I feel like I should sing a song about spam. Surely there's a song about spam? :-D

But I am recovering from illness (blech) and have a lingering cough that prevents me from singing, so (happy day!) you are all spared. :)

Thank you so much for reading along! I loved your kind reviews as we kick off this new adventure, and I can't wait to hear your thoughts as things ramp up.

I really appreciate you taking the time to comment, Guest, and I'm glad to know you are reading along! :)

Woodscolt215, you are never spam to me. Unless it is the best kind, fully human-made and encouraging. :)

LeafGreene01, Thanks for your note as well! And yeah, I've got to figure out the reporting system. Yiiiikes. I'm very excited about the Betty-Jughead dynamics on that front too, and I am glad you are looking forward to that!

Enjoy!

-Button

00000

"Come on, Sport. Show me what you've learned from that fed. And then I'll show you how to survive in the Southside."

Jughead stared at Richard, not sure where to begin. Sport? What fed? And what business did a relative newcomer have teaching the son of the Serpent King anything about the Southside?

Or maybe Jughead should just address the glaringly obvious problem: the fact that his stepfather was trying to spar with him in the living room.

"Look, my mom and I just decorated the tree yesterday," Jughead began. He tried for a conciliatory, almost apologetic tone. After all, this seemed to be Richard's way of making an effort to bond. Or something. "She'd be really upset if we wrecked it."

Confusingly, Richard stopped stock still and gaped at him. Then the man let out a brief, bellowing laugh. "Really? You think we couldn't do a little wrestling, a little boxing, without wrecking the tree? What kind of kung fu panda moves do you think I have up my sleeve?"

Jughead tried to make his expression blank and he shrugged noncommittally. Any response suggesting that he'd been worried about doing the damage himself could come across as... aggressive.

Maybe even insulting.

And Richard really didn't like being insulted.

"I guess you'd better prepare to be disappointed, Sport. Nothing I show you today is going to remotely endanger the Christmas tree." Richard grinned and shook his head. "Your mother's right that you've got quite an imagination on you."

Okay. He'd taken it as a compliment. Good.

Now Jughead just needed to extricate himself from the situation without hurting his stepfather.

Or the tree.

"Eh, well, I don't think I'm really feeling up to anything strenuous right now. My head's still, you know, not quite back to normal. And I-," Jughead stopped himself just short of mentioning the flashbacks he'd been having.

Or the blank spaces of lost time when he was reading or writing or thinking. The nightmares that jolted him awake.

Although, to be fair, Richard definitely knew about the nightmares. Every night, immediately after Jughead awoke, some object or another would be thrown in the general direction of his bedroom wall.

So the nightmares were apparently not quiet.

"I know." Richard's face was suddenly sympathetic, which was an entirely new - and frankly terrifying - development. "That's why I wanted to do this with you. Maybe take you out to the shooting range after a while. You need to take back what's yours. Starting with your dignity."

Jughead had to actively prevent himself from gaping right back at his stepfather. He had not been under the impression that his dignity had been affected by someone being shot to pieces right on top of him, and his concussed brain and recovering body having trouble processing the resulting blood-soaked trauma.

"That's, uh, really… nice of you to offer. But-,"

"Your mother needs you to get it together," Richard interrupted, all traces of sympathy abruptly gone. "And I need you to stop worrying my wife with your malingering. That starts today. It starts now."

Malingering? Jughead frowned.

But he also did a quick analysis of the idea and it wasn't entirely insane: Brand had always touted training and the shooting range as cures for whatever ailed him.

It would be a band-aid on a psychological bullet hole, sure, but it probably wouldn't hurt.

Jughead shrugged again, but this time he felt his shoulders settle and his knees bend ever so slightly. And yeah, okay, this felt right. This felt like some sort of progress.

"Okay. I hear you. I'm up for giving it a try if you are."

Richard laughed again, but this time it was a sound of surprise and pleasure. "Alright then. Good. I like your moxie; your mother was sure this would be a non-starter."

Well. That made sense, given how things had been when Jughead's mother had left Riverdale before.

"Let's get started." Richard smirked and rubbed his hands together in anticipation like he was a cartoon supervillain. Yikes.

