Baywatch fic: People Persons

[faye_dartmouth]

Title: People Persons

Disclaimer: Yeah, not mine.

A/N: This has not been beta’ed, but it does fit my asphyxiation square for hc_bingo

Summary: Because Mitch had always been a people person, but he hadn’t really been a best friend type. And then there was Brody.



-o-

Mitch was what you might call a people person.

He was athletic and organized and smart and talented -- and he just liked people. He liked talking to them, getting to know them, making them feel special. That was why he did what he did, after all. He saved people.

It was easy most of the time.

Until Brody.

See, most people were normal. They were good and likeable and well intentioned.

It wasn’t that Brody wasn’t those things, it was just that Brody didn’t know how to do those things normally. He was good, but often had to do all the bad things first before he got to the good thing. He was likeable but only once he got over being a total asshole. And he was well intentioned, but those good intentions were often in conflict with his own stupidity and pride, thus making him really hard to like right off the bat.

Now, they had made good progress, that much was true. It had taken time and a lot of work, but he and Brody were on good terms now. Really good terms, actually. The kid had accidentally moved into his house, and Mitch had found him an acceptable roommate, a decent coworker and a pretty damn good friend.

Best friend?

Well, time would tell.

Because Mitch had always been a people person, but he hadn’t really been a best friend type. He’d always been friendly and open with everyone, but he’d never really let someone all the way in. Now, why would he let in some pretty boy prick from Iowa in? That was the question, wasn’t it.

Mitch wasn’t sure that was what was happening.

What was happening was that he and Brody lived together and worked together. Brody was becoming a better person and Mitch was starting to like him more. A lot. A lot more.

So the prospect of a night in, dinner and a movie, him and Brody?

Yeah, that didn’t sound all that bad.

Making his way down the beach toward his house, he had the ingredients he’d bought at the store. He was just about there when someone called his name.

Mitch turned and smiled. “Jimmy! Hey!”

Jimmy was one of the locals who lived further inland but seemed to spend most of his time on the beach despite no obvious employment. He had all the trappings of being a surfer bum, except that he was rarely ever in the water. He just liked the laid back lifestyle, Mitch figured.

And who could blame him?

It was a pretty great way to be.

Jimmy came over to him, beaming, reaching out a hand. “Mitch, my man!”

Mitch gave a hearty handshake. “Haven’t seen you around much this week,” he commented, looking Jimmy up and down. “Everything going okay?”

It wasn’t probably any of his business, but Mitch was a people person. He made it his business, and he respected Jimmy’s autonomy, but Mitch always had a thing for hard cases.

“Oh, yeah,” Jimmy said. “Actually, I wanted to say thank you.”

“Thank you?” Mitch asked. “For what?”

“Your advice the other week,” Jimmy said. When Mitch made no obvious sign of remembering, Jimmy continued. “You told me that I had to focus a little. Find a passion. You know. Get a job.”

“Oh, yeah, that,” Mitch said. He couldn’t recall the specific conversation. It was general advice he’d given to several people recently as they struggled to make sense of their existence. That was the kind of shit Mitch was good at: existential crises and the like. He was so ground that other people gravitated toward him. “Well, what did you decide?”

“Cooking!” Jimmy said. He grappled around in his bag, which was slung over his shoulder. “Look, wait, see, I’ve got something, I’ve got something.”

He mired through it with a few errant mutters before producing something wrapped in a piece of foil. Mitch was instantly skeptical, but Jimmy couldn’t have looked more proud.

“Here! Here!” Jimmy said, offering the foil to Mitch. “My first foray into baked goods. Well, second foray. I made two batches, but the first one was a little different, if you know what I mean.”

Mitch accepted the package, though he wasn’t sure he actually knew what Jimmy was implying. “Well, thank you--”

“You have to try it!” Jimmy enthused.

Mitch was even more skeptical than before, but Jimmy was so damn proud that it wasn’t like Mitch was about to say no. Especially since Mitch had clearly been a motivating factor in this.

Whatever this was.

With a smile, Mitch unwrapped it. He felt a hint of relief when he discovered that it was a brownie.

