Page 10 of Fortress (A Monster By Any Other Name #4)

R oger stepped onto the porch as the first sounds of the Eldorado's engine announced its entrance into his yard. The July sunlight glared off of the metal husks looming over his property, prompting him to shade his eyes as the car rumbled to a stop.

He'd grown adept at gauging how the boys were doing from the second they got out of the Eldorado. Not just physically—counting limps, bruises, or other obvious injuries—but how things were between them. Some days, Jake would pause by the fender, cautious and anxious as he waited for Tobias to reach his side before they came up to the house together, watching each other's back against any threats.

Today was not one of those days. Jake grinned at Tobias as they slammed their doors almost in sync, then he ambled easily up the drive, sure that Tobias would catch him and be confident enough to follow alone. Tobias did, his stride longer and looser, shoulders more at ease, everything about him ten times more confident than the last time Roger had seen him. Roger couldn't keep a smile off his face, and he didn't really try.

“Jake,” he said, clasping his hand as Jake reached the top of the steps. “Tobias.” Roger nodded to him before following him into the house. “I'm glad you boys could come. Haven't had company up here for the Fourth in a dog's age.”

“Is that like dog's years?” Jake called, reappearing from the kitchen with two opened beers and a swagger. “Where it's really only one but feels longer?”

“Probably the holiday's gonna feel longer, with you morons lying around. Are you swiping my beer already?”

Jake gave him one of his cheekiest, most shameless grins. “Does it count as swiping if I bring you one, too?”

“Yes, yes it does.” But Roger accepted the second bottle and took a swig. “So, you boys want fireworks or anything? I've got burgers and beer, but you want anything special, we'll have to run to town and see what the weekenders haven't picked clean.”

“Nah.” Jake shrugged. “Much as I like them, by the third there's never anything really good, and it's expensive as shit, you know? Besides, between the three of us we could probably build something that'll be more impressive than those flashbangs.”

Tobias turned from studying Roger's bookshelf. “Oh, like that time you thought that leaving the gas can in the haunted house was 'basically the same' as tossing in a lighter? Is that the kind of impressive flashbang you're looking for? 'Cause we should at least make sure the Eldorado's out of range from any projectiles this time. You nearly fainted when you saw how close that pipe landed.”

Roger damn near dropped his bottle. Not only did Tobias have a whole new tone of voice (lively, confident, even playfully mocking), but he was looking at Jake with a light in his eyes that Roger hadn't seen before either, something amused and affectionate, balanced with a familiar exasperation.

Jake sputtered in outrage, which Roger well knew covered guilt.”Dude, I did not almost faint. And that was a one-time experiment!”

“You r-remember stuff like that,” Tobias pointed out. He looked at Roger, and his smile only dimmed by a shade. “There was a lot of fire.”

Roger squinted at him. “You've gotten sassy .”

Tobias turned bright red as Jake laughed, and he stuck to monosyllables for the next hour. But for the first time since they'd met, Roger felt that the kid wasn't afraid of him, just embarrassed.

There was something satisfying about embarrassing Hawthornes. He could get used to having two boys to practice it on.

Roger got a pan of chicken and potatoes in the oven for dinner, and Jake and Tobias settled onto the living room couch to watch TV with the volume low. The two of them leaned against each other from knee to shoulder, Jake's arm around Tobias's shoulders. They looked so damn comfortable and relaxed for the first time in Roger's house that he had to turn away, pretending to search his bookshelf.

But a glimpse of a bandage across Jake's forearm reminded him of something. “Hey, Tobias—I came across something that might be useful for you.”He went to his desk to retrieve a roll of medical tape he'd kept in the top drawer, then returned to offer it to him.

Tobias accepted it with only a little hesitation, looking more curious than apprehensive. “Thank you.” He turned the beige roll over once, picking at the end. “What's it for?”

“Well—” Roger cleared his throat. “I was thinking—it could come in handy to be able to cover that scarring on your neck when you're in public. It's not exactly a neon sign, but a few people might make a guess. And if you're someplace down south when it's frickin' hot, it might even draw attention if you're wearing turtlenecks. That tape's specially designed to go on skin, advertised not even to come off in the shower, as long as you don't pick at it.” He hadn't been sure he'd gotten Tobias's skin tone right, but as the boy held the roll in his hands, it was close enough that he didn't think anyone would question it. Not the way they'd question the scarring from a lifetime wearing an ASC collar.

Tobias's jaw dropped. He stared at the roll in his hands, then up at Roger.

