by Peter Styles
Damian had managed to trek maybe a mile in, lightsaber in hand for protection, and then he’d walked out from behind a bush and into Jordan. His first panicked instinct had been to fight—big kids weren’t usually nice to him and he was in the woods. It had to be someone he had to fight. Damian had yelled, swinging his weapon, and in five seconds his hands were empty and an unimpressed eleven-year-old was staring down at him. Jordan’s eyes, even then, were serious and hazel, the colors of the forest around them. It had taken Damian a full five minutes of meaningless ranting for Jordan to shut him up with a chocolate, patiently asking where Damian’s parents were and what he was doing in the woods.
They met again and again, after that. Damian hadn’t said much—he skirted around the truth, explaining that his dad was at work and his mom busy, so he had two hours after lunch to run around and expend his energy. Which, of course, he had plenty of. For two hours, then, they would meet on Mondays and Wednesdays in the forest. Those were the days that Damian’s father worked longer shifts, unable to come home to check on his family. The friendship they had always seemed so simple, Jordan patiently letting Damian clamber over him or sword-fight with enthusiasm. It was the one thing Damian looked forward to for the entire summer, and then it had stopped. School started and Damian’s mother passed and suddenly, his entire life was trying to take care of his father and keep the house upright while things were mending themselves. His meetings in the woods were done, the only thing he could do about it being a note he’d left behind in hopes Jordan would find it.
Did he ever? He wants to ask. Wants to ask if he found the note, if he’d missed Damian, if he’d wondered what happened. If he had ever thought about his childhood friend after that, or if Damian ever meant as much to him as Jordan meant to Damian.
That’s way too much to get into after meeting again for the first time, so Damian will settle on being a groupie for now. After all, the band and Damian’s current directionless state are the perfect excuses for tagging along for a few thousand miles. And if it all falls apart…well, he can always just go his own way. I just hope it doesn’t come to that.
He wakes to the sound of someone knocking at his door. It’s almost imperceptible and he almost ignores it, rolling over blearily.
Oh. Oh, shit.
He almost vaults out of bed after a moment, stomach turning at the sudden movement, and when he wrenches the door open he’s greeted by a half-awake woman in a room service uniform.
“Towels or anything?” She waves a vaguely manicured hand over her cart. Damian feels his heart drop a little and then he feels stupid.
“Towel, please,” he says, because it feels a lot like interactions with people trying to hand out flyers. He can’t say no. The woman passes him a towel and he quickly grabs the do not disturb hanger from inside, hooking it onto the handle. When he goes back to bed, the clock reads eight. He groans and throws himself back onto the bed, curling into the sheets.
Thankfully, he sleeps until ten. At that point he can’t sleep any longer and he lifts himself up, groaning and only partially ready for the day. He changes and cleans up a little, returning to bed to watch some ghost hunting show on the television as he waits. Somewhere between a commercial break and green-lit video footage of an abandoned asylum, he falls asleep again. And then a knock wakes him up.
He takes his time this time, shaking his head and making sure he’s not drooling. If it’s room service again, I swear, he thinks, combing a hand through his messy hair. It’s not room service. It is, in fact, Jordan, looking as if he has just had the best night of his life, which, Damian suspects, is probably true.
“How long have you been on the road?” Damian asks without thinking, realizing after the fact that it probably sounds rude. Jordan blinks and ducks his head, blushing but clearly trying not to laugh.
“Months. A long time.”
“You need not diner breakfast, then,” Damian decides, relieved that he hadn’t immediately pushed Jordan away with his comment. Think before you speak, he reminds himself, bouncing on his heels as he gathers his wallet and jacket from the room.
“I take it you have an idea?”
“I always have an idea,” Damian smirks, trying not to laugh when Jordan flushes a little again.
It’s not how he imagined Jordan would be—at least, not quite. He’d always imagined some shadowy figure, probably working as a park ranger or something equally outdoorsy. Something that would require him to run around, sweaty and dirty but with the same small smile he’d always afforded Damian when they were kids.
