Haven Fic: the less about witnesses
the less about witnesses
there is no right and there is no wrong; this is a lesson about human error and the things we do because of it. this is how it goes.
haven | nathan/audrey | post-ep for lockdown | 1,684 words, PG
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The coffee drops over her shoulder. Her hand fists against her knee before she takes it.
“Find Duke?”
“On the boat,” Nathan says. He comes around the bench, sitting next to her. “Half into a bottle of something and has nothing to say.”
“Of course,” she says absently.
“You okay?”
It’s tentative and it’s Nathan and she really doesn’t feel like talking about Chris and the Rev and anything that’s sort of happened in the last couple hours and weeks. She forces herself to nod and lean back against the bench, dipping her head back and closing her eyes. Her fingers brush against the lid of her coffee.
“Why can’t there be a day where you and I can just sit and have pancakes?” she asks. She listens to Nathan shift next to her. “You know, since you’re the chief and all, couldn’t you, just … declare Monday or Tuesday pancake day and tell everybody that this good and evil thing should take a break.”
“You thought a lot about this, huh?”
Her mouth quirks. “It’s how I get stuff done, Nathan. You know that.”
He makes a sound. Her eyes open and she elbows him, sitting back up again. She brings her coffee to her mouth.
“It’s gonna get ugly,” Nathan murmurs. “I don’t know what else to say.”
“Is there anything else?”
“Not really,” he says.
His hand drops over her wrist and she watches his thumb brush against her skin. It makes a long, slow sweeping motion. It’s nothing forced. It’s nothing overt and too immediate. Nathan touches her and that’s it.
She thinks about Chris again, about Chris and needing her and wanting her and how all of the sudden she starts to stand for certain people, for most people, as someone who keep the pieces together. That kind of responsibility, she thinks. It hurts. It hurts in a way that she never thought it would. It’s like going backwards, into those memories, but even those memories don’t belong to her.
“We can’t worry about Duke,” she says. She rubs the back of her neck. “He’s going to come to whatever decision he needs to make himself.”
“That’s pretty rash.”
“It’s Duke,” they both say at the same time, and Audrey hides a smile into her coffee, her fingers brushing against the rim of her cup again. Her lips scrape lightly at the lid and then she finishes the coffee off, shifting to stand.
She looks down at Nathan. His mouth twists and then he shrugs, pushing himself up too. He reaches for her coffee. She lets out a short, small laugh and watches as he finishes it off, tossing it into a nearby trashcan. It’s what they do.
The clipping of the Colorado Kid sits in the back of one of her books, folded neatly into a few squares. She doesn’t take it out much anymore. It’s the difference between knowing and accepting that it’s there.
Nathan follows her inside. The bar downstairs is heavy with locals and it usually takes her awhile, just awhile, to let the noise dull out and sort of accept the weight of some kind of nightly routine. But no one’s going to miss them at the station, or even at the bar downstairs, at least until morning. Nathan disappears behind her counter to grab a beer.
“I have a headache,” she declares.
“I have a permanent one,” he says, and there’s the snap of a cap. She listens to the clatter against the counter and he comes around, offering her the bottle. “But it’s not a competition,” he says.
She rolls her eyes.
She still takes the sip and then another one, standing there, in the middle of the small apartment, trying to figure out what exactly would quantify a next move. She knows that he’s thinking the same thing, that the town lore and the troubles, it goes much deeper than either of them are willing to admit - and that people are willing to tell and help them with. She can’t stop thinking about the police station though, or the way everything seemed to unravel right in front of her, then and too fast.
“I can hear you thinking,” Nathan murmurs.
“You wanted to share the beer.”
He smirks. “I’m being polite.”
“Whatever,” she says. “You’re lucky that I like your taste in beer at least. And you only drink like a girl sometimes.”
“I’m offended,” he says.
“It’s true,” she grins, leaning back. “But I won’t tell.”
His mouth turns, but it’s not quite a smile. Nathan reaches out and tucks some of her hair behind her ear. She eyes him quietly and his fingers curling against her jaw. His knuckles rub lightly against her skin.