“Ah, look,” he said. “A brownie!”

Jimmy nodded brightly. “A family recipe, no less,” he said. “Take a bite!”

Mitch smiled. “It’s actually not a cheat day for me--”

“Please?” Jimmy asked. “I mean, I did this because of you, and I want to share it with you, and I promise, this batch was the good batch. There were some wonky ones, but this one was on, I know it.”

Jimmy was starting to ramble, and Mitch knew from experience that was not what he wanted. He also didn’t particularly want to blow his carbs on a brownie, but what the hell. He was a people person. Other people, they just came first.

“No problem,” he said effortlessly, taking a large bite. It was moist and flavorful. More so than Mitch had expected. He swallowed. “See?”

Jimmy looked so pleased, so inordinately thrilled, that Mitch took another large bite.

“Pretty good, man,” he said around a mouthful of chocolate. He patted Jimmy on the back. “Keep up the good work!”

Mitch took another bite and gave a cheery wave goodbye as he cross past Jimmy and kept straight on to home. Surely Jimmy would have relished a little more company, and, in truth, Mitch could see half a dozen more people down the beach who were ready to say hi, but he was a people person. That didn’t mean he wanted to spend every waking moment with others.

Besides, he comforted himself as he swallowed another bite of oversized, extra chocolatey brownie, he had plans tonight. Him and Brody, the two of them. For Mitch, a lot of his socialization was duty and obligation. Not in a bad sense, but in a real sense. That was why he had his limits.

Brody wasn’t either of those things.

It wasn’t clear exactly what Brody was, but he was different.

Mitch took another bite of brownie and rewrapped the last bit, shoving it into his pocket as he unlocked the front door to his place and went inside. He whistled his way into the kitchen, washing down the brownie was a cup of water as he got out the skillet and started to prep for dinner.

Tonight was going to be a good night, he told himself.

Just him and Brody.

Mitch’s new, possibly favorite, pastime.

Still whistling, Mitch checked the chicken, which had been defrosting all day in the fridge. He pulled out a stock of vegetables -- broccoli, sugar snap peas and carrots -- and put them on the cutting board. For all his talk about carbs, he had dinner rolls to make from scratch, and he made sure that the beer was ice cold, ready to drink in the fridge.

Things were looking good.

Mitch frowned, trying to remember what to do.

He felt weird, suddenly.

Like, weird weird.

His head felt stuffy, like there was cotton stuffed up his nose. There was a low ringing in his ears, and something buzzed between his eyes. He blinked a few times, and his vision was just a few seconds off, and he shook his head, flexing his fingers to remind himself where he was and what he was doing.

Maybe he had been doing too much socializing. Maybe he was overextending himself. Maybe he needed to be alone tonight.

The vegetables were changing colors. The chicken was floating off the plate.

That was weird.

He had to focus, though.

He was a people person.

Right?

He always had to be a people person, even when he was so damn tired of it, and he was, okay? He was so damn tired of it.

He shook his head, squinted his eyes.

Brody would be here soon.

He had to focus.

Even when the ringing picked up and his vision all but blurred. He reached for the pan, but couldn’t make his hand move. Couldn’t connect with anything.

Well, shit, he thought. Maybe something was wrong with him.

That was his last coherent thought as his concentration splintered. Somewhere, he heard the front door opening. People didn’t leave him alone. He never got a break.

Damn people person.

He turned toward the sound, scowl in place.

There was no way in hell he was going to be a people person tonight.

-o-

Brody was going to be late.

Now, for the record, this was not unusual. Brody wasn’t, by nature, a punctual type of person. He just wasn’t. But he had gotten better. He was at least aware when he was late now, and he often felt pretty bad about it.

He felt especially bad about it now.

Because not only was he late, but he was going to change his plans last minute. Mitch was counting on him being home for dinner and a guys night in, and Brody was running behind to tell him that he had planned a hot date instead. Not so much planned as accepted. It wasn’t his fault that Summer had offered to take him out for dinner and drinks at the last minute. Mitch was all about being a people person, and Brody had never been quite that naturally magnanimous. He was, however, a specific people person.