Jake snatched the tape out of his hands, examining it close. “Holy shit, Rog. This is fucking awesome!”

His exuberance made Tobias smile, but he still looked a little uncertain. “Thank you. That would be . . . really helpful. But is it okay? I mean, is it . . . legal?”

“Of course it's fucking legal,” Jake said hotly. “Why wouldn't it be? No law saying you need to be flashing your skin at any ASC assholes that come along. You're out of that . . . you're not there, and you're not fucking going back, so it's got nothing to do with you anymore. Hey, wanna try it out?” Jake stretched out a length of tape and grinned.

Roger looked away from the emotion in Tobias's face, the determination in Jake's. There had to be something he'd been meaning to find in his bookcase.

When he glanced back, Tobias had turned to face Jake with the top two buttons of his shirt undone. His eyes stayed on Jake's as Jake carefully applied the tape above his collarbone, over the worst of the scarring.

“It won't really go away, you know,” he said quietly, while Jake smoothed the tape over his pale skin.

Jake scowled. “But this is a hell of a lot better, right? Don't tell me you want to keep bundling up with all those layers when it's blazing hot out.”

Tobias huffed a laugh. “I didn't really notice. I've had . . . it's not a problem.”

“Problem or no, it's a nice fucking thing to have a solution. C'mon, now you don't have to worry about tugging your shirt down. Or me tugging at it.” He grinned and wrapped up the tape, tucking it back into Tobias's hand. “Let me enjoy this, okay?”

“You're right.” Still smiling, Tobias looked to Roger. “Thank you.”

“Don't mention it,” Roger said gruffly. “Wasn't any trouble to pick up.”It had taken him a couple weeks of research, actually, to find a decent manufacturer that had exactly what he wanted, but it was no trouble at all compared to the nightmare they'd already been through at the hospital in Arizona.

“How much did it cost?” Tobias asked.

Roger waved a hand in dismissal. “Couple o' cents, don't worry about it. Consider it a late Christmas present.”

Tobias's cheeks turned pink, and he dropped his chin until it almost touched the newly placed tape.

Jake beamed at Roger, wrapping his arm back around Tobias's shoulders. Roger shifted his gaze out the window. Small gestures like these meant little enough compared to what he hadn't done for the kid in the past, but he would try, dammit.

“Anywhere else you want to put it?” Tobias asked Jake, tilting his head back to meet his eyes. “There's other places you don't like to look at. But if you want to cover up all of them, we'll probably need a few more rolls.”

Jake winced but pulled Tobias close again, pressing a kiss to his temple. “No, we're good. You don't need to cover up another inch. Fuck, you don't have to cover up a damn thing if you don't want to, I know you and you're one hundred percent awesome.”

Whatever scars Tobias carried, whatever he'd gone through, that was part of him. Roger was glad that Jake knew that, despite how he acted sometimes like a complete moron.

After dinner, the boys cleaned up the table and dishes, then they sat down again with Roger for a couple rounds of cards. The normalcy was almost surreal, and Roger didn't want to test it too far. So after the second round, he declared himself beat and took himself back to his study.

Tobias cracked open one of his enormous school textbooks, balancing a notebook on his knee.

Jake found Roger behind his desk. He paused in the open doorway, arms crossed over his chest. When Roger looked up, Jake grinned.

“I could've kissed you for that roll of tape, Roger.”

“Glad you found the strength to restrain yourself,” Roger said dryly.

Jake raised his hands. “I did, but just barely. Seriously, it's perfect. I think it'll help him a lot, and with more than just covering up those damn scars. I'm doing what I can, but it's—it helps when someone else treats him like a person. Someone who knows, I mean, not just some damn civvie who's not in the loop.”

“It's the least I can do,” Roger said, rearranging some papers without really looking at them. “You've got the recipe down, I'm just adding a little basting. He's made leaps and bounds in the past year, thanks to you. I hardly recognize the kid.”

Jake looked away, rubbing a hand over his forehead. “Trust me, I fucked up plenty. I still do. And sometimes there's no fucking way I could've known. But I've pulled some dumbass moves too. So yeah, it's good to have someone else seeing that . . . that he's on the right track, you know?”

“Well, you're getting it right where it counts. I'm starting to think he'll be okay, in the end.”

“Fuck. You really think so?” Jake shook his head, walking in and dropping into the armchair before the desk. “Sometimes it seems like every time we make honest-to-God progress, I fuck it up again.”

