deputies gets outta line with a prisoner, then the prisoner comes to me with it! If things end badly, then I, the law will handle it! That's the way it's gotta be."
It's frustrating how blind to nuance Teasle can be. It's disappointing that his branch of justice tends to waver.
"You and I both know this guy won't come to you," Mitch gestures with his hands. "We just met him today but sometimes you just know when you're looking at a ticking time bomb. You don't see it?"
It's a fine line to walk. Mitch knows Teasle enough to not try and negotiate with the man. Stubborn as a donkey. Always self-assured that he's on the right track whenever someone makes a suggestion. It has to come from a place of delicate opposition. Mitch must maneuver around compromises and poke the man where he is softest. The suggestion that William Teasle might be wrong about something – without an out to fix that wrong.
And it works like a charm.
"So what do you suggest we do with him? Put him down like a dog? Just let him go?" Teasle scoffs, the words falling a little too fast to hide the dent.
Mitch scratches the corners of his mouth and tries again. The last thing he wants is to outright bruise Teasle. "Approach him differently. Throw a dog a bone and it'll like you. Hurt it and it'll bite. It's just that this one might rip your head off."
"…What is differently?"
Teasle leans over his desk and he looks twice as wide when he sits like that. He's already a big guy who commands authority by sheer size alone.
Mitch squares up and straightens his back. If he's gonna be taken seriously, he better channel his inner Anna and show the man that two could play this game. "Let me handle him."
This makes Teasle smile but it's not one of those genuine, warm ones he does. It's mocking in a way that cuts deep. "You can't even handle your own shoelaces."
"No, but offering someone like him something productive is different than my shoelaces. Consider it…community service," Mitch rolls his shoulders into a shrug and runs a hand through his hair. He feels the heat creep up his neck as the clock ticks.
"We don't need people like him running around in Hope, disturbing the townsfolk. Don't be stupid," the sheriff remains headstrong. He may be stubborn, but he speaks softer than usual – like he does in private. It's a tone he uses whenever he's talked about his time in war.
This makes Mitch curious about Teasle's thoughts on how it feels to arrest a fellow vet – and how said vet ended as the polar opposite of him. It makes the reminder to respect the vets ring a little hollow in hindsight.
Mitch doesn't mull further on this, continuing to the topic at hand, mind racing for a focus point until he finds it. "…Not even by the old, tiny farm outside town? If I put 'im there, keep watch on him, give him something to do, keep him occupied, whip him into shape, it will keep him from exploding."
It's bit of a gamble, he realizes. That place and the adjacent farmhouse have been Mitch's side project for a while now. Reminds him of his grandfather's farm outside New York. It's a lot of work for one person and the occasional helping hand. There's no rush to mold into a fully livable standard but he can't keep living with Will and Anna forever.
Speaking of, Teasle looks outright concerned now. His hands clench together, and his entire body grows tense. "He's a rebel, son. What makes you think you can tame him or that he even wants to be your handyman? What makes you think he won't turn that place into a tramp hangout? Or kick you out?"
What indeed. Here, Mitch falls short of answers. He tips his head, struggling for some semblance of a response and he flinches when Teasle just lays something out there. "Do you see yourself in him? I'm telling you, Mitch. Drop that right now. You're not him. Not even close."
It's an interesting proposition that Mitch, although involuntarily, sees some parallels in. Lost souls. Wandering about. Arrested. Hollow eyes. Something missing. No place to belong. No people waiting for you. Obviously, Mitch isn't close to being a soldier, but he recognizes something concerningly familiar in Rambo when he thinks about it. Something close to him. Something close to the people once in his life.
But the gist of the matter is sympathy. Well, that and fear but sympathy tastes better on the tongue.
"Will, I don't. I'm just saying that Hope will be better off if we don't push him too much. If he has a roof over his head, is he really a tramp? Aren't tramps usually always alone? I think a lot of people wouldn't mind working for food and shelter. I think I make this happen," Mitch lifts his head, and yes, thinks of himself.
"And when you're done?"
Assuming this will end well. Hopefully.
"He'll be on his merry way. I'll tell him as much. Give him some food, some money, and send him to…wherever he's going. Maybe the courthouse. He's still under arrest after all," Mitch answers and sighs afterward. He leans forward a bit, rests his hands on the table, and puts on a smile. "Pretty please? With sugar and cream on top? And a cherry? I'll let you patrol the area just to be safe. I promise you, it'll be good. I'll be alright."
A pause ensures, pushing against the final barrier. Teasle, bit by bit, melts under the sweetness. "…Fine. Fine. But he's your responsibility and you better keep his ass in check. Get some guns and make sure to keep them out of his reach. Oh and tell him to wash regularly. And keep that flag off his body. I'll keep the knife. You'll thank me for that. One sign of trouble from him and you call me as soon as possible and you get outta there. I'll handle him – my way."
The knowledge of the knife being kept away is reassuring. Mitch straightens his back and hastily bows his head, turns around, and skips to the door. "Thanks, Will."