As in, he liked spending time with specific people.

As in, he really liked Summer.

Shit, Brody would do anything for Summer.

True, this was because she was hot and funny and he wanted to get laid, but he had it all worked out. If Mitch got all in a stink about it, all Brody had to say was that he was trying to expand his horizons. Be more social. Just like Mitch wanted him to be.

That was all true, and Mitch would get that.

Well, he’d get that Brody was making up shit to get laid, but he’d appreciate the effort. Mitch was a reasonable sort of guy, after all. A good roommate. A friend.

A friend would understand.

Brody was new at this whole thing, but Mitch had taught him that much.

Friends understood. Things came up, and all you had to do was be rational and explain things like an adult and shit would be cool. It was going to be fine. Really, totally fine.

Still, it made him nervous. This whole being a person thing -- a people person, Mitch would like to say -- was hard for him. It didn’t come naturally.

But he had to accept it. Embrace it. Face it, head on.

At the house, he cleared his throat and nodded his head. He could do this. He could be a people person. He could.

Brody opened the door. “Yo, Mitch! I need to talk to you!” he called out, throwing his keys on the table and putting his phone down next to them. He still needed to change before he went out, but first things first. He closed the door. “Mitch?”

There was sound in the kitchen, but no immediate reply. Brody glanced curiously around the living room, where nothing appeared to be amiss.

“Mitch?” he called again, wandering toward the kitchen. “Can we talk for a sec?”

In the kitchen, Mitch was at the counter. Ingredients were strewn about, but the dinner preparation didn’t look quite the way you’d expect. Mitch was usually pretty orderly about this shit, but the counter looked like a disaster zone. Weirder still, nothing seemed to be done. The vegetables hadn’t been chopped but were heaped together in bowls. The raw chicken was resting on the top of a box of cereal.

There were knives, like, everywhere, but not a cutting board in sight. Instead, Mitch was at the counter, seemingly separating cereal flakes into an indiscriminate number of piles.

“Um,” Brody said. “Everything okay in here?”

Mitch seemed to startled, turning around abruptly. His eyes went wide at the sight of Brody. “What the -- who are -- why?”

The moderately incoherent string of words left Brody uncertain. If he were the people person Mitch wanted him to be, it would undoubtedly all make sense. He was still a socially inept asshole, however, and he had no idea what was going on right now. “Just, you know,” he said, knitting his eyebrows together. The only thing that had been visibly chopped was now readily apparent to Brody: a full gallon of milk, half of which was now on the floor. “Dinner looks complicated tonight.”

That was the nice way of saying things. Brody could be nice. He could.

Mitch exhaled rapidly with a quite inhalation to follow. He was sweating, face flushed red. “I’ve been looking for the pepper.”

“Oh,” Brody said, wishing that could explain everything. “Well, um, you know. Usually you keep it in the cupboard.”

Mitch turned, staring at the cupboards like he’d never seen them before.

Brody shook his head. “Are you sure you’re okay, man? Because I wanted to talk, but if this is a bad time or something--”

“Pepper,” Mitch said, almost as if he were ignoring Brody. “Pep, peppy, pepper.”

That was starting to sound a little passive aggressive, honestly. This whole conversation was just starting to feel off. Mitch probably knew he was trying to blow off dinner, and Mitch was tired of calling him out on shit. “See, Summer asked me to hang out tonight,” he said, trying to make it sound like he was being a good friend and not a horny bastard. “And, you know, we see each other every night, so I don’t know, I thought maybe I’d go this time.”

Mitch opened a cabinet and stared a little more.

Brody shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortable. The heat was rising in his face. “I’m sorry if that’s, like, blowing you off or something, because I didn’t think it’d be that big of deal, you know?” he rambled on, hoping for some kind of merciful response from Mitch. “But I mean, your whole dinner, this looks like complicated shit.”

“Pepper!” Mitch yelled in reply. He slammed his hand down with surprising force. The piles of cereal threatened to collapse as Brody jumped back in shock. “Where’s the pepper!”