Maybe Jordan is kind of stoic, how he’s always been, but he seems…different, somehow more attuned to everyone else. When they were kids, Jordan had always tried to cheer Damian up, humoring him perhaps due to some sixth sense about something being wrong in Damian’s life. He had tried, in his fumbling way, not always successful and sometimes selfish. Like a boy who wasn’t an older brother pretending he knew how to be one. Now, it seems like he somehow became an older brother.
You’re not making sense. Pay attention! Jordan’s talking and Damian tears his mind away from stupid memories, reminding himself there won’t be any more if he doesn’t focus on the now.
“How long have you been here? In Derry?”
“Probably as long as you,” Damian muses, the street nearly empty as they follow the sidewalk away from the motel. “I got here night before last. I really was just passing through.”
“Where did you come from? Wait—I asked that, didn’t I?”
“It’s okay,” Damian says, laughing. He’s not used to being the more put-together one. That’s probably going to change once I fully wake up and my brain goes into overtime. “I was just living in Santa Clara. Close to the beach, actually, with a friend. It was really nice.”
“The beach,” Jordan muses, a flicker crossing his face. Some sort of conflict. It makes Damian curious—does he not like the beach? Bad memories? Has he been to Santa Clara? He’s like a starving man given a taste of food; just one tidbit and he wants more.
“I didn’t get to go much; I spent a lot of time floating around odd jobs,” Damian explains, “Lots of mowing lawns and fixing rich people’s sheds. The usual.”
“Sure. The usual,” Jordan snorts.
“You’re one to talk, rock star.”
“I’m not the one with arm tattoos.”
Damian finds himself grinning like a fool by the end of their banter. He’s quick with words—mostly because his brain usually runs at a thousand miles per hour—and he likes having someone keep up with him. He’s still a little nervous, though, and not sure what to do about Jordan not remembering him. The choices are open to him—say nothing, say something, try and prompt memory or drop hints. There are too many choices, which is starting to muddle him and make things a lot less fun and simple.
“I smell bacon,” Jordan says, breaking Damian out of his trance. “Are we—”
“Yup,” Damian says cheerily, steering Jordan toward the small restaurant. “Homestyle. We’re gonna stuff ourselves.”
“I can do that.”
The inside smells and feels just as good. It’s a place with wood insides like a log cabin. The tables are covered in soft red cloth, cotton napkins folded neatly in each place. Jordan and Damian, with their worn jackets and mostly unkempt hair, look like outlaws about to rob an elderly couple. They’re completely out of place. The girl who comes to seat them seems to notice. She smiles awkwardly, taking them to a table at a back window, and practically throws the menus at them before scurrying back to her post.
“I think she’s scared of you,” Jordan says with mock seriousness.
“No, I think it’s you,” Damian replies, trying not to break character, “It’s the dimples. Terrifying.”
Jordan looks surprised for a second, one hand flying to his face, and then Damian laughs.
“What?” Damian asks, leaning on his elbows, “Didn’t know you had them?”
“I…did,” Jordan says, looking e
verywhere but at Damian for the longest time, “It’s just, no one else really does.”
“What do you mean?” He has a suspicion. He’s not an idiot and he’s technically known Jordan for a very long time.
“I mean, Jace tells me I have a resting killer face. Or something like that. I just—I’m not perpetually smiling and I guess I look scary.”
“You’re intimidating,” Damian corrects, softening the blow with a smile, “there’s a difference. Besides which, it’s a good defense. You probably get bothered less, right?”
“Maybe I want to be bothered,” Jordan mutters.
Oh, boy. Damian tries to cover his mouth and fails, a snort spilling past his fingers. Jordan glares halfheartedly, which only makes Damian laugh more. Guess we’ve got our work cut out for us.
“Well, it’s a good thing I’m not intimidated, then.” Damian grins. “Now, what will it be, scary man? Blueberry pancakes or nails with gasoline?”
