by A. F. Henley
A crash of metal and a string of curses shook the barn, and Randy's first impulse was to panic: drop everything, fist his hands into his hair, and run screaming toward the road. Rationality conquered impetuousness, however. After all, if Vaughn was gone, that could only mean one thing: one, two, or all of the kids were in the barn. Somebody might be hurt. Vaughn had helped him when he'd needed it, albeit grudgingly, and the least Randy could do was return the favor.
If the yard was warm compared to the street, the barn was downright cozy. The door opened soundlessly, well-oiled hinges and slick tracks operating effortlessly under his command. A woodstove raged in the back, tossing vibrant ribbons of orange and gold behind the flame-blackened glass finish of its door. A frost had formed on the windows, and intricate patterns of laced ice decorated each pane. An old truck, whose year and make Randy didn't dare to guess, sat to one side with its hood propped open, while appearing to feast on half a body that was either writhing forward for better purchase, or attempting to wiggle out of it.
The form in the overalls slipped further into the engine, several loud clangs followed, and then strong hands retreated from the inner workings of the vehicle to grab solidly at each side of the truck's frame. Vaughn pulled out and away, and, without paying any mind to his surroundings, flung the wrench in his hand as if it was the mighty Mjölnir being hurled at villains. Whether from instinct or nothing more than pure luck, Randy choked a sound of distress and ducked. The hardened steel objet de la mort whizzed past his head.
Vaughn looked over with a start. "What in the Sam Hell?"
Randy frowned. "What is it about me that constantly has you questioning Sam's afterlife placement?"
Vaughn squinted, as if trying to figure out how Randy had got there. "Huh?"
"Nothing." Randy held up the bottle and replacement jug of antifreeze. "Gifts. For you."
With a slow saunter, Vaughn walked past, dipping to retrieve his chastised tool. "I didn't ask for that."
Randy sniffed. Obviously the man had meant to say thanks. "I didn't say you did. And I didn't ask for you to come over and help me with my truck, but you did. Guess that makes us even."
"Does it now?" Vaughn asked, retracing his steps to the vehicle.
"I'd say so." Randy shook the yellow jug. "Antifreeze. Coolant. To replace what you put in mine. And whiskey to help compensate you for your time. I didn't think you'd accept cash, but that could have been an error in calculation on my part. If you'd rather…"
Vaughn nodded, leaned against the car, and crossed his arms over his chest. "I see. On the workbench would be fine."
Randy inched over to what he would have called a counter, assuming that would be the spot best labeled 'workbench', and carefully placed both bottles on it. "I thought I saw you leave."
Vaughn smirked. "So you'd figure now'd be a good time to head on over?"
"What? No." Randy kept his face turned to the window to hide the blush he could feel creeping up his neck. "I'm just saying that's why I came in instead of just heading for the front door. I heard a crash and a yell and I was concerned. I thought maybe one of the kids was in trouble. Since I thought you were gone, I figured it would be wise to check. Just in case."
Vaughn cocked an eyebrow. "You do know he's not even eighteen yet, right?"
The heat in Randy's neck climbed into his cheeks. "Who? What? I'm not sure what you mean." He pretended not to notice Vaughn's frown, or the fact that Vaughn was staring. It was a stare that Randy was not, in that circumstance, willing to meet.
"My boy. Lyle. He won't be eighteen until late December and even then... " Vaughn's voice trailed off.
Randy's chin lifted in defiance. "What are you implying?"
"I'm not implying a damn thing," Vaughn said calmly. "I'm just making sure we understand each other."
Asshole! was the first thought that came to Randy's mind, and had he not spent far too many moments forcing himself not to appraise Lyle too much, he might have allowed himself to say it. Instead, Randy shrugged. "First off, Vaughn, I'm not interested in your kid in that way. He's good looking, yes, and I would be a liar if I didn't say that I've noticed that, but I do get the concept of boy, thank you very much. Looking isn't touching, but in my defense, I was under the mistaken belief that he was older than he is." Randy waved at Vaughn before Vaughn could speak, though it didn't really seem as though Vaughn intended to talk. "No excuse, I realise. I probably should have kept my eyes to myself. And I will. I promise. Secondly, this time around at least, I really was just showing some neighborly concern. Don't worry; I also get that you would have no idea what that could possibly mean. Obviously that particular nicety is not something of which you would understand."