Clearly, Brody had miscalculated -- and badly. He should have taken this dinner more seriously, and he had to stop thinking with his dick. He had to be a people person, damn it. Be Mitch Buchannon.

With that in mind, he stepped forward, reaching his way across Mitch. “It’s right here,” he said, plucking it off the shelf, where it was currently right in front of Mitch’s face. “So if we could just talk about this, about what dinner means and what my relationship with Summer means, I think we could come to a reasonable conclusion about all this--”

He held out the pepper to Mitch.

Mitch stared at the pepper.

Brody frowned, increasingly vexed. “I’m sorry, I am,” he said. “But I didn’t realize dinner was such a big deal to you and--”

Mitch knocked the pepper out of his hand, and Brody yelped. As Mitch advanced, looming over him with a sudden fury, he backed up into the counter, heart skipping a beat.

“Dude,” he said with an uncomfortable laugh. “It’s just dinner. I mean, what the--”

Mitch didn’t stop, though. Eyes gleaming, he reached out to grab Brody.

Brody smacked his hand away, trying to turn out of the way. “Shit,” he said. “You’re really mad about this!”

Mitch didn’t respond; didn’t stop. He pressed on after Brody, like a man possessed.

Apparently, people persons took this shit seriously.

Brody’s heart felt like it was in his throat. “Mitch, I’m sorry, I’m--”

The apology was cut short as Mitch grabbed him again, this time finding purchase. The size of Mitch’s hand circled around his throat, and Brody gasped and gargled, struggling to break free. With a frenetic motion, he broke the hold, almost falling backward as he circumvented the counter in a panic.

“Mitch?” he asked, watching his friend with a more discerning eye now. This wasn’t what a people person did. This wasn’t what Mitch did. There was no sign of recognition in his face; his eyes were glazed. Something had gone horribly, horribly wrong -- and Brody, as typical, had gotten right in the middle of it. “Mitch, come on, man.”

But Mitch’s eyes were set on him now, and Brody knew his only chance was to escape. Brody wasn’t a lightweight, but Mitch was easily twice his size. In terms of sheer strength, this sort of matchup wasn’t even a contest. Brody’s only hope was that he was faster.

And in the water, he was.

But on land, confused and panicked, Brody barely made it to the doorframe before Mitch’s massive hand grabbed him by the back of the shirt and pulled him back. The force of it nearly made him lose his footing, and he could do nothing as Mitch ragdolled him into the counter. The impact was jarring, and Brody’s vision went momentarily white as pain exploded in his back. Muttering a curse, he didn’t have the chance to catch his breath when Mitch grabbed him again, taking him by the shirtfront this time and all but lifting him off his feet.

Brody thrashed, but it was short lived. Before he could mount any kind of escape, Mitch forcibly threw him to the ground. He shattered a chair in the process before landing hard on his back, head smacking against the tile.

Disoriented, Brody blinked blindly, and by the time he could get his bearings, Mitch was already on top of him.

Literally.

Straddling him, his full weight on his chest. Brody locked eyes with Mitch the second the larger man sneered, smashing his hand down with full force onto Brody’s exposed neck.

Brody choked for air, but there was none to be had. The grip was like a vice, and Brody tried to buck his body as best he could. He couldn’t find any purchase, however, and his weight was too slight to have any effect. Using his hands, he reached up, trying to pry the hand off. When that failed, he stretched his arms out, trying to push Mitch away, but he wasn’t large enough. He couldn’t even reach Mitch’s face.

Eyes widening, he came to the dull realization that Mitch was going to kill him.

Mitch’s face, unyielding and blank, showed no indication of stopping. In fact, there was nothing familiar about the expression at all. It was almost like Mitch wasn’t there, that this was some kind of stranger.

Because Mitch wouldn’t do this.

Mitch wouldn’t murder his friend for blowing off dinner. He wouldn’t resort to strangulation just because Brody had made a social miscalculation. Mitch was a people person. People like Mitch didn’t go around killing people just because.

No, Mitch saved lives.

Mitch had saved Brody’s life.

His chest seized up, and he could feel the blood pool in his head. His ears were throbbing, and his fingers slammed uselessly against Mitch’s bulging biceps as they bore down on him.