Roger rolled his eyes. “Jake, that kid's talking to me now, he made a joke about extreme scarring, he's driven hundreds of miles and saved your ass a dozen or more times that you've told me, and we don't talk that much. The first time you showed up here, he wouldn't . . . well, he wasn't exactly a Chatty Cathy. Tonight I almost had to eat my hat when he sat down with us to play cards without batting an eye.”

“Yeah.” Jake snorted. “Maybe next time he won't throw the game.”

“Damn, I wondered how I pulled off that last hand.” Roger leaned back in his chair. “I don't say this often, but you should give yourself some credit. He's already a million miles from where you started out.”

Jake cracked a smile. Not a smirk or his cheeky grin, but something Roger hadn't seen often before: something breathtakingly genuine, even happy . “You can say that again.”

“A million miles, kid.”

Being back in Roger's house, drinking beer, watching Toby actually dare to tease him in front of Roger, was a strange experience. Jake had thought it would've felt like some kind of triumph. But to be honest, it seemed more like a hollow victory, like a second monster was just behind him, waiting to strike when he thought the fight was over.

Not much to celebrate, for one thing. The Fourth had never been much of a holiday for him and Leon. A good excuse to get drunk, steal a kiss from the hottest guy or girl around, and light off some fireworks. Sometimes the season had its advantages for hunting (no one asked questions about things exploding, and when else could you legally buy low-grade explosives hassle-free?), but neither of them ever got choked up about the day itself.

He'd known since kindergarten that the ASC was a bunch of power-inflated dicks, though he hadn't used those exact words at the tender age of five and a half in Mrs. Montgomery's class. In Leon and Jake Hawthorne's world, cops, Congress, lawyers, CPS, IRS, FBI, fucking road construction, and the goddamn military complex were all on the same shit list. But only recently had Jake reached the age and distance to wonder what the fuck the country had to celebrate.

He'd spent a year united with the kid he'd waited all his life to be with, and it had been tougher—hell, it had been more fucking excruciating than he could've imagined. He'd learned to see the world through Toby's eyes and to understand why so many things scared him. Over the past year, Jake had added plenty of things to the Hawthorne shit list (assholes who cracked jokes about dropping the soap, just to name one), and he wasn't fooling himself by thinking the list was done. He knew he'd only seen the tip of the iceberg. There was so much Toby wouldn't tell him, and a fuckton that Jake was afraid to ask about because he wasn't sure that, when the time came, he'd be able to handle it.

Then there was shit that had happened right in front of him but he didn't know how to explain.

He didn't like thinking about Louisiana. His memories were black as night and colored by fear, helplessness, and an anger that he'd rather not look at too closely. Toby had been supremely badass, but Jake remembered how Toby had tried to reassure him that he had hated that blindness, too.

Toby had known that same terror and powerlessness, and not from a hunt.

And Jake couldn't forget his first sight of Toby after the blindness had lifted: his face stony, his hands steady on the gun pointed directly at the back of the head of a shivering kid tied up like a hog.

The blankness there on Toby's face unnerved him. He'd seen hints of it on other hunts, but never that closed-off fury. Jake had always thought that Toby was hottest when he went up against monsters twice his size, exhibiting a fearlessness that no one could ever take from him.

But there was a difference between reckless courage and the ice-cold rage he had seen that day.

That was only a peek at the horrifying damage inflicted on Toby by an agency that was, by all civilian accounts, America's savior. Congress wrote the ASC a blank check year after year, and that money lined the pockets of the men who had given Toby his scars, his nightmares, that haunted look in his eyes too often. They were the reason Toby flinched from him sometimes, couldn't go to supermarkets on a bad day, and always hated to be noticed.

The second night after they'd arrived, Jake and Roger were drinking on the back porch at dusk while Toby washed the dishes. Jake had tried to help, but Toby had told him to relax, go hang with Roger, and “Stop getting in the way!” in a tone that Jake thought meant Toby wanted some space to himself as well. The night was closing in, and the mosquitos were out. Not enough to drive him and Roger back inside, but the pesky fuckers skated across his arms, and he found himself slapping at them absently.

“You're real quiet,” Roger said, after a long while of nothing but crickets and distant fireworks in the night. “Not that I'm complaining, mind you, it's hard to get peace around here with you two underfoot, but you also look like you're straining your noggin about something.” When Jake gave him a look, Roger shrugged. “I don't want you to hurt yourself, is all.”

Jake huffed a laugh. “You ever wonder why the hell we're celebrating?”

“Yep.”

Jake blinked at him. “Yep?”

“That's what I said. I figure anyone who carries a gun and has a touchy relationship with the powers-that-be starts thinking that, this time of year. Independence Day. Ha .” Roger snorted and took a long draw from his bottle.

