Halfway to Hell

In the month Rhys has spent here, the quiet sounds of morning have turned from anxiety-inducing to comforting. Sharing space with someone has never been one of his strong suits, but Charvi usually leaves him to it, only getting on his case about attending meals and getting his clothes in the laundry hamper so she can pre-soak whichever stains might be on them before dumping them, with hers, in the washing machine. 

As a rule, he’s a pretty courteous houseguest. Since he was little, he’s always been painfully neat and organized. Living in his car all those years before the raid… Let’s just say, it’d been a special kind of hell in more ways than one. Not that the raid had been much of an improvement. 

At its outset, he’d been quite accustomed to being hunted, ostracized, hated – so had most of his kind, he knows, but he doesn’t know any other supernaturals that’d been manipulated into doing what he’d done. That being said, ‘manipulation’ is the word Sawyer uses. Rhys is still not entirely sure it applies to him. 

When Charvi comes down the stairs, Rhys gets her breakfast off the hot plate and to her seat by the counter. She gets settled while he heads to the fridge for the lunch he’d packed her.

“I know I always say you really don’t have to do this, but has anyone ever told you you’re a fantastic cook?” Charvi asks, taking a bite of her eggs benedict.

“I’ve never actually cooked for anyone besides myself.” To hide his stupid blush, he busies himself pouring them each a cup of coffee.

“Well, Rhys McArthur, you’re going to make some woman very happy someday,” Charvi smiles at him as he hands her a mug.

An involuntary flinch flashes across his face and he curses himself internally. Honestly, life had been so much easier before… He sighs, knowing he still wouldn’t change a thing.

“Or man!” Charvi corrects herself. “Or person. I mean, it’s not like we can ever really know what’ll happen in the future, or that we have to have everything figured out right now…”

He lets her ramble herself out, choosing to eat across from her in silence. She’s a good one, he decides as he shovels toast into his mouth. 

He just kind of wishes he had everything figured out right now. Or at least something. 

Her awkward soft smile reminds him of her daughter, though, and how far she’s gone to make him feel like part of the family. Nihira Varma is one of the good ones. Rhys doubts he’ll ever feel like he deserves any of her kindness. 

As is their rhythm, Charvi stacks their used dishes in the dishwasher before breezing out the door for a shift at the hospital. Today, though, she stops to give him a one-armed hug and a kiss on the forehead. He forces down the tears, only smiling at her as she heads out. 

His own mother had never been this kindly towards him, and he’ll cook every single meal forever if it means he can express even a fraction of the gratitude he feels towards the Varmas.

The sound of her engine has barely rumbled out of the driveway when there’s a knock at the door. He knows who it is before answering, but that never prepares him. Never makes the pain in his chest any less.

“You know, you can just come over for breakfast,” he says, turning the doorknob, but leaving Sawyer to let himself in.

“And what do I tell my parents? Ever since becoming lacrosse captain, they’re pedantic about my diet…” he trails off when Rhys meets his eyes.

The latter has deposited himself onto the stairs and is looking up at Sawyer standing awkwardly just inside the doorway from under heavy, dark-painted eyelids that tend to leave Sawyer a little breathless, both because he has never seen anyone look as incredible in black eyeliner as Rhys does and because he always feels a little naked under Rhys’s gaze. 

He stuffs his sweaty hands into his pockets, which makes Rhys smirk the slightest bit, but Sawyer chooses to ignore it for his own sanity.

“At least Mommy has good taste in clothes. I like your shirt,” Rhys says, flitting his gaze down Sawyer’s front.

Funny how Sawyer’s instinctual response to that is wanting to take the shirt off, which makes him blush, which makes Rhys’s smirk widen. 

“Look, Damien is good people. I don’t want you giving him any trouble. P-please?” he clears his throat and Rhys gets to his feet.

It’s only then that Sawyer realizes just how close together they are. Keeping his breathing steady takes all his self-control.

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” Rhys mutters, tightly, between them. Sawyer can smell the coffee on his breath. 

Closing his eyes, Sawyer nods once. Then, he allows himself to head back for the door. Rhys, of course, follows him out.

“Sawyer.”

Taking a deep breath, he turns back to face Rhys, who cuts quite the picture in his cuffed flannel, skin-tight vest and tattered work jeans.

“Thanks for not giving up on me.”

Life’s been tough on Rhys McArthur. Losing your entire family as a kid tends to do that to a person. It took a lot to bring him back from the ‘dark side’, but Sawyer doesn’t regret it for a second. 

Besides, Rhys looks so tense and scared right then that it’s all Sawyer can do to keep from going over to hug him, but the  mere thought sends this jolt of numbness into the pit of his stomach. Instead he closes one eye at the glare coming off Rhys from the early morning sun and gives him a smile.

“Not just yet,” he amends, good-naturedly, “but the day’s still young, McArthur. Actually,” Sawyer changes gears, “how about you give me a ride to campus? I’ll even listen to your emo rock music.”

“Sorry about the music,” Rhys starts, sincerely. “I just outgrew the ‘Barney and Friends’ theme song over a decade ago.”

“You watched ‘Barney’? I assumed you were raised on serial killer documentaries and Slipknot,” Sawyer fires back, heading for the passenger side of the truck.