And just like that, there was his mother's voice and tone, coming out of his own mouth. Randy hated himself for it.
"Mmm-hm." Vaughn didn't change stance or expression. "So now that you've finally been over here and satisfied your curiosity, you gonna stop fixating on my house?"
Randy wouldn't have assumed that the blush on his face could have got any worse. He had mental images of maraschino cherries, midsummer tomatoes, and bleeding hearts. His ears took the brunt of it; they felt hot enough to fall off his body, reduced to nothing but ash. "I'm not sure I know—"
His half-hearted plea of innocence was waved away. "I know. I know. It's normal in the city. Everybody's up and into everybody else's business. I don't expect you to know otherwise. But out here, we like our privacy. It's why we build our houses away from the road and don't cut the trees back. We keep our eyes on our own, and off of everything else."
Randy lifted his hand and gave Vaughn's wave a cop-style stop. "Excuse me, but I'd like to point out that it was your son who showed up on my property, in my car, without my permission. And, and, the two of you that I found on my lot, cutting down my tree, without my foreknowledge. I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure that isn't keeping your eyes on your own and off of mine." Randy brushed windblown hair off his face, trailing his fingers over his ear to see if it was as hot as it actually felt. "Besides, I haven't been fixating on your house."
"No?" Vaughn flicked a stray curl of metal off his flannel. "So you haven't been watching us from out your top windows there?"
Expression made the truth undeniable—Randy saw it in the smirk that lifted Vaughn's lips. He'd been caught. More than once. But even though the expression was a smirk and not a proper smile, it lightened Vaughn's face and pulled him a touch away from the side of scary. It might have even nudged him into the realm of cute.
As quickly as the cute had dawned, threatening replaced it, and Vaughn's voice hardened. "You know what I mean, Mr. Connor. Like when you're watching my little ones come and go."
Randy's blush fell immediately, leaving in its place the sinking feeling of blood rushing down to his feet. It was bad enough that Vaughn thought he was a total moron... but, God... that he was some kind of creep... some kind of pervert? It was no wonder the man hated him. Vaughn had probably been searching child protection databases ever since Randy had moved in. Randy's legs suddenly felt numb. He flicked a dry tongue over suddenly parched lips.
"Surely you don't mean to suggest..."
"Nope." Vaughn said simply. "I'm not. I'm just making sure we under—"
"Right," Randy sighed. "Understand each other. Yeah, I gotcha."
"Good."
The barn filled with an awkward silence. Randy shifted his feet and fisted his hands against his thighs while Vaughn stared in silence. "So, then... I guess I should go. You were working and everything."
"Uh-huh. That I was."
"So I'll just..." Randy pointed at the door.
Vaughn nodded. "All righty."
Randy swallowed his frustration. "Well, I hope you like the whiskey. If it's no good, I can take it back. Exchange it, or what have you. Pay you, even, if you want. And thank you." He started to walk backwards, hopefully heading for the door. It wasn't until his back bumped up against it that Randy thought to ask, "You do d
rink this stuff, right?"
"On occasion."
"Cool. Good." Randy opened the door and tiny tornadoes of snow swirled into the chasm he had afforded them. "It's snowing again."
Randy ignored Vaughn's hard stare. He told himself that the visit hadn't been awful, that they might have even aired enough so that they could tolerate one another. Maybe Vaughn had needed to say what he said. Maybe Vaughn would feel a little more secure knowing that Randy knew he was being watched, even if the reason why gave Randy a sinking feeling in his chest wouldn't let up.
He was through the door and had it all but closed when he heard the words, spoken so quietly Randy was sure it was said in the hopes that he wouldn't hear it. "Shield Wolf."
Randy frowned and poked his head back in. "Sorry?"