Please, please, please.

His consciousness was starting to tunnel as the need for oxygen surpassed imminent and descended into desperate.

Mitch.

But Mitch wasn’t there.

This wasn’t Mitch.

This was a stranger, someone Brody didn’t know.

A stranger who looked like Mitch.

A stranger who looked like Mitch and who was going to kill him now.

That was what it was, then. Brody’s eyes burned with tear as he gagged fruitlessly. His weak fists were ineffectual, as his vision darkened at the edges even more. He felt himself convulse.

He didn’t understand. None of this made sense. Mitch was his friend, Mitch was his best friend.

His hands fell away, falling limply back to the ground.

Mitch was the reason he was alive.

Mitch was the reason.

His heart was about to explode against the inside of his constricted chest. His brain was buzzing. It was too much, too much, and Brody was too little, too little.

He wanted to tell Mitch he was sorry. He wanted to tell Mitch how much he had to learn, how much he wanted to learn. He wanted to explain that he wasn’t a people person, but he was starting to be, well, a person, for the first time in his life. And that was good. That was so, so good.

His eyes slipped shut, and his existence dimmed.

He was sorry, you see.

Brody was so, so sorry.

That was how this started.

Turned out, that was how it ended, too.

-o-

Summer was really looking forward to her date tonight. A lot of people assumed it was a foregone conclusion between the two of them, but Brody had been almost shy after everything that had happened. At the very least, you could call him polite.

Mostly, he was just slow. He was a gentleman when he took her out, and he was always letting her take the lead. Sometimes, she still wanted to skip to the part where he made a baby in her.

Not that she wanted a baby. Right now. With him.

She wasn’t actually sure what she wanted.

She just knew that she was ready for more, and if she and Brody were going to become a couple, she was going to have to take some serious action. If left to his own devices, Brody would hem and haw his way into a relationship in two years. Summer was hoping to fast track things just a little.

Some of it was good, and she knew that. Brody needed to learn self control. He needed to have a more balanced view of himself. Before, so much of his bravado had been a facade to cover his insecurities, and now he was building a real sense of self and real relationships. A real life.

In general, Summer supported all these things, but Brody could still be a little more Brody, as far as she was concerned. She knew he was trying to be like Mitch -- he still lived with the guy -- and Mitch was a great guy. He just wasn’t a guy she wanted to date.

Mitch liked to call himself a people person, but he was more than that. He was Mitch Buchannon. You could learn a lot from him, but you could never be him, because no one could be him. He was Mitch Buchannon.

But Brody was going to exhaust himself trying.

Summer had just barely talked him into blowing off dinner plans, which they had nearly every night, for a date instead. She had had to all but promise him sex at the end of it for him to even consider it, and she had had to resort to a five minute makeout session in the locker room to finally seal the deal.

Now, here she was. She’d given him a head start, but she was totally going to follow him home. Brody had an overdeveloped sense of duty around Mitch anymore. If she didn’t go and ring that damn doorbell, Brody was likely to lose his nerve and never leave.

Because Brody was becoming a good person, a real person. But she had to make sure he became his own person.

And, you know, her person, too.

There were just things to consider, okay? And Summer wasn’t the kind of girl to sit around pining and leave things to chance. She wanted Brody; she was going to get Brody, and Mitch was going to understand that even if she had to sit him down and have a straight up talk with him about it.

At least, that was what she told herself as she rallied up her courage to knock on the front door. The thing wasn’t that she was scared of Mitch, but she knew Mitch. It was easy to be won over by his incessant and effortless charm. He was a people person; he was likeable. He made you feel special, and he made you want to stay. If she wasn’t careful, she would end up staying for dinner alongside Brody, and that was not her intention at all right now.

With a steadying breathing, she gave the door a solid rap and then remembered to ring the doorbell as well. She waited, patient and expectant. Mitch, being a people person, would be prompt in answering; he always was. And Brody wanted to get laid, so surely he’d come running.