She makes a soft sound. She can’t help it. It’s always different when Nathan touches her. It’s instinct, it’s more than just an afterthought; she feels the weight of it too, and how it’s less and less about circumstances than she needs it to be. Nathan is different. He may have been different since she met him that first time. It’s still his fingers that sweep away from her jaw, to her chin and then her lips. His thumb presses lightly over the skin.
“We’ll be okay,” he says softly.
“Or we’ll need more beer,” she quips. He snorts and there’s a brief smile, crooked at best. He bites at his lip and then draws his hand back. She hates that she misses that, when he draws his hand away and there’s nothing but the thought of him touching her. She doesn’t know what to make of it. Or maybe she does.
She draws back too, handing over the beer and moving to go sit on her bed. The springs moan and she pulls her legs onto the bed, curling them over the sheets. It’s kind of a mess; the sheets are everywhere. She can’t remember the last time she’s been home.
“I bet you miss the city,” he says.
“Nothing to miss.”
“Chris likes the city.”
She rolls her eyes. “And a lot of people like Chris,” she says. “That’s usually how it goes - ” when she looks up, Nathan shakes his head. He moves to sits next to her on the bed. “Oh,” she says. “Oh. I guess I’m that transparent after all.”
“Not really,” he tells her. They both know that’s a lie.
She elbows him. He grins into the beer and she manages to shake her head too.
“There’s a difference,” she says slowly. She pinches the bridge of her nose. “There’s a difference between wanting and needing me, right?”
“It depends what you mean,” he murmurs.
“You know exactly what I mean.”
She’s frowning and he hides a laugh, back into the beer before passing it off into her hand. He drops back into her bed. His shirt rides up and stretches, stopping just at his hostler. She tries not to think too much into it.
But it’s then that she catches the scar, the small one, the sliver of skin that cuts just right under the waist of his jeans. It’s nothing extraordinary. There’s no story either, he told her once. She bites her lip and reaches forward, her fingers brushing over it as he watches her. Nathan doesn’t move. They just both know it’s there.
Audrey pulls her hand away, but her fingers hover. He sighs loudly and he reaches for the beer again. She smirks and lets him have it. Someone downstairs laughs.
“They can be the same thing,” he says. She swallows and steals a sip from the beer, right out of Nathan’s hand. Her fingers move against the scar again. “You can’t really quantify need without the specific person in mind either. It’s just - ”
“People know who I am,” she says, rubbing her eyes. “That’s more than I know. Need feels like - I don’t know - need feels like I’m agreeing to something I don’t really understand, you know? It’s something that I can’t do.”
“Says you.”
Her mouth twists and Nathan is pulling the beer out of her hand before she even realizes. She drops to the bed, twisting onto her back. Her legs dangle of the end and he kicks her gently, forcing her to laugh.
“People are still people here.”
“In the middle of all this,” she says.
“Yeah,” he agrees.
It’s then that she thinks of the clipping. She turns her head to the side, studying the shelves. It’s between Hemingway and Morrison, tucked in between the pages of a book she never remembers. It’s never a name or title that comes to pass, it’s just that it’s there, right there, and it’s waiting for her to pick it back up again.
But she doesn’t. She hasn’t. It doesn’t bother her yet. And now, instead, she’s turn back to watch Nathan.
His eyes are closed. Her mouth twists into a little smile. The beer’s somewhere off to the side - she doesn’t care. It’s not important. Vaguely, she is aware of the crowd downstairs, about that sullen twist in her throat, the kind that she gets when things start to change. It’s heavy stuff, that much she knows, and it brings little comfort to her and any of this.
“Thanks,” she starts, but the rest of it dies on her throat. She shifts onto her side, rolling forward and pressing her head against his shoulder. She feels him move against her, underneath her, and it’s immediate, his fingers in her hair.
He smoothes his thumb against the crown of her head and the rest of his fingers tangle carefully, pulling and rolling against her. She sighs. It may be too soft, but Nathan doesn’t stop his hand all the same.
Sometimes, she thinks, it’s about what they have.
In the morning, Duke is leaning against Nathan’s truck. There are dark circles under his eyes, his mouth slanted into a frown. His hands catch against the pockets of his jacket and when Nathan steps forward, Audrey curls a hand around his elbow.