Vaughn almost smiled. Almost. Whether or not the twitch at the corner of his lips grew into one or not, Randy would never know, because Vaughn turned his attention back to the engine. "I said 'thanks,' Shield Wolf."
Don't grin like an idiot, Randy told himself, just don't do it. His body ignored the directive and not only offered one, but did its best to make sure the smile was a big, dopey grin that Randy was sure would have looked ridiculous on the best of the best that Disney had to offer. Thankfully, Vaughn never got the chance to see it.
Randy's reply bubbled out of his lips like too much soap in a washing machine. "You're welcome, Vaughn. Thank you."
Once again, Randy almost had the door shut when he heard. He didn't poke his head back in, though. He just smiled into the wind when Vaughn said, "Any time."
DECEMBER
Side by side they stared at the sky. Winter was coming. Both hide and nose responded to it; one with ripples that were more apprehension than shiver, the other with huffs and snuffs of scents that left their nostrils wet and their blood racing.
No sound was voiced to break the silence. Just a thought. Run with me.
And in an instant both beasts leapt into movement.
Randy leaned against the pillar on his front porch, his eyelids at half-mast, and his entire body at peace. There was something so very relaxing about watching snow clouds in a night sky. During quiet stretches, black and purple masses hung so low in the atmosphere that they created the illusion of a horizon of mountain peaks. Then, as though rousing themselves, the clouds would shift and roll across the sky, coming together to fold themselves around the moon. With a change so sudden that it was startling, the surroundings would fall into the icy grip of darkness. The imprisoned moon would then respond, piercing through the stronghold, dauntless in the battle for superiority. Brilliantly backlit by moonbeams, the clouds would tremble, huddle, and sidestep. En garde the clouds and moon advanced and parried, trading control.
In Wolf, however, Randy found that he could only remain transfixed in early December's night for so long. Nature had her ways of reminding him that he was a warm-blooded animal without benefit of fur or down. The cold air forced breath into steam engine plumes, turning every inhale and exhale into high-pressured cannons of smoke. With each breath he drew, his lungs became more chilled, until it felt as though frost was forming on his body from the inside out. At the same time, the air was crisp, clear, and energizing, like a shot of pure, natural ephedrine.
It wasn't only the cold that kept Randy close to the house, though. The howling carried a deeper chill than winter air ever could. From a distance, the sound was, if not beautiful, at least melancholy. Up close, however, the sound could make the bravest man skittish, and Randy would be the first to admit that he didn't rank high on the he-who-is-the-bravest list.
Randy pulled his hands into his sleeves, and scanned the property with a lazy, unfocused gaze. Everything seemed so bare—the Big-Toothed Maple, the Black Ash, and the American Dwarf Birch—all skeletal and leafless. So he caught the wink of a light being turned on immediately. He hadn't turned his own porch light on, stuck on the foolish notion that it would ruin the aura. Given the illumination in the darkness and the fact that the trees on the surrounding property were bare, Randy was awarded enough of a view to make out Vaughn's shape and form as Vaughn stepped through his own front door. Randy walked to the end of his porch and leaned against the railing.
Distance diminished Vaughn's size and presence, but that only served to make Vaughn seem, somehow, more human. Vaughn disappeared, appeared, and disappeared again before he came to rest at the end of his porch and, in a similar stance to Randy's, he placed both hands on the railing and lifted his head.
There was no way Randy could see Vaughn's face. Even still, he let his fantasies run and imagined Vaughn with closed eyes and wide-open nostrils, breathing in the scent of the approaching weather. He visualized the deep creases between Vaughn's brows finally relaxing, and the hard line of Vaughn's mouth softening as Vaughn parted his lips to taste the air. Beautiful. Perfect. As if the night was his dominion.
A shiver of electricity surged through Randy's body. The cold was forgotten; the magnificence of the sky suddenly moot. "I want you," Randy whispered, before he even knew he was going to speak the words. Not that he would have bothered to hold them back. The distance that separated them was more than sufficient, and there was a truth to the sentiment that surprised him. He recalled his father's smirk when Randy had insisted otherwise. How was it that his father always seemed to know before he himself did?