She stood a moment longer than felt normal and then leaned closer. She rang the bell again, listening for it to echo throughout the inside of the home. As the peel resounded, she listened for traces of movement. She expected to hear the sound of footsteps approaching, but that wasn’t what she heard at all. There was scuffling -- grunt.

Frowning, she knocked even more forcefully this time. Finally, when her curiosity could not be contained, she reached for the doorknob and found it open. Pushing it open, she edged her way inside. “Mitch? Brody? Hello!”

The weird thing was that there was no direct answer. Brody, being ever eager to please these days, often responded promptly to her call. Mitch, being a devoted die-hard people person, wasn’t about to let someone go un-greeted, especially in his own home.

Instead, she heard a more pronounced scuffle and a series of straining grunts that she really could not place.

Closing the door behind her, she stepped farther into the home. “Mitch? Brody?”

Brody’s phone and keys were on the table by the door. The living room was empty. The scuffling seemed to slow, but the silence in its wake was eerie.

“Is everything okay?” she ventured cautiously, stepping around the corner and into the kitchen. She saw the mess on the counter first -- a half made, poorly planned dinner, by the looks -- and then the broken chair on the far side by the table. Then, she caught a glance of Mitch’s smooth scalp, and she walked around the counter to see. “I was coming by for Brody--”

She stopped herself, all the breath leaving her body. Because Mitch was there, on his hands and knees, but he wasn’t tending to the broken chair. He was straddling Brody, whose body was limp on the floor, face flushed with red. Mitch’s hand was wrapped like a vice around his throat -- and he was the one grunting, still exerting as much force as he could even though Brody had obviously gone still.

None of it made sense, of course. Summer could see it, but she couldn’t understand it. She couldn’t understand Mitch, her boss, her most trusted ally, the heart and soul of Baywatch, trying to kill one of his own. She couldn’t understand Brody, her boyfriend, the man she wanted to be with, finally coming into his own, who was plainly not breathing on the kitchen floor.

The hows and whys threatened to choke her, but Summer hadn’t gotten to be on Baywatch because she was bad under pressure. To the contrary, she was good under pressure. She knew how to rise to a challenge.

Even a challenge wherein her boss was killing her boyfriend for no apparent reason.

Answers could be -- would be -- answered later.

Right now, she just needed to stop this.

“Mitch!” she screamed, descending toward him. She reached down, pulling on his shoulder. “Mitch, stop! Mitch, you’re killing him!”

It probably wasn’t a surprise that Mitch didn’t respond. In his right mind, there was no way in hell Mitch would be doing this, but it did make her job harder right now.

“Mitch!” she tried again, yanking harder. He merely tossed himself back, throwing her off him, before he beared down on Brody’s limp form once more.

Frantic, Summer gritted her teeth.

“Shit,” she said, turning around, looking for something, anything. “Shit, shit, shit.”

She seized upon the skillet, made of pure cast iron. She scrambled, almost throwing herself across the counter to nab it off the stove. Crashing her way back to the floor, she knocked the countertop’s scattered contents everywhere. Taking the skillet with both hands to support its weight, she turned back toward Mitch -- toward Brody.

“Mitch, you’re killing him!” she screamed. “Mitch, please!”

It had no effect. The people person inside of Mitch was gone. Whoever this was, this wasn’t the Mitch she knew. And if she didn’t act now, the Brody she knew wouldn’t be here either.

She looked at him, features starting to turn blue.

“Mitch!” she all but howled, rearing back with the pan and swinging as hard she could, directing the blow to the back of Mitch’s neck.

Now, Mitch was a sizeable man. He didn’t go down easily. In fact, in Summer’s time at Baywatch, she’d never seen him go down at all.

But then, no one had ever clocked him with a frying pan before.

Mitch went still momentarily before his body crumpled forward, landing with a thud on the ground on top of Brody.

She was crying now, but she didn’t really have time to notice. Hastily, she dropped to her knees, the skillet cracking the tile as she let go of it. Breathing heavily, she felt her vision threaten to tunnel on her, but she forced herself to keep it together. For Mitch. For Brody.

“Mitch?” she asked, pulling at his shoulder. “Mitch?”