“It's just, what's this fucking holiday about? Independence? A bunch of our ancestors saying fuck you to a bunch of other ancestors, just so they can go on to fuck with people? Where does the government get off expecting me to be happy, to bleed red-white-and-blue, after what they did to Toby, what they allow in the name of security and whatever the fuck else? Why should I be happy lighting up fucking sparklers when I want to burn that goddamn—” Jake cut himself off and took another swallow.

Roger rocked a little in his chair. “Independence Day is a funny thing for crazy bastards like us. Because government does good things, much as I hate to admit it. They build schools and bridges and roads—”

“Fucking road construction,” Jake muttered.

“—and libraries and Social Security,” Roger continued. “But that's not equal, and one man walking down the road can be perfectly safe and another can fear for his life anytime a cop shows up. It ain't fair and it ain't liberating, and it sure as hell ain't free. We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, and they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights. ” Roger took a pull on his drink. “The right to shut up and sit down, maybe.”

“How do you get past it?” Jake asked. “Or do you just—?” He gestured, not knowing what he meant.

Roger caught Jake's eye and pointed into the darkness. “What do you see?”

Jake looked. In the distance were the faintest flashes of light, multi-colored flowers made out of fire. “The fireworks in town?”

“Yeah. And who do you suppose is lighting them off? Normal people, the kind we've never really known except in passing. Folks who are grateful for the roads, the schools, and a paid vacation day. Well, they bitch about them, but they know they can count on them. Folks who want an excuse to light something on fire as much as we do, and who enjoy a good burger on the grill. Families, friends, neighbors, celebrating an ideal together, even if the reality ain't what we'd like it to be. Now, what do you hear back there?” He gestured back to the house.

Toby was finishing up the dishes. The light flowed out from Roger's sturdy home, bathing them on the porch, and Jake could hear him humming (sounded like Queen, or maybe David Bowie) as he washed and dried. Roger's old rocking chair squeaked.

“You trying to tell me something about family?” Jake felt his stomach drop. It was true, Roger was the closest he had to family (real family, because no damn Dixon could count), and Toby was his everything, but it tasted wrong tonight. Nothing sat well, and even the beer in his hand tasted off, the distant fireworks more threat than comfort.

“There's gonna be bad days,” Roger said, matter of fact. “Days you don't know why you're out there protecting anyone. Days you don't know what you're fighting for. But it helps remembering what's important. And it helps knowing that it eases up after a while. Hey, you want another beer?” He pushed up from his chair. “That helps too, sometimes.”

“I don't want to get drunk, Roger.”

Roger put his hand on Jake's shoulder. “Then don't. But if you're down, don't think of this as anything but what it is: a visit with people who care about you. Let the rest go. I'll send Tobias out, if he's not done.”

Toby appeared at the screen door. “No, I'm done. Were you . . . coming in?”

“Yeah.” Roger waved the empty bottle. “Grabbing another beer. You want anything?”

“No, thank you. I could get it for you, if you wanted?”

“Thanks, but I'm gonna hit the head too. You stick with Jake a while. He's tired of me and my old bones.”

Toby smiled, unsure but at ease, and stepped past Roger. He came over to Jake and didn't resist when Jake pulled him down beside him, hip to hip. Jake wrapped his arm around Toby's waist, hooking his fingers into Toby's belt loop.

“What're you looking at?” Toby asked.

“Fireworks over Las Cruces.”

Toby leaned against him. “They're beautiful.”

“Yeah, they are.” And if Jake wasn't looking at the fireworks, well, that was between him and the night.

For Alice Dixon, the Fourth of July was one of the few days in the year that she felt she could let her hair down, literally and metaphorically. Neither hunting nor politics encouraged informality, but today was about family, fireworks, and the U.S. of A., and she was going to relax.

After digging a pair of cutoff jeans out of her closet (probably hadn't been worn since the last Fourth of July), pulling a short-sleeve plaid shirt over a white tank, she drove out of town with the windows down and the radio's Top 40 blaring loud enough to leave after-echoes in her ears. Her destination was her cousin Jonah's lake house outside of D.C.

Director Jonah Dixon had started the annual Fourth of July party the year after Uncle Elijah passed away. Before then there had usually been some kind of annual family gathering, but Jonah made it official. That first year he had even sent out invitations. The older Dixons (more than half drunk, some still wearing black bands to mourn Elijah's passing) had talked about how nice it was to see different branches of the vast Dixon tree outside of a hunt or a funeral.