Jughead silently reminded himself to use pins and holds; he needed to make sure he didn't do any damage.

And, he reminded himself belatedly, to keep himself from getting injured any more than he already was.

00000

"Nobody's hurting him," Wilson said reassuringly. "It looks like he's eating very well. He saw a doctor. Got a house call, from what I heard."

Yeah, FP had seen that post too; it had made it painfully clear that Gladys had discovered hashtags.

"What has Tim said about it?" Wilson asked, her face the absolute picture of innocence as she did so.

FP narrowed his eyes, but he'd known from the outset that the two were communicating – colluding – so it was precisely zero surprise that Wilson would attempt to draft off of the police officer's presence in the household.

"He said I should find out what the hell happened to my kid and fight to the death to get him home safe." FP made his own expression innocent. "He said that as long as I am being lied to, I have to assume the worst."

All lies.

In reality, Tim had said nothing on the subject. Nobody but Brandon was bringing it up directly, and FP suspected that bonding with Finn under fraught circumstances made it difficult for Tim to follow whatever orders he'd been given by the SAC.

Which meant he'd been told to reassure FP. Keep him calm. Keep him out of the situation.

Ignore the fact that Wilson had told him there was more to the story than he had been told. Details that were pertinent to his son's well-being and recovery. It had to be something bad, and it had to mean that the investigation was - once again - being prioritized over Jughead.

Wilson stared at FP disbelievingly, but her expression held a hint of worry - so she probably had just the tiniest niggling fear that Tim had actually said all of that.

FP would press his advantage: "I think adopting Finn," a process begun but not yet completed, "has affected his perspective."

There was a long, heavy silence.

Finally, Wilson responded:

"Jughead is not rejecting you. He is safe and he is actively recovering." Aaditi made careful eye contact as if she was trying to send a silent message to FP. "And he needs you. Right now, he needs you to be patient and let him choose to spend Christmas with his mother. And then he will need you to be ready, because he is going to come home - soon - and he is going to need to figure a lot of things out. And none of them will be simple."

Welcome to divorce, FP thought bitterly. But then he caught Wilson's knowing expression; and yeah, she understood that part of the situation. Well, it was more than that: she also understood whatever had not been shared with FP about the events that had transpired in the hotel room.

It must be nice to hold all the cards and to lecture someone about being patient while they were the one parenting blindly.

"He is not rejecting you," Wilson repeated softly.

This time FP registered the words. He frowned. "He has every reason in the world to hate me."

"And a world of reasons to love you and want to come home to you." Wilson was adamant.

"We have his dogs," FP admitted petulantly.

"You know that's not what I mean."

FP did. It also occurred to him that Brandon's favored argument - that Jughead had to be planning on coming back soon for the sake of his pets - revealed a whole lot about the younger man's perspective on the subject.

Brandon didn't believe SAC Wilson either. Davies didn't have faith that Jughead would willingly come home to his father and godfather.

Huh.

They'd been at odds since getting home, Davies preparing for action and convinced that they would be stepping in at any moment. FP had been convinced that Jughead was exploring his options and had judged his home life to be lacking - and would find living with his mother more appealing for a host of reasons.

Maybe both of them really thought the same things, though, in the end: that their luck had run out and the person who meant the most to them in the world had seen them for who they really were.

"I gotta go." FP shot Aaditi a smile that was almost certainly more of a grimace. "Are we done here?"

There was news from the Southside. FP needed to go there, be seen talking, and shake up the status quo just a little bit.

It was nothing. Less than nothing. Just a stoking of the flames of false hope, and the ever-present rumor that the Serpent King was mulling over the situation and considering his options.

Wilson thought it would draw out the current factions. She suspected that there were more of them than they knew, thanks to the emphatic vacuum of power in the Southside.

Everyone was fighting to get ahead of the narrative: their kids were being taken. The government was after their way of life. The mandate was surprisingly uniform, for Serpents and non-Serpents alike: accept nothing, give nothing, forcibly take back what was theirs.

Tax season was coming and it was likely there would be a whole lot left unpaid. Nobody had accepted a dime of government assistance in months. The children who had been placed in foster care were now being placed with families out of state to accommodate their unprecedented numbers - and to respond to the increasingly vocal cries that they had been stolen.

