Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Maybe he went home, okay? I’m only not looking for him because he needs to be more independent. And not rely on me for everything. He’s probably fine. Or not.

He must have been in a pretty goddamn agitated rush to just leave the car here on the side of the road. He left the car with the passenger door swung wide open and the heater on. Just great.

I roll my eyes, ticked off, and climb into the drivers seat. I reach over the passenger seat to shut the thrown-open door. I struggle for a bit—it gets caught in the snow— and I just barely manage to get it closed before I fall back onto the seat. I slump and sigh, putting down the camera in the passenger seat, other hand planted on the freezing steering wheel. The heater hums in the silent car, and I turn it down all the way.

 Silence.

After staring blankly into the empty road and dissociating, I whack the broken GPS on and double check to make sure he left the abandoned key into the ignition. As expected, there it sits in the keyhole. I guess he didn’t expect to come back anyways. God fucking damn it. What will Sarah say? It’s not like I killed him. Maybe she’ll know better than to blame me. Ill have to come up with some phony bullshit if she doesn’t.

I angrily press the pedal and the car jerks forward and onto the road.

The GPS speaks in an unfamiliar voice to The House. My old house, actually. Jonah called it ‘headquarters,’ even though he’d only been there once. It’s been abandoned since the incident, so no one really wants to go there anyways. As a former resident, I’ve claimed it as my own. No rent, no cops, no nothing. That’s a risk I’m willing to take. Although it gets kind of dark at night. They cut off the electricity a while ago.

“You will arrive at your destination in 33 minutes.”

He was right. It is kind of useful.

My fingers tremble on the still-cold steering wheel as I huff at the ‘Welcome To: Mandela County’ sign. It speeds out of my vision, and my eyes wander absently back into the road. Some rock song plays quietly on the radio.

Out of pure boredom, I drink from a half-flat Diet Coke can in the cup holder, also Jonah’s. I recall the gas station we stopped at before the three-day gig. He expected us to somehow survive off two discount bags of lays and a dozen pack of Diet Coke. when he proposed the idea, I didn’t really care as much as he did. He seemed happy to just be able to eat junk food for 3 days straight.

It’s going to be different without him. Oh well. Nothing I can do about it.

I drive for a bit longer, and then make it to The House. The front wooden door jams, and I push it open. The dark of the house fades into awareness, and I flick on the heavy-duty flashlight I stole from a Home Depot in August. I set it down on the island—facing up so it illuminates the area somewhat—and set my backpack down. I look at the footage on the camera for about 20 minutes before deeming it acceptable.

Carefully, I look around the room and strange the silence. Usually we’d come back here and eat the same pizza every time after a gig.

Maybe it’s for the better. The guy was kind of a dick anyways.

I pass by The Room and don’t stop until I’m at the end of the hallway. I am not sleeping in the room, nor am I sleeping in the old nursery. The guest bedroom seemed like the obvious option. I open it to find the little articles of clothing I have scattered all throughout the floor. Most of it unwashed, some good pieces still left. I pick a white tee and gray sweatpants and throw them on the bed.

Routine. Nothing changes.

I face away from the mirror and change. I throw the BPS sweatshirt behind my headboard, and it falls under the bed. The black nail polish on my nails chips off and I stretch. I got some good footage. At least, I think. Maybe she’ll finally see what I see.

Chapter Text

I take a few cans of soup and put them in the messenger bag. I have a little bit of everything to keep me sustained for a few weeks. As long as I ration these enough, I won’t die of hunger. After stuffing everything as best I can in the bag, I keep my head down and slide through the aisles and out the door.

 A short old woman walking towards the grocery store gives me a look. I keep a straight face and pull the heavy, definitely suspicious, clanking bag up higher on my shoulder. Without any cameras or any security systems, shoplifting became less fun. Theres really no challenge anymore. Jonah used to be really good at shoplifting. He’d always say that it was because he was Latino, and that it was ‘in his blood’. It was funny the first time.

And now that the police all quit their jobs or just killed themselves, the thrill of getting chased and nearly running people over with the newly stolen car faded away.

I throw the bag in the backseat of the car and the cans clatter and tumble downwards to the floor. I wince in annoyance and slump into the driver's seat. The radio flicks on by itself this time.

I need to hide out for a few weeks. The neighbors or the batshit cat lady who patrols around yelling at squirrels probably filed some noise complaints already. I did yell at Jonah pretty bad. In the end I got what I wanted.

I drive home, pick up the cans and spread them out on the island. I count 25 cans, 25 days. Eventually I get to the desk and turn on the bulky, illegal computer.

The starting screen boots up and I open messages.

‘evelinm90’

Evelin. I don’t know if I miss her or not. She’s asked me if we can “talk this through.” There’s nothing to talk about. She ended things and I’m okay with that.

‘Sarah Heathcliff’

I really don’t want to deal with that right now.

‘jonahmarshall’

I stare at the name. I don’t want to feel bad, and I don’t feel bad.

I don’t feel bad at all.

I remove the contact.

“Can I at least have some closure adam?” Evelin texts. I ignore the message. She asks me to respond while she’s at work. I totally do not plan on doing that. Annoyed, I click open Sarah’s chat.

“Just got home.” I lie. It’s 7 in the morning and the gig ended at 2 last night. “Did u hear voicemail”

She types for a bit.

“No, I’ve been busy. How did the visit go?”

I sigh and type out a half-assed response.

“Do u want good or bad news first?”

Chapter Text

I’m expected to make a memorial video for Jonah now. Just when I thought I could finally relax for a few days. Amazing. Ticked off, I turn the computer off, thinking up some believable format for the video.