Since that first party, anyone with a speck of Dixon blood was welcome to Jonah's place to drink, eat, and be merry, but some other exclusive invitations were sent as well. At least a quarter of the guests would be politicians and lobbyists, the exact sort of asshole suits that Alice would usually have to pretty herself up for and smile.

But not on the Fourth. Jonah's party was a Dixon event, held on Dixon property. Not a fundraiser, not in honor of any Hill bigwig or Pentagon general. It was simply a celebration of family, Dixons, and America. No one had better proof of their love and commitment to America than the Dixons. Alice Dixon had nothing to prove to anyone today, and she intended to enjoy it.

D.C. was sweltering, but the day cooled as she left behind the concrete of the city's neatly arranged streets and reached more open land. Jonah's property was well guarded and heavily armed, as befitted the home of the leader of an important (arguably the most important) government agency. Alice knew that the only difference between the security there and some of the smaller ASC facilities was that in his own home, Jonah preferred his defenses to be subtly attractive or concealed so as to not attract unwanted attention from his less defense-minded neighbors.

The guard at the gatehouse checked her ID and administered the silver prick and holy-water test with neat efficiency. Afterward, he grinned at her. “Welcome to the party, cuz.”

She grinned back. “Thanks. I'll save you a brew for when you get off, yeah?”

“Ha, you do that, Alice! Enjoy!”

She rolled on through, waving back, making a mental note to get his name from someone at the party.

Plenty of cars, ranging from rust-buckets to Porsches, were already parked along the long driveway. She pulled her BMW up behind a gorgeous hotrod red Camaro and stepped out to join the party.

A refreshing breeze rustled the trees shading Jonah's spacious and carefully trimmed lawn, and Alice dodged barefoot children chasing one another as she walked down to the pier. She waved at Jonah, who was already flipping burgers and brats on his shiny two-tiered grill. Somehow he was still impeccable in his polo shirt and khaki shorts. He barely lifted a hand in acknowledgement, deep in conversation with a man who had “bigwig” practically written on his forehead. Alice gave a couple friends a quick hello or hug and then leaped into Matthew's motorboat just before he pulled away from the dock.

She took a seat near the stern, accepting the beer her uncle Andrew passed over, then sat back to enjoy the feel of the spray. Her position had had her stuck at a desk so long that fieldwork was like a distant, blurred memory of adrenaline and gunpowder. She couldn't even remember the last time she'd spent hours in the sun, laughing with a drink in her hand, throat bared to the wind whipping around the speedboat. It had been too long since she'd felt so alive.

Her cousin Matthew was at the wheel, his beer balanced in the cup holder next to him, arguing good-naturedly with Daniel (a more distant cousin, not officially a Dixon) about how to steer the boat. Occasionally they passed another boat or jet ski, and Alice waved at them as they whooped back.

Uncle Andrew tried to start up a conversation about her recent CNN appearance, leaning in just a little too close, but she waved him off and changed the topic to the Ravens' draft picks. After she returned to shore, she stuck to the same tactic when dodging grabby semi-relatives and insecure politicians who wanted to put a word in her ear. Weather, sports, car mechanics, and the suggestion that they touch base with her after the weekend deflected the lot of them, and she finally made it to the volleyball sandpit.

Just after her second match with some of the younger Dixons, Jonah began serving up plates of hamburgers, hot dogs, shrimp, salmon, and vegetable kabobs. Alice visited the bathroom to freshen up and wash her sandy hands before joining the line for food.

Debbie Dixon—one of the matriarchs of the Dixon family, though she had never hunted, and she avoided discussing the business with almost comical determination—stood behind the serving table, checking the silverware and condiments supply.

As Alice moved closer, she called, “Aunt Debbie, did you make that gorgeous pie I saw in the kitchen?”

Debbie beamed at her. “That's an old recipe of Carol's—Jonah's mother, I mean, not your great-aunt Carol. She used to make it every Fourth. Thought it was time to bring it back.”

“What happened to that amazing blackberry and peach pie we used to have?” Daniel asked. “I still dream about that pie.”

Debbie frowned at him. “That recipe was Ruth's. We can do better than that.”

Alice winced inwardly. Ruth Dixon was almost never mentioned in front of family, though she'd been Elijah Dixon's wife and Sally Dixon's mother. After the Liberty Wolf Massacre and Elijah created the ASC and built Freak Camp, she'd separated from her husband and moved back home to Maine. Elijah had tried to reconcile with her, but she'd never returned. Since his death, loyal Dixons didn't acknowledge her existence, let alone try to contact her.