Stolen from empty trailers and shacks, it had to be said, but stolen all the same.

Those cries were indications that the Southsiders were on the cusp of violence. The FBI was convinced of that, and FP agreed.

And so he would go to the Whyte Wyrm for ten or fifteen minutes. Be seen.

That was his heroic role in all of this: he was a figurehead and a prop. That was the best he could offer to the powder keg and its blast radius – which Gladys had hauled his boy into the dead center of.

What a way to earn a paycheck.

But hey, at least everyone was in agreement: Jughead was safe, at least for the moment. He was not being hurt.

That was something. FP really needed to remember that.

00000

Jughead grunted in pain and tried to think through each movement instead of simply reacting to the hit with muscle memory.

But it was almost impossible to form a coherent thought.

Jughead felt himself - his thoughts - struggle against a heavy fog in a desperate fight for clarity and focus.

This was a disturbing new development. He had thought his recent 'lost time' issue was akin to daydreaming. The pattern had seemed innocuous, and like Jughead had been spacing out when he was idle, or relaxed. But now it was abundantly clear to him: his mind was on strike. It was taking time off on its own schedule, regardless of the circumstances.

So that was why he accidentally trapped Richard into a submission hold instead of attempting an escape or trying to pin the larger man.

Richard howled with anger, the sound enough to bring Jughead back to himself - and fully back to the present circumstances.

A quick adjustment released the hold before Jughead broke Richard's wrist. Just one more adjustment would secure his grip on-

Richard broke free before Jughead could complete the movement and knocked the teen away from the opening he'd spotted.

A poker from the fireplace had somehow appeared in Richard's right hand.

Jughead didn't hesitate; he had a chair between them and a ballpoint pen in his own hand before he had time to formulate any further thoughts.

"A pen?" Richard smirked.

He'd obviously never been subjected to one of Brand's lectures.

Jughead braced himself to dodge, get his body in close, and then show Richard exactly how vicious a simple ballpoint pen could be. The situation wasn't good - not at all - but it certainly wasn't going to end with bloody chunks of his body being ripped away by an unwieldy poker that his middle aged stepfather was holding as if it were a ski pole.

"Richard? Jughead?" Gladys's shriek made both combatants jump. Her voice was shrill with horror. "What in the world are you-"

"He wanted to do this," Richard interrupted swiftly. He raised his hands in supposed innocence, an impression that was severely undercut by the poker he was still holding.

In a moment Jughead had the ballpoint pen behind his back, as if that was the primary offense in the room.

Because if it had been Brand showing up, it probably would have been.

'Are you trying to spar or are you trying to up your body count, wolf pup?' Brand would have demanded gruffly before disarming him, no doubt with an extra yank that was meant to hurt - and to emphasize Brand's displeasure. 'Improvised weapons are only for when you're training with me, or in life and death situations. Do you really need me to demonstrate why that is?'

Improvised weapons training had become less common when training with Brand lately, too, Jughead had noticed with a small glow of pride. It was a compliment: it was becoming too dangerous for them to rely on Brand's superior speed and ability to keep them both safe.

Jughead was getting too good.

That only made this offense worse, though, now that he thought about it.

"Is that true?" Jughead's mother skewered him with a harsh look, but her tone made it just a question. She was upset, but her primary concern was obviously not her son. "Not a full day after the doctor told you to take it easy or you could set back your recovery by months?"

Oh. Yeah.

Her words and the naked worry in her expression made Jughead's head hang with shame, but it also revealed some interesting information. Apparently Gladys didn't trust Richard. Not implicitly, anyway.

Not enough to take his word over Jughead's.

That was a surprise - and it was accompanied by a shockingly potent wave of relief.

Many things had changed, but at the end of the day, Jughead still had a mother.

Gladys was still in his corner.

Potentially, even though this might be pushing it, Jughead could even sic Gladys on his stepfather with a well-chosen turn of phrase.

However, a split-second glance at Richard made it clear that Jughead should not use this advantage. The man looked ready to explode, and the only pin in that grenade was the fact that Jughead had not (yet) undermined him with his wife.

And to preserve peace and to help his mother, Jughead silently vowed, he never would.