By the time, he makes it downstairs with a pair of handcuffs, he's walking in on Galt and the boys watching Rambo strip down. The man is shirtless, fingers stained in ink, still moving like an animal on guard. His body is muscular, strong, and fit. It's raw in a way that makes Mitch's breath a little but what he notices afterwards are scars across his chest and back. Linear, long, ragged. Like someone has sliced him up.
It's a breathtaking, terrifying sight that adds further credence to the mystery that is this man.
Holy shit. What the hell has he been into?
"Preston, I want you to go over there and get that hose ready, alright?" Galt orders while he stands leaned against the jail cell's opening and Preston scurries to turn on the water.
No one notices Mitch until he interrupts calmly. "I'm in charge of him now so there's no need for this. The sheriff has decided so."
Everyone just about stops and stares at him. Even Rambo. Even Preston down the hallway. Certainly, Galt, whose lips pulled into a mocking smile.
"You?"
"Yes, me. You can go upstairs and ask," Mitch answers as he turns to Rambo. He can't quite discern the man's mood. It's hollow as usual. The man is on edge still, but he allows himself to get cuffed again once he dresses himself. "You don't have to strip down. Follow me, sir."
Mitch feels awfully proud of himself. He also feels slightly unnerved by Galt's eyes staring a hole into his back. He doesn't see the man slither over to Rambo and slam the baton right against the base of his spine. The impact forces a grunt of him as he collapses onto his knees, nearly taking Mitch with him.
The young deputy stumbles and struggles to hold the man upright. Panic, anger, concern, all at once flood him while he whips his head to stare at Galt and his eyes dark with unrestrained violence.
"Galt, what the fuck was that?!" Mitch protests, his voice a shrill whisper that turns into an outright shriek when Galt kicks Rambo in the stomach.
"Just a little parting gift. Have fun with your pet," he answers with disdain and walks past with a horrified Preston in tow. Gingerly, Mitch looks at Rambo and sees a thread of restraint, a sign of some brittle peace remaining.
It eases him just a bit.
The police station is located in the heart of Hope. And it feels like a long drive through town, quiet and choking with tension. The sky is dull, grey, white, a mix of it all. It's uncertain in its color, much like how Mitch is feeling as he drives down the main roads of Hope. He knows. He is aware. This is his idea. He'll pay the price for the sake of the town. He'll try to offer a dangerous man a way out. That or watch the city be raised to the ground.
Rambo doesn't say a word and he hasn't moved much since being loaded into the vehicle. If he's aching, he doesn't make it apparent. But it's fair to assume he knows what it feels like to be hurt. He knows pain. If he can take it, he can probably dish it tenfold. But Mitch is thankful that he has somehow steered his fellow deputies out of the storm over their heads. It might not hit them. It might hit him. The thought makes him shudder as he stops at a red light while a woman and her children walk across the road.
He considers doing some small talk but about what? Rambo doesn't seem like the type of person to engage in such things. No way he even wants to after being roughed up by sadistic policemen. Doubtful he'll be inclined to discuss the weather with a coworker of said policemen.
So, it comes as a shock when he actually opens his mouth, indifferent to the way Mitch jitters. His voice is deep and rich, gruff, and lacking much emotion. "Where are you taking me?"
The question doesn't really carry a threat, it's just edgy. Just making sure that there's no immediate danger waiting ahead.
Still makes Mitch's heart skip a beat. He clears his throat and wishes he thought of a graceful way to actually disclose his idea. He tries anyway and momentarily wants to crawl down a manhole. "There's a farmhouse fifteen minutes out of town. I thought you could help with getting the place in order. You know, would give you something to do, someplace to stay. Good ol' community service. Beats getting manhandled by Galt, I'm sure."
He quiets his breathing and listens to a sigh fall heavily from Rambo. He does himself a favor and steals a glance at the rearview mirror. A shiver crawls up his spine when he sees that Rambo has moved, now staring back at him. His fight or flight trigger screams at him before he can put it in order. Instead, all he can do is tighten his grip around the steering wheel until his knuckles whiten.
"Why?" asks Rambo, sounding genuinely perplexed. "Isn't that a breach of the law?"
It's almost endearing that he mentions the law like that but…
There's no easy way of saying 'I fear you'll kill all of us and erase Hope off the earth's surface' nicely, is there? 'Destructive animals do a lot better when stimulated'. That doesn't sound good either. 'I feel sorry for you'? No, that's just insulting.
It's hard to gather one's thoughts and feelings into a coherent word salad but numerous run-ins with priests and counselors have given Mitch some methods to pull from. So he answers honestly. "Galt is a…he's an asshole with too much power. He'd do a lot worse to you, no one would stop it and I have this feeling you wouldn't stand for this. It'd end badly for everyone so getting you outta there was easier."
Rambo mulls on the words for a bit by the time they hit the outskirts of Hope with its forests and mountains. "What if I run away?"
"Then you wouldn't have said that. Even so, wouldn't a roof over your head be better than some wetlands?" Mitch asks rhetorically, knuckles white around the steering wheel. He knows better than to levy warnings and threats. "I got food in the fridge too."