He responded limply, and she had to switch from pulling to pushing as she forcibly dragged him onto his back. He landed with something of a thud, and she reached down, pressing her fingers to his neck, checking for a pulse. Over the sound of her own heart, which was pounding in her ears, it was hard to discern, but she she splayed a hand over his chest, his breathing was deep and even. He wasn’t necessarily okay -- nothing about this was necessarily okay -- but he was alive.

That was something.

That was more than she could say for Brody.

Crawling over Mitch, she scrambled to Brody’s side. He was still where he had been when she first came in, splayed lifelessly over the tile. “Brody?” she asked, and she had to wipe the tears away before they dripped off her face. “Talk to me, Brody.”

There was no way that was going to be possible. As horrifying as the coloration on his face was, the deep welts on his neck were even more indicative of the outright trauma he’d experienced. Still, she was a lifeguard. She was trained in CPR. Her fingers were shaking as she reached down to his damaged neck, pressing her fingers into the bruised flesh. She held her breath while she waited.

A moment passed.

Two moments.

She caught herself on a sob, running her hand down his chest and half throwing herself on top of him. “Please, don’t be dead,” she muttered -- begged -- cried. She laid her ear against his chest. “Please, please, please, don’t be dead.”

His chest was still. No air moved in his lungs; no blood moved through his heart.

He was--

Shit.

Brody was--

She reeled, sitting up again. The world threatened to spin, and she felt her consciousness tip precariously. This was shock, she told herself. She was going into shock.

Because Brody was--

Her eyes burned, and she shook her head.

Brody was--

“No,” she said, almost breathing the words. She clutched her hands into Brody’s shirt. “No.”

--dead.

Brody was dead.

Brody was dead?

Brody was dead.

Her mind rattled through the shock of it, processing it faster and faster until the realization was like a weight of bricks. She thought she was going to be sick; she thought she was going to pass out, and then she remembered something important, something critical.

Summer was a lifeguard.

Summer knew CPR.

Summer had brought people back to life before.

And you could sure as hell bet she was going to do it again.

With a rush of adrenaline, she bettered her position, taking a moment to gingerly adjust Brody’s airway. She was gentle with his neck, but there was only so much she could do. Leaning down, she gave two breaths, watching with relief as his chest rose and fell.

His airway was likely damaged, but it wasn’t completely compromised. That meant she could proceed with normal CPR and hope for the best.

No, not hope.

Insist on the best.

Moving her way down, she lined herself up alongside Brody. With her advanced training, it wasn’t hard to match up her hands along his chest, pressing down hard on his breastbone. Hard and fast, that was the key. You had to mimic the beating of the heart. Most people couldn’t do it hard enough -- they were too afraid of breaking something to compress the heart -- and most people couldn’t do it fast enough -- the emotional strain was significant, after all.

And when you knew the person, when it was personal -- well, that could really go either way. It wasn’t recommended because it could compromise your judgement.

But, as Summer pressed rapidly on Brody’s chest, compressing it several inches with every exertion, she also knew that it could give you the adrenaline you needed to do the hardest thing, the impossible thing.

Looking around, she saw that Mitch was still passed out. Her cell phone was in her pocket, but she didn’t dare stop CPR. She wondered if she could yell loud enough to attract attention from someone outside.

Still pressing down hard and fast, she looked back down at Brody.

She couldn’t possibly stop. If he wasn’t breathing, she would do it for him. If his heart wouldn’t beat, she would do that for him, too.

He had to survive.

He had to come back to her.

She stopped just long enough to pinch Brody’s nose, blowing in two quick breaths. She didn’t give herself a second’s reprieve before she was back at chest compressions again. This was the job, after all. You did it at all costs, no matter what.

Pausing to give two more breaths, her tears were burning down her cheeks nose. Congestion clogged her nose, and she choked on a sob.

This wasn’t the job. This couldn’t be the job. Not Brody. Not Mitch.

Her arms were aching, and she was losing track of time. She had lost count of her compressions, but she didn’t care. She didn’t stop. As long as she didn’t lose Brody.

She breathed for him, swallowing back her fear.