"Ye-eah, I guess that was dumb. Sorry. I thought it might, I don't know… wear me out. Help with the nightmares. You know, if I slept a little better."

Jughead dropped his eyes to the floor, praying that his mother bought it.

"Is this how you..." Gladys motioned to the room. Sure enough, as predicted, it was a disaster. The tree was leaning against the wall crookedly, too, Jughead noticed with grim satisfaction.

He had called it.

"...fight?" Jughead's mother finally got the word out, and it was accompanied by a choked laugh. "I know you're a big time intern for the FBI now, but somehow I still can't picture you of all people throwing a punch."

Jughead surreptitiously slid the pen back onto the coffee table where he'd found it. "I... Well, yeah, I guess so. I mean, I learned a few things along the way. Brand always thought it would be safer if I could defend myself. And Dad started helping me when I couldn't practice with Brand."

Gladys stared at Jughead. Her expression had gone hard the moment he'd said Brand's name. Her eyebrows had lowered emphatically when he'd mentioned FP.

Jughead wasn't sure what to do about that, so he let the silence linger.

"They certainly didn't teach him very well," Richard finally interjected with a jeer in his voice. "His instincts are garbage. But with some time, I bet I could turn him into an asset."

Gladys turned to Richard, giving him an adoring smile. Both Jughead and Richard relaxed.

Then Gladys spoke, though, and her words were like ice: "Please don't."

It was not a request.

Richard's expression closed off in an instant.

When Gladys turned back to Jughead, clucking at him and scolding him affectionately for endangering himself while injured, for 'fighting like your father,' for knocking askew the decorated tree, Richard pointed at Jughead from behind her. When he was sure he had Jughead's attention, Richard made a strange gesture with both hands.

It was difficult to know what the gesture was meant to convey, but Jughead still got the intended message loud and clear.

Richard was saying that whatever was between them was unfinished.

And actually… surprisingly… that was fine by Jughead. He nodded subtly, agreeing with his stepfather, and then had to hide a smirk when Richard looked completely dumbstruck.

With his mother saying all of the caring and motherly things that Jughead knew only too well would get him killed in an actual dangerous situation, it was suddenly easy to see what he needed to do.

He would allow Richard to 'train' him, and he would feign ignorance and inexperience. His stepfather's ego would be stoked and Richard would feel like he was top dog in the household.

Jughead would use the training to help regain his strength, and to get healthy doses of those all-important endorphins that cleared his head and (for the most part) made his brain work properly.

His mother would have her relationship with Richard remain unchallenged and uncomplicated, and she'd also have plenty of time to get back into a comfortable pattern of living with Jughead. They could get to know each other all over again.

The vision was crystal clear, and the path forward was - finally - evident.

That realization brought on a second, more crushing wave of relief.

Gladys shook her head and gave up on her lecture, instead drawing Jughead into a hug. "Always a contrarian."

For the first time since he'd arrived, Jughead hugged her back without reservation.

"Yeah, Mom. You know me."

Richard caught Jughead's eye behind Gladys' back and he motioned to the ongoing embrace with a quick, approving nod.

Good. Finally. Some progress.

Jughead grinned at Richard. The man looked startled, but managed a tight smile in response.

It was going to take a little work, but it officially seemed possible: they could all be one big, happy, ridiculously non-traditional family.

00000

Brand took a long, icy breath in and held it. When he let it out, slowly and contemplatively, he allowed a sigh of satisfaction. "I like this one."

"You like the… air?" The question was dry to the point of sarcasm.

Brand didn't care, though. "Yeah. It's got good air."

"Oka-ay." The tone said it all: that she thought Brand was full of it, that this was a complete waste of her time, and that it was no wonder the realtor had refused to schedule any more showings until Brand had made a real list of actual requirements - one that involved square footage, acreage, or something having to do with bedrooms and bathrooms.

Only that would mean making something approximating a life plan, which Brand thought was awfully aspirational of a realtor to ask for.

"You can't get good air after the fact. Shipping it in is prohibitively expensive." Brand kept his voice level, trying not to reveal that he was teasing.

"So I've heard," Sarah Quinn replied, her wry tone clearly responding to the teasing.

Good; Brand hadn't wanted her to miss it. Just… work for it a little.