Plates in hand, the family and guests drifted toward long picnic tables set up on the other side of the house. Alice took a seat next to Matthew. As she munched on deliciously buttery corn on the cob, she surveyed the packed tables of familiar faces (the non-family guests had been politely herded to their own tables or cordially invited into the house's big dining room by folks who actually liked hobnobbing). Everyone who belonged here was present—well, nearly.

Some had died hunting. Sometimes they just died. Other times they left the life and wanted distance from anything that reminded them of it. And some kept up the mission in a solitary fashion, without accepting that the family was there for them, doing the same thing.

As though he'd picked up some freaky mind trick from getting too close on one too many hunts, Matthew turned to her, a smear of mustard at the corner of his mouth. “So, the grapevine says you were hot on Jake Hawthorne's trail not so long ago. Close enough to count his teeth.”

Alice swallowed her mouthful of corn and wiped her mouth before answering. She considered pointing out the mustard, then reminded herself she was taking the day off from being nice. “Missed him by a couple hours at an Arizona hospital.”

“He'd been hit?”

“Not him—his freak. The one Jonah gave him.” Alice spoke quietly. This talk was right on the line between work and family, and she knew Aunt Debbie would vehemently disapprove of shop talk during the festivities.

“Hmm.” Matthew's mouth twisted, his eyes fixed somewhere down the table. “Jonah wants to check in with him now? I always thought it was weird he just let Hawthorne go off the grid like that. To be honest, I couldn't believe he actually gave him the freak, not after all—”

“That's something we can discuss later, Matthew, if you still have an opinion.”

They both jumped and twitched for their sidearms, before twisting in their seats to see Jonah behind them, smiling amiably as he held a sagging paper plate stacked high with grilled corn, sausage, and mashed potatoes.

“After all, we wouldn't want to upset Aunt Debbie. You know how she feels about business talk on holidays,” he pointed out. “Respect is important. So if you have any commentary on my decisions, we'll save them for the work week.”

“Yes, sir,” Matthew said.

Matthew was a smart-talking hothead, and it was a coin flip whether he'd offend someone in any given conversation. Alice had worked with him more than once in D.C., and she tended to grit her teeth and hope the good old boys' club would let his attitude slide. The matter-of-fact obedience he put into those two words now was new, though not surprising.

Some hunters new to D.C. treated Jonah with the brash ease they would give a paper-pusher who used to carry a gun. Alice often wondered when he would snap and shoot the idiots. But Matthew responded like he had already seen the gun.

Jonah walked around the table, set his plate down across from them, and took a seat on the picnic bench. “As for our cousin Jake,” he added, “don't worry. We'll find him when the time is right.”

A couple days after the holiday, Jake and Toby drove into town with a shopping list from Roger. The day was hot and dry, but it felt good to ride with their windows rolled down.

Once inside Total Stop Food Store, Jake's attention wandered to Toby more often than the next item on their list. From the salsa aisle to the coolers of beer, Toby's shoulders were relaxed, and he seemed almost oblivious to the other shoppers passing by. Jake knew that Toby's version of “oblivious” was very different from most people's (Jake could probably ask later and Toby would be able to tell him the shirt color of the guy buying peaches in the produce section), but he was as comfortable around strangers as Jake had ever seen him.

Jake looked down to hide his smile. As they pulled out of the parking lot to head back toward Roger's, he cleared his throat.

“So, uh, I was thinking. It's been about a year since—since we started this whole thing together.” Ten days short of a year, to be exact, but no need to make a big deal about it. Dates, numbers, anniversaries—those things could jinx you. Two decades of sitcoms had taught him that, and he could damn well believe it.

Before Toby, the only anniversary he'd observed was with Leon, and that date was November second: the day of the Liberty Wolf Massacre, and the day his mother had died. That connection made him . . . nervous. Just another reason to have this conversation now, rather than on the sixteenth.

Toby looked over, startled, and Jake rambled on. “Yeah, it just seemed like a good point to check in, see how you like this whole set-up we got. Or if you wanna shake anything up. 'Cause we could, y'know. If you want to go back to Boulder for a while, maybe stay put and look at schools. Or whatever.” Jake shrugged, as though it was all the same to him.

Toby studied him for several long seconds, which Jake did not find uncomfortable at all, before looking back at the motorway ahead of them. Then his gaze returned to Jake. “I like what we do,” he said at last. “Helping people, hunting evil. Sharing the road with you.”