They’re making their way back to the motel and the tour bus, Jordan recounting the band’s last performance and the way Sam had missed an exit, when the sounds of an argument begin to float toward them. Jordan glances at Damian, frowning and concerned, and they start to turn the corner towards the bus.
Sam and Jace are outside, along with three other strangers. The strangers seem to be having a one-sided conversation, yelling at Sam and Jace, who seem both confused and aggravated by the encounter. From the snippets that Damian can hear, there is some sort of accusation about a girl and money floating around. The same tired drivel that comes up in stupid arguments with drunk and belligerent people.
“What’s going on?” Jordan half-yells, trying to speak over the din. He steps up next to Sam. Damian doesn’t miss the way they both seem to shield Jace—he wonders if it’s because Jace is younger, or if there is some past conflict they’ve learned from.
“I know she’s in there!” One of the men—the ringleader—is practically yelling in Jordan’s face. From his red eyes and haggard appearance, Damian guesses the drinking ended late with him and still hasn’t worn off completely. Lack of sleep and alcohol are the two things that make people idiots.
The yelling continues, Jordan raising his voice to try and wrench the conversation back into reality. Damian takes the chance to sidle up next to Jace, anxious with energy.
“What the hell happened?”
“We woke up to these songbirds giving us an earful,” Jace mutters, arms crossed over his chest. Damian realizes he’s in cotton sweatpants and a t-shirt, barely enough in the cool fall weather.
“I assume they’re looking for a girlfriend or sister.”
“Cousin, actually,” Jace says humorlessly, rolling his eyes skyward. “Girlfriend of…one of the other two.”
“How long have they been here?”
“I don’t know, fifteen minutes?”
“Good. Great,” Damian says, feeling a nasty smile flicker to life on his lips. “Did they try to open the door?”
“Yup. Actually got it open, too, because the road crew left it unlocked while they went on a grocery run.”
“How far did they get?”
“To the driver’s seat. Sam kind of rushed towards them and they crowded off but wouldn’t let us past here. I have no clue what they actually want,” Jace adds, raising an eyebrow, “besides making our morning unpleasant.”
“Thanks for the info,” Damian says, already peeling off his jacket. He passes it to Jace, wanting to laugh at the man’s nonplussed expression. It looks like Jordan’s. They really are cousins. “Here. You’re probably getting cold.”
“I don’t—”
“And I’m probably going to get warm, anyway,” Damian grins, reaching into his back pocket. He moves past Sam and Jordan, carefully pushing them back as he takes his place in front of the yelling man. Jordan says something—probably a question or a warning—but Damian ignores him.
“And who the—” the man starts, clearly incensed by the new face. Damian flips his pocket folio open for a brief moment, letting the badge flash and moving it quickly before shoving it back into his pocket.
“At a minimum, we’re looking at trespassing and attempted assault,” Damian says routinely, as if he’s done this a thousand times—which is technically partially true. “That’s not including verbal harassment and threat of bodily harm, or any of the multitude of cross-jurisdictional issues with making a scene on private property.”
“What—”
“I will provide you with the options to fuck off, gentlemen, or take a nice little field trip downtown. Your choice.”
There is only shocked silence for the briefest of moments. In that time, Damian takes stock of what he sees—the other two men believe him. Even the band seems to believe him. The Yelling Man, however, either doesn’t believe or doesn’t care. He will fight.
And fight, he does.
Damian is at least able to anticipate that it’s coming; he is prepared when the fist comes for him and he blocks it with a raised arm, ducking away and pushing at the other man. He runs through the motions like he’s washing his hands—a knee to the gut, just north of where it would be crippling; arms locking around the man’s neck, braced easily to keep him turned away and just ready for enough pressure to drop him to the ground. It takes maybe two minutes and Damian’s heart is pumping faster, the adrenaline making him sharp.
“Now, since it’s a Sunday and I’m feeling saintly,” Damian says, grunting a little as he keeps the man stationary, “I’m going to let you go and you’re going to go home, where your cousin is probably sleeping off a hangover right now. You step foot here again and the report I file won’t be kind.”