"Let's walk the perimeter," Brand suggested. This was the first place he was feeling good about - maybe even excited about. He'd get the realtor to bring him inside the house the next day, but it would be best if he had a clear sense of the property before then.

The house was the easiest thing to change, after all.

"Isn't it fourteen acres? Most of it wooded?" Sarah sounded less than enthused.

But also surprisingly informed about the plot of land. Hmmm.

"You can leave if you aren't up to a moonlit walk in the woods," Brand offered lightly. It was almost midnight but it was a sparklingly clear night with a near-full moon that reflected off the inch or so of snow prettying up the ground.

Sarah sighed longsufferingly. "You know that I can't do that."

Yep. Brand had figured that out the first time he'd sneaked out of the house to get some breathing room from FP, Tim, and the boys… and to use that breathing room to check out a potential property under cover of darkness.

Sarah had showed up a scant ten minutes behind him, and she'd had her service weapon drawn when she'd located him behind the homeowner's huge shed that housed a ride-on mower and a half-rebuilt car.

Apparently Quinn had worked herself up and become half convinced that Brand had been abducted and dragged to the remote, unoccupied property to be tortured and killed.

It was flattering; she cared enough to follow him when she wasn't on the clock. And, sure, her nightmare worst case scenario was not an impossibility given the intel coming out of the Southside lately. Brand was in the running for public enemy number one.

And the paranoia was relatable. Honestly, if the kid hadn't been uploading selfies like a Kardashian, Brand knew his own head would be going to those same places about Jones. FP saw the situation very differently, primarily because of his pet theory about Gladys overseeing an aggressive pro-family PR campaign in the Southside, but Brand was convinced that Jones was intentionally giving them a steady stream of proof of life images via Instagram.

So Brand could stand down; the kid was not chained to a radiator, tears streaking his face as he bloodied his wrists in desperate, futile attempts to free himself. Jones wasn't spending every night gasping for air through a thick layer of duct tape – and, no doubt, a panic attack – in a basement or closet. His godson was not trembling from an overwhelming rush of fear and adrenaline while staring down the barrel of a gun as he posed for holiday photos.

Probably.

In any event, Sarah's paranoia over Brand's safety had provided him with a potent distraction from those thoughts, since it had given him a formula that he could compulsively repeat. Nightly, if necessary; he was used to going without sleep.

And Brand wasn't going to sleep soundly for as long as he had even the tiniest niggling worry that the kid was somehow trapped by Gladys Banks and waiting for his godfather to rescue him.

Brand wasn't entirely sure why he dragged Sarah out for this specific activity, though. He might find the perfect property, true, but he could also just force the realtor to put up with him during the day.

It was also true that he enjoyed Sarah's company - but even Brand was fully aware that this was no way to score points with her.

It was possible that Brand was subconsciously trying to sabotage things by showing Sarah some of his less attractive qualities. Maybe that would finally settle the painfully inconvenient hope that she (and FP, dang it) had forced back to life in Brand's mind.

And oh, Brand knew he was no catch. He was obviously obsessive. And he was selfish. He was someone who put his projects before sleep, before his day job, before his relationships. Surely once Sarah saw this side of him she would run away, and it would finally - blessedly - be over.

No more hope, no more pain.

"There's a stream cutting through about a quarter of an acre at the back of the lot," Sarah said. Her tone was resigned, but also mildly amused for some reason. "Don't get your feet wet or you'll catch your death."

Brand turned to lead the way.

And to hide his grin.

Sarah had known he would do this; she'd researched the property after he had mentioned earlier in the day.

And she was wearing rubber boots.

So, for just a few moments, Brand let himself enjoy the feeling of hope. A few moments of fantasy wouldn't hurt anything.

"Do you still see Laurent?" Quinn's tone was light, but the question was anything but casual.

There went all thoughts of fantasy.

Brand felt his steps slow as he absorbed the far-reaching implications of the question. "Sarah, do you… has SAC Wilson read you in on what happened in the hotel? What the kid saw?"

"No." Sarah's pace slowed to match Brand's. "But it has the SAC worried. That means it should have all of us worried."

Obviously. Brand might be an idiot, but that level of fed-splaining was just insulting.

There was a long silence.