I spend the rest of the day walking around the house and watching television with the volume on the lowest possible setting-- before mute. I walk to the sink filter to get a drink of water a few times, go to the bathroom a few times, look out the window next to the displaced couch a few times.

Sometimes the whole loner thing wears off, and I can find myself missing human interaction. Just because i’m a little antisocial doesn’t mean I don’t completely hate company. I just hated his. I also kind of hated Sarah’s. And sometimes Evelin’s. Most of the time, actually.

There would be times where it wasn’t so bad. Usually when we weren’t doing the investigations. They’d be so scared, and I was just trying to get shit done. It would irritate me and ruin all the fun. Evelin would sit back and do nothing, say nothing. She was more interested in me. But I wanted to find out more. Maybe I did push her away, but can you really blame me? Sarah would freak out over anything. And Jonah would just fuck with me.

But when we could relax. When it was just me and Sarah trying to steal gas canisters for the car from the old gas station owner who was yelling at us ‘rotten teens’ , when it was just me and Evelin painting our nails in the back of the car after everyone else bailed on the investigation because they were ‘busy.’ That was when I preferred to stay with them. When it was just me and Jonah on the roof of the car. Something went wrong with the engine, the previous owner having taken little care of it. Neither of us knew how to fix it. Usually, I’d be upset, but I wasn’t. We gave up trying after a while and just chilled on the front of the car—denting it in the process. The sunset was kind of underwhelming and ugly, but we had gummy worms and weed. Not the best combination together, but it was enough.

All these times I’d pretend to be someone else, liking people. Enjoying company. I wore the uncomfortable mask for a bit, just to get a taste of how people interact. How they feel. It felt good. At least, I think.

I still wouldn’t consider any of them friends.

 I didn’t want to stay near them all the time. Friends are something you dedicate yourself to. I’d rather reserve my energy for something more important. Like these fucking alternates.

I grab another spoonful of cold soup, and check my watch. Suddenly my 'dinner at 11:30 pm' appetite disappears.

I hear the front door slam open and someone stumbles into the house and onto the floor.

Chapter Text

I lunge forward and duck in front of the couch. I don’t want to assume the worst, but if someone— or something — is coming all the way out here, to the ONE house with ripped crime scene tape scattered throughout the lawn, and just barging in like it means nothing must have ulterior motives other than just to rob the place.

I remain calm and put the skinny blanket i had draped over my feet back onto the couch. The gun is under the bed right now. I don’t have access to any other weapons either. Shit. I guess we’re doing this raw.

The television suddenly seems way louder than what I had it set as.

Under the singing of a housewife on the TV, I hear someone breathing quickly. Panting like they’d just sprinted a mile. The person grunts in between breaths and I can hear them shuffle. The door remains open. I duck down as low as I can with my ear nearly touching the floor and look behind the couch.

The thing has a hood on, obscuring their face. Their shaky but stiff hand reaches down at their left side, pressing down on the lower part of their ribs. That hoodie. I can recognize that hoodie anywhere. I guess Jonah isn’t dead after all.

“Jonah?” I whisper. In mild shock from the past minute. His hooded head looks up to my direction. He searches for a bit and finally finds me.

“Adam.” He pushes through gritted teeth.

I push myself up from my crawling position and stride over to him— in no rush. He’s leaned against the island, breathing heavily, as if in a panic.

I tower over him for a little bit, trying to examine his condition as he stumbles and shakes. His even more messy than usual bleached bangs droop over his face. I recall threatening him with a haircut before the gig.

“Don’t just stand there like a f-fucking idiot, help me god damn it!”

“Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do?! It's not all the damn time I get people asking me to be a fucking lifesaver at 11:30 at night!” I whisper-yell, aggravated. It’s become less rare and more routine that every conversation we ever have turns into some massive argument.

“Where’d you get hurt?”

He lifts his hand carefully, balancing on the other hand, and groans. He grabs his hoodie and shirt in a fist and peel them off of his torso. A rotten, nearly black gash crawls from his ribs to his hip. The area around it is irritated and purple. I genuinely wonder how the hell he’d survived a full 24 hours. The wound looks otherworldy. I’d never seen anything like it.

”Quit ch-checking me out and do what you need to-“ He inhales quickly. I sigh.

I flick the flashlight on again and climb up on the countertop. “I’m checking out the damage, not you.” Despite the multiple feet I have on everyone else, I still can't reach the medicine cabinet. It’s less of a cabinet and more of just a pile of pills and bottles. I reach for the dusty suture needle and thread—still not sure why we had that—and the probably expired antiseptic. His visit now feels like even more of a burden.

I jump down from the counter and pace myself around the island to where he has both hands supporting him on the floor.

“There’s nothing to ‘check out.’ Lay down,” I order. He slowly swings his head left and uses the island as support on the way down. I move his shirt out of the way and spray everything in the antiseptic.

“Fuck!” He breathes and winces.

I eye him as I spray my hands and the floor. The least he could do is shut the fuck up. Im doing him a big favor and he’s whining like a child. I breathe a laugh at his reaction. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this vulnerable before. His big guy act has practically withered away into ash at this point.

I do the best I can with the stitching— while he cringes every time the needle pierces his skin—and tie a knot at the very end, just barely having enough suture thread to tie the gaping hole in his torso closed. 

“I’m done. You can get up now.”

He shifts onto his hands and leans onto the island again. I stare him down, searching for a story he likely won’t give in his face. He breathes deeply and locks eyes with me.

“Thanks.” He forces out.

“What happened?” I respond almost instantly.