Jake allowed himself a smile and a quick glance to make eye contact and measure the sincerity in Toby's face. “Awesome. I like all that too. But you know that. And sometimes—I mean, not so much anymore, but it used to be—the point is, you don't have to like what I like.”

“I know,” Toby said, and he actually sounded annoyed at Jake, which never stopped being fucking awesome. “I like lots of things you don't like now. Like Sarah McLachlan and The Smiths.”

Jake snorted. “Yeah, I'll be damned if I know where you got that from. But it's cool, you know, I ain't got a problem with any of that. I was just thinking—it's been a hell of a long time since I asked you a No question.”

Toby winced, even as he let out a short laugh that ended with his face turned away. Jake couldn't blame him. He'd usually rather stab himself in the thigh than reminisce about those early days. But for this one moment he wanted to remember. He wanted them both to realize how fucking far they'd come. They'd survived, in spite of all the ways Jake had fucked up and hadn't known what the hell he was doing, in spite of all the things Toby had expected that neither of them had been able to deal with.

After today, they could go back to never speaking of it again, and that would be fine with him.

Jake cleared his throat. “So, what's left on your bucket list? Anything you heard or read about that you want to give a whirl? Just give me a heads-up so I know which exit to take.”

Toby stayed quiet, considering the question with that tilt of his head that was somehow thoughtful, adorable, and sexy all at once.

The silence went on long enough that Jake's brain started churning its own list for what Toby might want. Hit up a Six Flags? No, Toby probably wasn't interested in being strapped into an open car and dropped from three stories up with half a dozen screaming strangers. A rock concert? That could work, if they went to one of the more open-air events and they could score a good seat far enough from the stage not to get suffocated by crowds. Would Toby want to try smoking a joint there? That wasn't like underage drinking, right? Maybe he'd make out with Jake there, the bass beating through their bones while the blue smoke lightened their bodies and left them indifferent to anyone and everything but the press of hands and lips and tongue.

Okay, that was probably a little too specific and outside Toby's current list of favorite things. If Jake featured at all in Toby's bucket list, it probably involved a private room. Maybe one with a bed.

Holy shit. What if Toby was thinking about exploring past the PG rule? About how to ask Jake for help with that? What the hell would Jake say? He'd reinforced the PG boundary six months ago, but Toby had become so confident and fearless in approaching Jake, touching him, tugging him in for a kiss. Did that mean they were ready for more? How could Jake know it was safe? If Toby asked right now , just for help with PG-13 stuff and how to feel good and safe—Jesus Christ, what they could be doing tonight —no, fuck that, they wouldn't have to go back to Roger's at all, they could get a room in town—

Toby turned to him. “Can we go to a museum? An—an art museum?”

Jake nearly choked. It took him an effort to catch his breath and another moment to be sure of his composure. “Sure thing, Toby.”

“We—we don't have to,” Toby said, uncertainty creeping into his voice. “It was just an—”

“Nope, art museum it is.” Jake smiled, though he didn't dare take his eyes off the road. “You got one picked out?”

“No.” Toby's eyes were fixed on him, Jake could feel it. “It doesn't have to be soon. Or even an art museum, science would be cool, too. Just whenever we have time and one's nearby. It's not a big deal.”

“Sure it is,” Jake said gamely. He'd been in a couple art museums after hours, with the lights off and every nerve on edge for the sound of a guard or a ghoul. He hadn't really looked at the exhibits, unless they contained bones or weaponry. He wasn't sure what else there was, or if he'd like it, but even hours of boredom would be worth it to watch Toby's face. “Let's do it. Anything you want, Toby. If it's on your bucket list, that's what we're gonna do. Oh, hey, there's another thing I've been meaning to get you. I'll show you when we get back.”

After unloading the groceries, Jake borrowed Roger's camera and held it up for Toby to see. “Gotta update your ID.”

Toby stared hard at the camera for a long minute, then transferred his intense focus to Jake. “I've changed since the last one you took, haven't I?”

“Yep,” Jake said, pinning one of Roger's spare white sheets to the curtain rods for a background. “Just a little.”

Toby nodded and set his shoulders back. “Okay.”

Taking the photo went a hell of a lot easier than last time. Toby didn't look even a little afraid of the camera now. He faced the lens steadily, chin up. Jake would've liked a cheeky smile too, but maybe that wasn't the best for a state ID photo anyway. He'd see about stealing one or two for himself some other time.

Roger processed the new ID (Toby looking on curiously as they used the laminator and laid some rudimentary hologramming), and the finished product was at least as good as the one Jake had made last year.