"Do you want recommendations?" Sarah followed up. "I have contacts with some professionals who have more experience with trauma-informed therapy."

"Nah. Thanks anyway. We like Laurent. We're used to him," Brand said firmly. No way was he opening any doors on that front without talking to FP first. "Besides, why don't we get the kid home before we go changing things up on him, huh?"

Sarah breathed out heavily through her nose. "That's not a bad way of doing things."

Gee, thanks.

Although Brand had to take Sarah's perspective seriously; she did know an awful lot about this kind of thing.

"However, I might be in the market for a different kind of recommendation," Brand said slowly. He could practically hear Quinn's ears perking up behind him. He sneaked a glance back at her when he continued: "Do you think fourteen acres is enough space for Jones to feel… like he's really gotten away from things? Just, like, for a weekend here and there. Or longer if he ever wanted that."

Sarah was quiet, and Brand was glad that he'd caught the mix of expressions that had crossed her face.

It looked like a solid horse race between 'touched' and 'amazed.' So that seemed positive, even when the ever-lengthening silence began to feel ominous.

"You're not going to try and give this property to FP, are you?" Sarah finally settled on asking.

Brand laughed abruptly, surprised by the suspicious tenor of the question. "I hadn't thought of doing that, no."

"Because he's going to find out about the Lotus being in his name, and the house being paid off, and I know he's already upset about-,"

"This place would be for me." Brand made his voice firm once again. "FP will have a standing invitation, but strictly as a visitor."

Brand made a face as he thought about the too-confusing question of what that made Jones when he stayed with Brand. It probably wasn't worth labeling and getting everyone riled at him yet again.

"Okay. Then I think… Fourteen acres is a fantastic amount of space for a boy and two dogs," Sarah said decisively. "And I think that the offer of a break from 'things' whenever he wants one would be a wonderful gift. Not to mention…" Sarah's voice became pensive, "it would be nice for you to be in new surroundings after…"

Sarah trailed off and did not finish her thought.

"After losing the kid to Gladys Banks?" Brand prompted. "That's not a factor. Besides, I'm not leaving before he's back for good. Can you imagine him coming back to find me moved out, living under a new roof? The kid would never leave the premises again."

Sarah made a noise of assent. "Oh, yes of course–, I know. And that's wise of you not to make big changes without Jughead involved. I, uh, meant living somewhere where you hadn't, you know, had a… home invasion."

Well. That was true. It also sounded really weird, given the whole picture.

"FP isn't planning on moving out. Or the kid." Brand looked over his shoulder at Quinn, puzzled. "Are you saying that you think they should?"

"No – I meant – I mean, it was awfully hard for me to even watch what-,"

Oh. Sarah meant that Brand might like to live in a place where he had never been tortured.

Roger that.

"Eh, I'm actually proud of how that all turned out. I might even have to bronze the bannister and bring it with me," Brand replied with a flip grin. "Besides, didn't Williams tell you how much of that night was smoke and mirrors?"

"I know that not all of it was," Sarah said, but her voice was suddenly cautious. "You're not even fully recovered yet."

"Sure, but that's because the kid messed up my shoulder and knee long before they came at me," Brand said dismissively. It was interesting to hear Sarah's perspective, though. Apparently she thought all of that was a much bigger deal than it had ended up being. "Honestly, I thought I made a decent showing for myself. I walked out of there at the end of the night; I kept everyone occupied long enough for folks to make the bust. Mission accomplished."

Sarah made a noise like she was inhaling in order to object. This ought to be good.

Only before she said anything, Brand felt the world tilt around him as his left foot fell out from under him; he cursed as his boot hit muck and water rushed over his sock.

"Brand? Are you okay?" Sarah was suddenly on high alert, service weapon in hand. "What just-,"

"I stepped in a hole." Brand gingerly pulled his left boot from the sinkhole, muck and all. "Watch your step; it's deep right there."

Sarah holstered her weapon and reached out.

Brand stared at her hand for a moment too long before he reached out for it.

"Thanks." Sarah gripped Brand and hopped lithely past what was suddenly – obviously – a series of sinkholes in a low patch of the woods.

The warmth of her hand was almost a shock in the cold air.

"No gloves?" Brand said stupidly.

