seldomly | They're burning all the witches, even if you aren't one

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They're burning all the witches, even if you aren't one

baby doll, i recognise you’re a hideous thing inside
if ever there were a lucky kind it’s you, you, you, you ♫

( the years slid by.

at first it was the liquor-fuelled anniversary texts, picking up his phone to reply again and again even as he told himself: bad idea, hackett. this is a fucking bad idea.

but they still didn’t stop texting each other until he’d gotten too drunk and too tired, passed out with his mouth tasting of jack daniels, waking up groggy and wooly-mouthed. it’s one monumental bad idea which he shoves under the rug (buried six feet deep as he buries everything), and he doesn’t think about it, and goes back to his regular life. eat, work, drink, sleep, repeat. travis hackett is a brutally-efficient police officer in his new district, distanced from north kill and his family history. he goes out for drinks with the guys sometimes. he burns time.

on the second anniversary, it’s her turn to text him first. they banter back and forth, barbed and sarcastic, and it’s a weirdly comfortable kind of byplay. they’re the only ones who fully gets what the other one went through.

as the third year ticks around, there’s a different tenor to his invitation: you wanna go hunting?

silas wasn’t the only wolf out there, and laura’s the only person left he’d trust by his side against one. he’s spent the past several months hunting down stray mentions in the news, hints and rumours and inexplicable police reports and ranger notices which eventually lead them to yet another werewolf who got the taste for human. the hunt is successful, and they’re both drenched in blood as he drives them away from the scene — he throws a towel at her in the passenger seat, don’t get it on the seats, fuck’s sake — and he drives them back, both of them looking like a complete goddamn horrorshow.

(they’ve always worked well together, much to each of their irritation.)

he pulls up to his sad, shitty bachelor apartment. their clothes are practically painted red, and he’s mostly cleaned up his face but there’s still a streak of red across his neck. )

I’ve always wondered, why the fuck do they explode like that, ( travis grouses. they climb the steps; he lets them in and then makes a beeline straight for the kitchen, two glasses, pouring a hefty celebratory drink for both of them. he slides the glass down the kitchen counter for laura to catch. )

You can get dibs on the shower. You look like shit.

( one of the many unfortunate lessons learned that summer is that life doesn't stop for trauma. it marches insistently on.

and so laura goes to school to be a vet, because it's been the plan for much of her life, and because it's the only thing that makes sense anymore. even if it isn't as fulfilling as she once expected. she and max make it work, until they don't anymore. her grades are good, but not where they should be, and there's no one to blame but herself, and her mind that wanders far too frequently back to north kill, back to hackett's quarry.

their yearly chat have, pathetic or not, become something she consistently looks forward to and, with those four little words you wanna go hunting? things seem to click into place. because she does want to go hunting. more than that, she thinks maybe she needs to.

which is all well and good until they're slipping back into his apartment in the early hours of the morning, blood soaked and adrenaline still buzzing in her system; the drink he pours isn't a shot, but she slugs it back like one anyway. whiskey, she thinks, or maybe bourbon, burning at the back of her throat. )

Try looking in the mirror, sheriff.

( she leaves before he can respond, maybe point out that he's not a sheriff anymore. like she actually cares.

the shower is good, necessary, and she contemplates standing beneath the stream until the water runs cold before remembering that he still looks like a crime scene. technically probably is one. so reluctantly she climbs out, shouts that it's his turn as she goes to change.

nothing special, shorts and a ratty old t-shirt she's had since her freshman year of high school. it's hard to care about looking fashionable after what they've done, so while he showers, she takes the bottle left on his table and sinks into the couch with it. )

( when travis finally, gratefully steps into the shower, he goes about cleaning himself up as best he can. how the fuck did blood always get under your fingernails? but the hot water’s gone faster than usual, the poor boiler not used to two back-to-back showers in this unit, so he makes it quick, too-aware of the fact that laura kearney’s just a few away in his actual home. he probably can’t leave her unattended too long or she’ll probably start going through his laptop or something.

it had been a needling tease, but when he steps in front of the bathroom mirror, he does stop to look at himself. haunted five o’clock shadow, exhaustion at the corners of his mouth, the adrenaline buzzing beneath his skin. tired enough, and focused enough on the job tonight that he hasn’t been letting himself think about the texts. everyone gets all fucked up around christmas and new years, he tells himself. nothing more to it.

and there was a job to do, and whenever there was a job to do, sheriff hackett crept back to the fore: solid, straightforward, fixated on the hunt. now that it’s over, though, he emerges with damp hair in rumpled grey pj pants and an incongruous niagara falls souvenir shirt, looking more everyday than laura’s ever seen him. (he used to have hackett’s quarry t-shirts; extras from chris’ printing run. after that summer, he’d burned them all.)

re-entering the living room, he takes note of where laura’s gone, and then sits down beside her, knee jostling against hers, and reaches out to take the whiskey. she’s switched from the glass to drinking straight out of the bottle itself, but he finds that he doesn’t give a shit. instead he’s too distracted by the warmth of her bare thigh, the weight of her sitting on his sofa, the fact that she smells like his fucking shampoo and soap, and now that the hunt’s over, he’s thinking about those texts again.

he takes a swig. )

How’d you get to be such a good shot, anyway.