He waits a minute before releasing the man, watching him stumble a half-step away. He’s unmoving for a brief second before turning, glaring over his shoulder, and then he growls at his friends and they traipse away, slamming a car door and speeding off.
“…what the hell,” Sam starts, probably about to go on a tirade, and Damian fields him.
“Dad’s a sheriff,” he explains, trying to gauge what Jordan’s feeling. It’s the only opinion he’s worried about. Jordan looks…uncertain. Conflicted. Like he’s both starstruck and highly suspicious. Which is fair.
“Was your dad a ninja sheriff?” Jace asks sarcastically.
“I thought he was, when I was fifteen,” Damian grins. “So, maybe I overcompensated on the self-defense classes.”
“What did you show them?” Jordan asks, still a little closed off. That’s what matters, then. Which makes sense.
“I didn’t impersonate an officer, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Damian says. “Not really. I actually did go through training, believe it or not. I just didn’t…follow up. Anyway, it’s a copy of Mulder’s badge from The X-Files. Christmas present.”
The trio stare at him. It’s really a beautiful portrait—Jace’s barely contained mirth, Sam’s vague disgust and Jordan’s dazed amazement. It only takes a second for Jace to break, laughing breathlessly as he collapses onto the stairs of the bus.
“You’re perfect for each other,” Sam says drily, rolling his eyes as he turns to presumably find a jacket and food.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Jordan says quietly, moving a little further from the bus even as the others disappear inside. “He could have—”
“He really couldn’t have,” Damian says, “he was favoring his right leg and I’m pretty sure he was pre-hangover, so one hit to the ear would have made him a stumbling mess.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Jordan stresses, rubbing his face with an anxious hand. “It…that wasn’t yours to deal with. And the other could have hurt you, too.”
This time, instead of explaining why it wouldn’t have happened, Damian tries a different track. It’s clear enough that reassurances don’t really work on Jordan. So what does?
“I wanted to,” he says simply. “I wanted to help. And anyway, what’s the use in my having taken all those classes if I don’t use them?”
Jordan seems at a loss. Something lingers in the air between them—a spark, maybe, stronger than the initial attraction they felt at the bar. Some note of truth. It’s almost as if Damian has proven something; passed some test that has changed his position in Jordan’s eyes. Maybe this is what I need to do. Maybe he needs to let go of the past and start over, building blocks up from the ground.
But how the hell does he keep doing it when Jordan is spending the next who knows how many months travelling?
“Hey. You know, we’ve never thought about having personal security,” Jace says, suddenly emerging from the bus.
“What?” Jordan says, the tension between him and Damian broken like a scratching record.
“All I’m saying is, if we had even one security person, today might not have happened the same way.”
“We have security at most venues,” Jordan says, frowning, although the statement seems to be nagging at the back of his mind. “And we haven’t needed it—”
“What about the drunk guys in New Springs?”
“They didn’t—”
“Or the girl trying to get into the bus in Doeville?” Sam chimes in, sticking his head around the corner.
“Neither of those—” Jordan tries to start, shaking his head, but the seed of doubt has been planted.
“The anti-fans in Chester,” Jace says triumphantly, not quite smiling but still pleased, “a hundred dollars.”
Jordan is quiet. Damian waits, nervous. Is this really an option? Granted, it’s not what he expected, but he’ll take it. It’s not as if he has many options. His only plan had been to conveniently follow them on the road, perhaps catching up every other show to try and make this last as long as possible. Which is to say, he doesn’t have a plan at all.
“We have the budget,” Sam says casually, scrolling through his phone, “and I can have a contract in an hour.”
“How do you know the budget—” Jordan starts, looking as if he’s been dropped into the twilight zone, and Damian feels a little sympathetic.
“I’d be glad to help, if you need it,” Damian says innocently, “Of course, since I’m not licensed through a company I won’t set my rates as high. I have transportation as well, though, so I’ll also be able to help with small errands and short trips to the store or wherever.”