Randy shook his head at the thought, and closed his eyes. His father hadn't known shit, though. No, his father had been imagining shared coffees, long walks, and trips to the beach. Randy knew better than to hold out any hope for those kinds of things. Not with someone like Vaughn. Even if the man wasn't straight, he probably maintained the contrary as truth. He seemed the type.
"Rude," Randy mumbled, hating his own cynicism. That was a lot of assumption to make of a man he barely knew. Vaughn may have acted standoffish early on, but he'd redeemed himself when Randy had dropped off the booze. Sort of. A little bit. Okay, not really at all. But at least he'd said thanks.
Regardless—Randy watched Vaughn push himself off the porch railing and straighten—as much of a hard-ass as Vaughn could be, he was hot as hell. Getting bent over and pounded by someone like Vaughn would be, no doubt, all kinds of awesome.
"More valueless assumption," Randy huffed. "Tell me, counselor, what do you base these suppositions on?"
He paused, and clucked his cheek against his teeth. "Fantasy, your Honor. Pure, unadulterated whimsy." And maybe that wasn't a bad thing. Fuck reality.
The light on Vaughn's porch went out, and it was only then that Randy realized Vaughn had walked away. Once again, the quiet grew exponentially.
Randy shivered, pulled his coat closer to his body, and turned to his own door. "All righty, then. Wine it is."
*~*~*
"Okay..." Randy stared at the ingredients lined up on the counter, his tone daring them to defy what he was about to say. "Christmas cookies."
He eyed the flour and the eggs, and then gave the sugar and the butter a hard stare. "This is not a suggestion. This is not a recommendation. We will do this."
When he caught himself waiting for their reply, he chuckled and rubbed the skin of his forehead with one dry palm until it burned from friction. "Too quiet," Randy mumbled. He dropped his palm to the counter and shook his head at the sink. "Way, way too fucking quiet."
It wasn't the first time he'd found himself talking to things—the mirror, more often than not, the fridge when it didn't miraculously refill itself, and his woodstove the night prior. The woodstove conversation had gone farther than most, resulting in a scolding for smoking and fiddle-farting around that was almost comedic. Though the stove had put up a decent pretense that it wasn't going to light, at least it hadn't stood up, sprouted cast iron arms to fist against its sides in irritation, and raved back. So far, at least, the appliances and the grocery items remained inanimate.
He scrolled quickly through the recipe for what seemed like the hundredth time, and began the careful measuring that the smilin
g Internet lady had told him would ensure success. He had no idea why he was even bothering; no one would be stopping in, he had no immediate plans to visit anywhere himself, and he was more than sure if he dared to offer the postal services guy some baked goods in thanks for the man's services, that he'd find the entire offering tossed in the ditch at the end of the driveway. He didn't really even relish the idea of baking. When a mind began suggesting it would be okay to chat up the furniture though, Randy figured it was probably a good idea to start getting that mind busy on something. If cookies would do the job, then cookies it would be.
He intended to have, within an hour or two, rack after rack of heavenly smelling baked goods lining the counter. By that time, he, his cheeks floured and forehead glowing with a light but hygienic sheen of sweat, would be a master—even if it was his first attempt at baking anything that had instructions beyond 'open package and shove in oven'.
Randy would be the first to admit that he grew up believing that making cookies meant one popped open a magic tube, cut thin slices along the cylinder of dough, and laid the resulting circles on a cookie sheet. The first time he'd seen one of his friends' mothers measure, mix, blend, and fold ingredients, he'd been amazed. Not that he blamed his father for the shortcoming; Randy was more than thrilled his father had gone to the effort of trying to bake at all.
Regardless, he had time on his hands, dedication in his blood, and the conviction that this day would be the day that he would finally teach himself how to make a cookie from scratch. He was being guided by the Holy Saint of Internet Chefs Everywhere, and one of that saint's disciples had assured him, through blog, that excellence and good taste could be all but guaranteed by doing no more than following their simple and easy-to-understand instructions. It was so simple, he'd read, that even a child could do it. The validity of that statement seemed questionable, but he was ready to give it a shot.