Toby spent a few minutes studying the new card, then holding it side by side with the old one. “It's better, isn't it?”

Jake knew Toby wasn't referring to the card's ability to pass inspection. “Hell yeah. Plus it's easier to say you're eighteen when you're less than a year away.”

Toby nodded, returning his attention to his first ID. He gave a quick shudder and placed the card onto the table, picture down. “We better get rid of this one.”

“Give it here.” Jake palmed it and slid it into his pocket, but he had no intention to destroy it just yet. As much as he hated to remember the early days, he suspected there'd be times when he'd need a physical reminder of just how far they'd come. Looking at that first ID picture he'd taken of Toby would be as good as a sock to the jaw.

The reminder wasn't just for bad times, though, when it seemed like they'd gotten nowhere at all and were only spinning their wheels in mud. He wanted it so he'd never forget where they'd started.

Toward the end of the day, Toby finished up some schoolwork he'd insisted on doing even though it was a holiday weekend and summer besides, and Jake joined him on the porch, polishing off a beer and a bag of chips.

Roger appeared behind them in the doorway. “Hey, Jake, come in for a second?” His tone was too casual to feel easy.

Toby looked up, wary and alert, but Roger waved a hand in dismissal. “We won't be more than a minute or two. Just have to talk to Jake about some old business.”

Toby watched them with narrowed eyes but didn't ask questions. He turned back to his books as they moved back into the cooler darkness of the house.

Jake faced him and tried to ignore the twist in his stomach. “What's so bad that you couldn't say it in front of Toby?”

Roger leaned against his desk, crossing his arms, expression set and neutral. “I got a message from Barbara at the Crossroads Inn, and it reminded me of something I hadn't wanted to ask with you boys out on the road, not over unsecured lines.”

The tension in Jake's gut expanded, but he braced himself with a smile. “You know me, I'm a huge fan of personal questions.”

“You hear anything from the ASC lately? Since they were on your tail after the hospital, I mean.”

Jake's smile dropped so fast he swore he could hear it hit the floor. “No. Why?”

Roger rubbed at the back of his neck. “Nothing. Probably nothing. I just thought—well, it don't matter what I thought, because you haven't.”

“No, Roger.” Jake took a step forward, bringing Roger's focus back to him. “Why the hell would you bring it up if it were nothing? You think me and Toby are—” In danger , he wanted to say, or screwed , or should be counting our days as borrowed time , but he didn't say any of that. He didn't have to.

But Roger shook his head. “It's not that bad. Just people asking questions about an unidentified freak who entered Freak Camp the same year Tobias did. I don't know more than that, but I figured you didn't want me to bring it up cold with—” He nodded back toward the porch where Toby was still bent over his books.

Jake wasn't sure he was grateful for that. Sure, it left him at least a little more prepared, but now he had to figure out what to say to Toby.

History was fascinating, fun, and terrible sometimes (the books didn't talk about everything, but Tobias could read between the lines enough to know that the reals of the past had treated each other more like monsters than other human beings), but not fascinating enough for Tobias to ignore either the tension in Roger's shoulders when he asked Jake into the house, or how Jake looked a little stunned when he came back outside.

Tobias felt the first frisson of adrenaline that he usually felt when braving a new public place or in the peak of a hunt, and he carefully put his book down on the armrest of the swing.

“What's up?” he asked.

Jake looked at him, his mouth a grim line, then stared out across the yard as he rubbed at his arm as though trying to get the blood moving again.

Tobias stood up and stepped closer to him, trying to catch his eye. “Jake, what happened?”

Jake let out a slow exhale and met his eyes. “There's some hunters asking about unidentified supernaturals. Ones that got locked up in that fucking camp the same time you did.”

Ice ran down his spine. Tobias closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and released it before reopening his eyes. He was still there next to Jake, Roger's solid porch under his feet. Slowly he stepped forward and took hold of the porch rail, gripping it with both hands.

Jake moved next to him, planting his own hands next to Toby's on the wooden beam. Like they were bracing themselves together for a storm they couldn't see.

Tobias swallowed, then made himself speak. “We have to find out.”

He could feel Jake looking at him. “Find out?”

“Where I came from.” Tobias took in a shuddering breath, but he was still standing, and the words were still true. Probably he’d always known they’d have to face this eventually, though he’d desperately tried to deny it. He dared a glance at Jake.

Jake stared at him, expression a mix of incredulity, amazement, and something deeper, an intense look that made Tobias want to duck his head. “You sure about this, Toby?”

Tobias did his best to smile. “Sure,” he said, though he was not sure at all.