“I got this,” she says.
there is no right and there is no wrong; this is a lesson about human error and the things we do because of it. this is how it goes.
haven | nathan/audrey | post-ep for lockdown | 1,684 words, PG
-
The coffee drops over her shoulder. Her hand fists against her knee before she takes it.
“Find Duke?”
“On the boat,” Nathan says. He comes around the bench, sitting next to her. “Half into a bottle of something and has nothing to say.”
“Of course,” she says absently.
“You okay?”
It’s tentative and it’s Nathan and she really doesn’t feel like talking about Chris and the Rev and anything that’s sort of happened in the last couple hours and weeks. She forces herself to nod and lean back against the bench, dipping her head back and closing her eyes. Her fingers brush against the lid of her coffee.
“Why can’t there be a day where you and I can just sit and have pancakes?” she asks. She listens to Nathan shift next to her. “You know, since you’re the chief and all, couldn’t you, just … declare Monday or Tuesday pancake day and tell everybody that this good and evil thing should take a break.”
“You thought a lot about this, huh?”
Her mouth quirks. “It’s how I get stuff done, Nathan. You know that.”
He makes a sound. Her eyes open and she elbows him, sitting back up again. She brings her coffee to her mouth.
“It’s gonna get ugly,” Nathan murmurs. “I don’t know what else to say.”
“Is there anything else?”
“Not really,” he says.
His hand drops over her wrist and she watches his thumb brush against her skin. It makes a long, slow sweeping motion. It’s nothing forced. It’s nothing overt and too immediate. Nathan touches her and that’s it.
She thinks about Chris again, about Chris and needing her and wanting her and how all of the sudden she starts to stand for certain people, for most people, as someone who keep the pieces together. That kind of responsibility, she thinks. It hurts. It hurts in a way that she never thought it would. It’s like going backwards, into those memories, but even those memories don’t belong to her.
“We can’t worry about Duke,” she says. She rubs the back of her neck. “He’s going to come to whatever decision he needs to make himself.”
“That’s pretty rash.”
“It’s Duke,” they both say at the same time, and Audrey hides a smile into her coffee, her fingers brushing against the rim of her cup again. Her lips scrape lightly at the lid and then she finishes the coffee off, shifting to stand.
She looks down at Nathan. His mouth twists and then he shrugs, pushing himself up too. He reaches for her coffee. She lets out a short, small laugh and watches as he finishes it off, tossing it into a nearby trashcan. It’s what they do.
The clipping of the Colorado Kid sits in the back of one of her books, folded neatly into a few squares. She doesn’t take it out much anymore. It’s the difference between knowing and accepting that it’s there.
Nathan follows her inside. The bar downstairs is heavy with locals and it usually takes her awhile, just awhile, to let the noise dull out and sort of accept the weight of some kind of nightly routine. But no one’s going to miss them at the station, or even at the bar downstairs, at least until morning. Nathan disappears behind her counter to grab a beer.
“I have a headache,” she declares.
“I have a permanent one,” he says, and there’s the snap of a cap. She listens to the clatter against the counter and he comes around, offering her the bottle. “But it’s not a competition,” he says.
She rolls her eyes.
She still takes the sip and then another one, standing there, in the middle of the small apartment, trying to figure out what exactly would quantify a next move. She knows that he’s thinking the same thing, that the town lore and the troubles, it goes much deeper than either of them are willing to admit - and that people are willing to tell and help them with. She can’t stop thinking about the police station though, or the way everything seemed to unravel right in front of her, then and too fast.
“I can hear you thinking,” Nathan murmurs.
“You wanted to share the beer.”
He smirks. “I’m being polite.”
“Whatever,” she says. “You’re lucky that I like your taste in beer at least. And you only drink like a girl sometimes.”
“I’m offended,” he says.
“It’s true,” she grins, leaning back. “But I won’t tell.”
His mouth turns, but it’s not quite a smile. Nathan reaches out and tucks some of her hair behind her ear. She eyes him quietly and his fingers curling against her jaw. His knuckles rub lightly against her skin.