( part of him is still thinking about the crisp businesslike swing of her gun, her calm pull on the trigger. it’s not what he meant to ask, but maybe he needs some more whiskey burning a hole in his stomach before he can cross that other bridge just yet —

he’s working on it. )

( his couch is surprisingly comfortable --or maybe not so surprisingly, since she's pretty certain this is where he spends most of the time he isn't working-- and by the time he re-emerges, the adrenaline rush has slowly begun to fade, leaving her restless and in search of a different kind of buzz.

he's dressed so painfully ordinary that, just for a beat, she's actually taken aback. doesn't quite manage to suppress the chuckle that slips past her lips. both because it's so strange, and because if she laughs, then she doesn't have to admit to herself that it's not a bad look on him. )

Actually you can thank my dad for that one.

( it's not something she's ever kept secret, but still feels like an odd confession to be making to him of all people. blame the alcohol making her pleasantly warm, or the too comfortable press of his thigh against hers.

or the fact that she knows too much about his family and it feels only right to give him something. )

He used to take me hunting with him when I was younger. It was the fucking worst, but turns out I'm good with a gun. ( tipping her head back onto the couch, she watches him pull from the bottle, his mouth where hers had been, and wonders idly if he can feel it. ) Think maybe that's why I've always wanted to be a vet. Healing instead of killing, you know?

( look at her now. )

( there’s a knowing twist at the corner of his mouth, recognising the same irony she’s thinking about. )

You can contain multitudes, ( travis says dryly. (is it actually a walt whitman reference? might be.) but there’s some genuine thoughts circling his mind at this topic, some hazy consideration between the adrenaline and exhaustion and hot shower and the burn of the whiskey on his tongue, and laura giving him this. some small piece of her. so he dredges up the words to grant her something back, contemplative: )

The sheriff thing. The Hacketts pulled strings, put me there ‘cos it was useful. The family needed someone on the inside, someone who could cover up our tracks. But I still had… I thought it would be good to do some good, y’know? Spend long enough watching afternoon murder mystery re-runs and you start to think law and order can make a real difference, help people’s lives instead of just sweeping the ugly shit under the rug.

Anyway, point being. You’re still doing good. You can both help animals and kill monsters.

( even before agreeing to the hunt tonight, laura knew there was little about this situation that wasn't completely insane. the two of them still being in contact, working together like it's the most natural thing in the world. and now this, share and share alike. he starts to talk and she shifts on the couch, knee bumping his leg as she tucks her legs beneath her.

in any other situation, at any other time, she might have cut him off by now. chastised him for being so fucking maudlin. but tonight, at least for now, there's an easy comfortability between them and oddly, she's not ready to break that just yet. )

What did you want to be before? ( vaguely she waves a hand, as if indicating all the before. ) Before the wolves and family shit. When your future was still your own.

( it’s inescapably maudlin, but somehow it just fits the atmosphere of the evening: blood-drenched, tired, with a slight buzz making the cadence of the night slightly surreal and dream-like. it’s hard to imagine that they were out there just a few hours ago, on the road and hunting down another wolf. doing what they could to clean up the world and eliminate one more threat and leave people a little safer than they started.

he thinks about her question, and it’s so hard to imagine a time when he wasn’t the hacketts’ loyal dog. who was he if he wasn’t chained to his family, moulding himself to their expectations and their needs? )

You’re gonna fuckin’ laugh at me. ( a beat. laura kearney’s never avoided laughing at him, cruel and furious and he’d deserved it; but somewhere along the past three years, some of her viperous anger’s bled away until he’s not sure what’s left. )

You ever watch Magnum PI? I wanted to be a private eye. He lives on this, like, fuckin’ luxurious estate in Hawaii, surrounded by beautiful women, driving a Ferrari, choosing whatever jobs he wants to take, working only when he wants. Couldn’t grow the moustache, though.

( travis was only fifteen when it first started airing, and it had left its stamp on him. )

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They're burning all the witches, even if you aren't one

for laura.

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this was not worth the 18 year wait, but i miss them so much!

worth it!!