"Who lives there?" Rambo tips his head back just a bit.
"Just me on occasion and subsequently you. I'm not Galt. I'm not Teasle. I'm not a hard-ass. Just a happy camper," Mitch feels a little better prepared after putting that disclaimer out there. An invitation for a peaceful coexistence.
"But you are Mitch," Rambo says after a long pause. Face resting in that perpetual steely expression. It has softened just a notch but certainly nowhere to the point of comfort. A flicker of something crosses his expression and it becomes clear that it's actually curiosity.
"Mitch Rogers, partner. Deputy and until further notice, your housemate and landlord. But so far, you're living rent-free," the young deputy tries not to smile. In response, Rambo's brow rises, and his hollow eyes become a little fuller.
So far, this gamble has paid off well.
Therefore, it's a somewhat fulfilling feeling that settles over Mitch when the police van drives down a long dirt path off the road, past more trees until it comes to a stop.
"And we're here," he announces and hops out of the vehicle.
It's a farmhouse, alright. Two stories tall, made from brick, has a porch made from stone which means the previous owners went above and beyond with renovating. It stands surrounded by forest, weeds, open fields, fences around overgrown pastures, and a little yard with a large oak tree. And a barn. There's a tiny orchard next by, John notices as he's walking towards the entrance of the house. There's a bicycle by the barn as well.
This feels…nostalgic, not in a way he likes. It pulls too much on something awful in the past.
But in the middle of it, there's gateway. A road to peace. He's aware he can't live here forever. Doomed to walk the road again someday. Swimming in the pond while the sheriff gets ready to pull him out and toss him before a judge. Still for now, as he finds himself in the middle of it, he likes to pretend that he can live a quiet life.
Despite the state of the property and its location, its value must have been next to nothing, which is probably how someone like this kid could afford it – if he even bought it. Landlord though…
Well, either way, John is happy to have a roof over his head without the meddling of shit cops breathing down his neck, waiting to jump him like wolves. And something to do. It helps that he's just doing mindless work for lodging. If he's busy, he can't think.
The house smells of paint and cleaning agents. The floor has been maintained, covered in paint-stained newspapers and a ladder. The walls have been plastered over by the previous owners, it seems, and Mitch has been busy painting, but the work is sloppy. One spot, where a phone hangs, has been properly painted though. An unused fireplace is hidden by paint buckets and tools.
Of furniture, there's little. A dinner table. A couple of mismatched chairs. An old recliner and a couch. There's a mattress on the floor with a pillow and a comforter. Boxes and bags of clothes stand next to it. So do the empty pizza boxes. It's not exactly homely but Rambo is not inclined to complain.
"Welcome, partner. As you can see, it ain't much but uhm…" Mitch gestures to their surroundings, then trails off, tripping on his feet a little. He's nervous. He's been nervous since John set foot in the police station. He hides it well but not well enough.
It's familiarly heartbreaking to be treated with decency by someone who's terrified of you. And fear tends to breed anger anyway. Civilians have that habit of being quite worse than soldiers when it comes to what they feel. They have no code of honor. No sense of surroundings. No comradery.
But Mitch is currently different. Currently. And he is a better alternative than the sheriff and his mustached acquaintance. Currently. John has learned long ago that there's no point in getting his hopes up around people, however. So, he doesn't. He doesn't expect a friendship beyond that of tentative cohabitation. He'll take the roof, he'll take the food, he'll take his leave when it's time.
Better to be used than abused.
"You don't strike me as the type of person to like this," he says while Mitch putters around, cleaning pizza boxes, folding shirts, searching bags for another pillow and blanket.
"It was the only place available when I was ready to move out. Fell in love with it right away," answers Mitch as he tosses the pillow and blanket on the couch and pushes the mattress towards the dinner table.
Oh yeah. He's not very old, is he? A man although barely. Tall and skinny but with youthful features that oozes juvenile optimism. It's almost enviable. It's probably open to corruption. Maybe he got a little more sense between the ears, determined to toss John a lifeline, determined to wander around some more to make it hospitable.
John almost wants to ask about the upstairs floor as the thought of the unknown irks him. He looks at the staircase and its wooden steps, unpainted and ghastly green. Like his thoughts have been spoken out loud, Mitch speaks from the kitchen.
"Shower and lavatory upstairs by the way. Keep your shoes on. The floor is a little rough."
John draws in a breath that shudders so lightly. He has absolutely nothing on his person let alone a clean set of clothes so a shower would do little – enticing as it is.
"Mom-Anna-Mrs. Teasle," Mitch fumbles through his words and his cheeks glow redder than his hair as he tries again, soft and welcoming. "She accidentally put some of the sheriff's old clothes in my last laundry haul and he doesn't want it back. You can take it and see if it fits."
Huh. John isn't sure what to feel about Mitch being closely associated with Teasle that he'd call his wife 'mom'. On the other hand, it suggests something different about him. Maybe adopted. Maybe the son of a close family member taken in due to circumstances. Maybe foster kid.
In those cases, he'd know what pain is. He doesn't know agony, however. Maybe he never will.
Maybe that is for the better.