"You don't have any gloves on either," Quinn observed, a smile in her voice. "But… I guess that's because your hands are so warm. Wow."

Well, Brand's gloves were in his back pocket. He wasn't about to say that, though. Not with her fingers curling around his appreciatively.

They walked on, Brand maintaining the silence just in case that was the only thing keeping Quinn's hand in his.

And if Brand steered them through every semi-treacherous patch of low-lying ground he spotted during the remainder of their hike, well… it was important to know what he would be getting into if he made an offer on this property.

Besides, it seemed to work: Sarah didn't even attempt to take her hand back.

So that meant they were – possibly – on the same page.

Or maybe just screwed.

Honestly, in this moment, Brand didn't care.

"You'll, uh, help me fix the place up, right?" Brand eventually broke the silence, once they'd finally finished their marshy trek and gotten back to the house. It looked a little nicer than he'd recalled, though he was pretty sure it needed a lot of work inside. "Give me advice on curtains, linens, and all that kind of stuff?"

Sarah's fingers had been locked around Brand's as if she'd forgotten they were there, but as she responded she squeezed him once, affectionately. "Absolutely. Someone's got to keep an eye on you and make sure you're safe. I think that job description includes keeping you safe from your own poor taste in linens, too."

"The kid's room is gonna need… bookshelves." Brand cocked his head to one side. "Do I let him go wild on it himself? Or do I surprise him with, I don't know, some kind of a theme?"

"He's not a toddler." Sarah sounded deeply amused by the idea.

"I meant a color scheme. Dark wood or light wood. Books and dogs." Brand wasn't sure if he was defending himself or digging the hole deeper; he just knew he wanted to prolong this conversation.

Maybe forever.

"Leather upholstery, or velvet, or-,"

"He's not in his retirement years just yet, so maybe hold off on dark hardwoods, leather, and velvet," Sarah objected with a laugh. "And fair enough, I guess you don't mean fire trucks as a theme."

"Unless you think he'd like that," Brand quipped with a smirk.

"Why don't you save that for the master bedroom," Quinn shot back and then she smirked. "Although I am fairly certain you're just thinking about installing a pole."

This time Brand's laugh took him by surprise and he had to stop himself from rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. "I wasn't. But now I am."

"Whoopsies," Sarah said with a laugh in return. "Corrupting you, am I?"

"Maybe. Just a little." This time Brand did not stop himself; his thumb stroked over Sarah's knuckles, savoring the contact.

Sarah met Brand's eyes, and for a split second he felt nothing but panic. With just that one motion, he'd ruined the moment. The evening. Their tentatively rebuilding friendship.

Then Sarah gave him a smug, teasing smile. "Good."

Brand wanted to smile back, relax, and continue bantering. But his heart continued to pound in his chest, and he knew with painful certainty that there was nothing casual about what was happening right now. Not for him, it wasn't.

"Let's get you home and into bed, huh?" Sarah's hands withdrew from Brand's then, but just long enough for her to cup them over his long fingers and rub briskly. "You've got to be getting cold, and if we're going to make an offer tomorrow, then you should be at least a little rested."

Brand stared down at his larger hands and how Sarah was rubbing them with her smaller ones. There was a confident smile on her face when their eyes met. She'd used the word 'we.'

All of FP's words rushed back to Brand: don't question it. Don't turn it into something it's not, but don't make decisions for someone else. Just accept the immense gift of receiving what he wanted – if Sarah was willing to offer it, that was on her.

After all, nobody would ever come as close to knowing the raw, honest truth about Brandon Davies as Special Agent Sarah Quinn.

Brand took one more deep breath and held it. Then he let it out slowly.

"Is the air still good?" Sarah asked with a teasing quirk of her eyebrow. "Good enough, anyway?"

Brand looked down at her, allowing himself a smile. Allowing himself to stop her still-rubbing hands with his own and to interlock their fingers once more.

"Yeah. I'm thinking… This just might be a keeper."

"We'll see," Sarah said, turning to face the structure.

"Yeah. We'll see," Brand echoed, looking down at her.

00000

I hope you enjoyed! As always, I will love your notes of any kind and length, and be writing along happily (and with a bad hack for, hopefully, just a bit longer!). Be well and stay healthy!

-Button