She makes a soft sound. She can’t help it. It’s always different when Nathan touches her. It’s instinct, it’s more than just an afterthought; she feels the weight of it too, and how it’s less and less about circumstances than she needs it to be. Nathan is different. He may have been different since she met him that first time. It’s still his fingers that sweep away from her jaw, to her chin and then her lips. His thumb presses lightly over the skin.
“We’ll be okay,” he says softly.
“Or we’ll need more beer,” she quips. He snorts and there’s a brief smile, crooked at best. He bites at his lip and then draws his hand back. She hates that she misses that, when he draws his hand away and there’s nothing but the thought of him touching her. She doesn’t know what to make of it. Or maybe she does.
She draws back too, handing over the beer and moving to go sit on her bed. The springs moan and she pulls her legs onto the bed, curling them over the sheets. It’s kind of a mess; the sheets are everywhere. She can’t remember the last time she’s been home.
“I bet you miss the city,” he says.
“Nothing to miss.”
“Chris likes the city.”
She rolls her eyes. “And a lot of people like Chris,” she says. “That’s usually how it goes - ” when she looks up, Nathan shakes his head. He moves to sits next to her on the bed. “Oh,” she says. “Oh. I guess I’m that transparent after all.”
“Not really,” he tells her. They both know that’s a lie.
She elbows him. He grins into the beer and she manages to shake her head too.
“There’s a difference,” she says slowly. She pinches the bridge of her nose. “There’s a difference between wanting and needing me, right?”
“It depends what you mean,” he murmurs.
“You know exactly what I mean.”
She’s frowning and he hides a laugh, back into the beer before passing it off into her hand. He drops back into her bed. His shirt rides up and stretches, stopping just at his hostler. She tries not to think too much into it.
But it’s then that she catches the scar, the small one, the sliver of skin that cuts just right under the waist of his jeans. It’s nothing extraordinary. There’s no story either, he told her once. She bites her lip and reaches forward, her fingers brushing over it as he watches her. Nathan doesn’t move. They just both know it’s there.
Audrey pulls her hand away, but her fingers hover. He sighs loudly and he reaches for the beer again. She smirks and lets him have it. Someone downstairs laughs.
“They can be the same thing,” he says. She swallows and steals a sip from the beer, right out of Nathan’s hand. Her fingers move against the scar again. “You can’t really quantify need without the specific person in mind either. It’s just - ”
“People know who I am,” she says, rubbing her eyes. “That’s more than I know. Need feels like - I don’t know - need feels like I’m agreeing to something I don’t really understand, you know? It’s something that I can’t do.”
“Says you.”
Her mouth twists and Nathan is pulling the beer out of her hand before she even realizes. She drops to the bed, twisting onto her back. Her legs dangle of the end and he kicks her gently, forcing her to laugh.
“People are still people here.”
“In the middle of all this,” she says.
“Yeah,” he agrees.
It’s then that she thinks of the clipping. She turns her head to the side, studying the shelves. It’s between Hemingway and Morrison, tucked in between the pages of a book she never remembers. It’s never a name or title that comes to pass, it’s just that it’s there, right there, and it’s waiting for her to pick it back up again.
But she doesn’t. She hasn’t. It doesn’t bother her yet. And now, instead, she’s turn back to watch Nathan.
His eyes are closed. Her mouth twists into a little smile. The beer’s somewhere off to the side - she doesn’t care. It’s not important. Vaguely, she is aware of the crowd downstairs, about that sullen twist in her throat, the kind that she gets when things start to change. It’s heavy stuff, that much she knows, and it brings little comfort to her and any of this.
“Thanks,” she starts, but the rest of it dies on her throat. She shifts onto her side, rolling forward and pressing her head against his shoulder. She feels him move against her, underneath her, and it’s immediate, his fingers in her hair.
He smoothes his thumb against the crown of her head and the rest of his fingers tangle carefully, pulling and rolling against her. She sighs. It may be too soft, but Nathan doesn’t stop his hand all the same.
Sometimes, she thinks, it’s about what they have.
In the morning, Duke is leaning against Nathan’s truck. There are dark circles under his eyes, his mouth slanted into a frown. His hands catch against the pockets of his jacket and when Nathan steps forward, Audrey curls a hand around his elbow.
“I got this,” she says.