“Sometimes my sister had the remote,” Rhys smiles wryly.

“Right, right.” Sawyer smiles back and, just for a moment, the nerves in his stomach die down. He lets himself smile all the way to school.

***

Her ‘old stomping ground’. That’s what Valerie had called it. Like it’d be so easy just to go back. Like everything in her entire world hasn’t changed in the meantime. 

Holland knows her sister hadn’t meant to downplay anything, but if she had to choose between walking through these doors and getting turned into a chimera again, she knows which one she’d pick. As it stands, she’s gotten this far. Might as well rip off the Band-Aid.

Things are definitely different. Meaning, they look precisely the same, but it’s like there’s this filter over everything now. Like someone had taken a snapshot of life as it had been, and then turned up the ‘warmth’ setting on their iPhone. She doesn’t hate it, but it doesn’t make her any less on-edge, either.

“HOLLAND!”

Spinning on the spot almost makes her earbuds fly out, but it’s so worth it when she sees who’d been calling. She stuffs the pesky wire in the pocket of her jacket and jogs back down the hall.

“Oh my god, hi!” she wraps her arms snuggly around Miles, allowing herself only a few tears and one squeeze before letting go.

Next is Kisho, who has honestly filled out quite a bit since she last saw him. She tells him this, making him blush and cling a little tighter to Miles’s hand.

“I can’t believe you’re back!” the latter says, smiling brightly

“Honestly, I can’t believe it, either. We’re in our old apartment again and everything. Val had to leave early to get caught up at the station, so Curtis dropped me. Can things be any weirder?”

“You’d be surprised,” Kisho intones, eyeing the kids around them furtively as they head to class.

“So, um… You didn’t… tell him…?” Holland chances a glance at Miles, screaming internally at the thought of Sawyer Haines waiting somewhere to surprise her, too.

“Not yet,” Miles says, smoothly.

She can hear the unsaid ‘but’ of it all, but chooses to freak out about that only if she has to.

“Where is Sawyer, by the way? It can’t be early lacrosse practice—”

“That’s the surprising part,” Kisho cuts her off, pointedly not looking at her.

She frowns, but before she can even think of what to say, Miles interjects.

“You’ll see him soon. He usually makes it just before his first class.”

***

Sergeant Curtis is a busy man these days. No longer being a deputy means he has a certain level of authority over his own cases. 

What he doesn’t have authority over, however, is whether or not he has a partner, and who that partner might be. All things considered, he could do a whole lot worse than Weekes. At least, newly appointed Sergeant Weekes seems to be happy to be back. 

So happy, in fact, that she offers to drive while he sits and fidgets himself into his new uniform. 

It’d been Sheriff Williamson’s idea to make him three sets from the same flame retardant fabric firefighters wear. For a Hellhound, this is smart, sure, but in no way comfortable. Instead of fire, his skin is alight with the itch of the century. 

Also, they’d been made according to his old measurements, so they’re a bit snug. If he’s honest, he’s beginning to regret the whole sorry business.

“Can you stop that?” Weekes berates him sharply. “You look like a little kid in his church clothes. We all know it sucks, but that’s your hand. Deal with it.”

“That the same speech you give Holland every time she loses it just a little too much? ‘Suck it up’? No wonder she seems so thrilled to be back here,” Curtis quips, tugging viciously at his collar.

“Actually, you know what Holland has on you? She’s not a whiner,” Weekes fires back, making a right turn towards the industrial sector.

“She’s also not as mouthy as her big sister,” Curtis smiles tightly at her, the picture of pleasantness.

When they pull up at the crime scene, he still cannot catch a break. They lock up the car and start their walk in the stupid heat. 

As with some of the other murders, there is no discernible path to the victim. He has to trust his ‘instincts’ to lead them in the right direction. This is another reason why he feels these stupid special uniforms are unnecessary. He can control his powers now. He doesn’t need the training wheels. 

But Williamson hasn’t gotten as far as he has by being neverminded. So, Curtis wears the stupid clothes, if only to appease the man who made him who he is today.

“Okay, even I know that’s not right,” Weekes says, turning her head away from the ‘art project’ on the ground. 

She’s right, of course. As of late, these murders have all had the same M.O: messy decapitations, LOTS of blood, all of it supernatural, while the victims themselves have always been completely human. 

He has to hand it to the murderer, though. They at least seem to have tried with this one, albeit not well. The eyes had been extracted from the severed head, only to be replaced with a crude representation of werewolf eyes. Crude in that the yellow is by no means glowing and wouldn’t be if the person is actually dead. The blood also smells several days old and as though it’d been refrigerated. 

This one is different from the others.

“Copycat amateur,” he announces, reaching for his radio to call forensics.

“Sloppy amateur,” Weekes amends, kneeling next to the body. “Whoever it was, was definitely in too much of a hurry to care much about being accurate. Too compulsive and untidy to have done it for thrills.”

“Suspect needed this as much as whoever they were attempting to copy, but lacked the self-control to go all the way.” He makes sure to enunciate, spotting Weekes’s phone recording notes.

“Then, it’s official,” she says, looking up at him. “Being human no longer guarantees your safety. The goal has gone from eradication to maximum casualties.”