As long as she hadn’t lost him already.

And none of it made sense. They were supposed to be on a date right now. Mitch was supposed to bitch and groan and roll his eyes, but give his tacit blessing. They were supposed to be happy. They were supposed to be alive.

She faltered, her elbows threatening to give out from the constant strain. She was shaking now, her tears falling in floods down her cheeks.

He was trying to become a people person, of all things. And she had no idea if he was succeeding on that front, but he was becoming her person.

He was her person.

She leaned down, tasting the salt on her lips as she breathed for him again.

Once.

Twice.

And--

Beneath her, Brody gave a start. It was a horrible, ragged inhalation that nearly jerked him all the way off the ground. Summer had to stumble back, barely catching herself. She blinked in shock as Brody took another strangled breath, and it was all she could do to catch him before his head thumped back to the ground again.

“Brody?” she asked, brushing her tears off his face. “Brody?”

He strained and gagged, body half convulsing as he struggled for oxygen. His blue lips darkened to red, and he could barely squint as he finally tried to open his eyes.

“Brody,” she said again, trying to stabilize his neck and head. “Brody, look at me.”

As battered and straining as he was, Brody remarkably complied. With jagged movements, his eyes darted up toward her, roaming chaotically for a moment before their gazes locked. He opened his mouth, but the sound that came out was squelched and garbled. Still, the recognition in his gaze said it all.

He knew who she was.

He was okay.

“Brody,” she said, openly sobbing now. She leaned down, kissing him sloppily. “Oh, thank God, Brody.”

For a moment, they sat like that, hearts pounding in frenetic tandem. Only then could she look around and reach for her phone. Only then could she call for help. Only then could she look at Mitch, still passed out on the kitchen floor.

Only then could she wondered what the hell had happened here.

She tucked Brody closer against her, scooting them slightly further away from Mitch as her shaking fingers called 911. Brody’s color was returning, though his breathing was still like gargling rocks. The bruise was deepening on his throat, the indelible mark of a handprint.

“You’re going to be okay,” she promised him, because Summer had never pretended to be a people person. She was just loyal and fiercely so. And Brody? Was hers now. She pressed her lips to his forehead once more, taking comfort in the grating sound of his chest against hers. “You’re going to be okay.”

-o-

Mitch woke up with a throbbing headache.

No, that was an understatement.

Mitch woke up thinking that his skull had actually been split in two -- that was how it felt. The encompassing pain was all he was aware of for several long seconds, before he was nearly taken down by a wave of nausea that nearly made his eyes spin.

Instead of hurling, he gagged a little, and as he tried to right himself, the whole spun and glowed. The pain made things foggy. The nausea made things hazy. And still, somehow, Mitch felt oddly disconnected, like he was recovering from the worst hangover ever.

It was worse than the time he’d been shot and then stabbed himself with poisonous sea urchin venom. After he’d had those nifty hallucinations, he’d felt a little like this. Strung out and high and what the hell had Mitch done to himself to feel like this?

Only after the question coalesced did he come back to any sense of his actual, physical state. In addition to feeling like absolute shit, he was also in a hospital room.

Confused, he tried to sit up and move around.

That didn’t work so well.

See, he was strapped down, wrists locked into soft restraints, which were anchored to the bed he was lying in.

That was a new one.

So, he felt like shit and he was tied down in a hospital of all places.

With a situation like that, he half suspected he was hallucinating now.

From nearby, someone cleared their throat. Mitch looked up to see Summer, sitting anxiously on one of the chairs by his bed. She looked worse for wear, and she was notably tense, her body angled away from him. “Mitch? You back with us?”

He blinked a few times, having to clear his throat to get his voice back. “Yeah,” he said. “Did I go somewhere?”

Summer didn’t laugh at the quip. “In a manner of speaking,” she said. Her lips were thin and she didn’t smile. “But seriously. You’re back? You feel like you?”

“Of course,” he said, and he tried to sit up, only managing a slight angle with his wrists locked to the bed. “Why the hell wouldn’t I?”

Subtle though it was, Mitch thought he could see her flinch. “What do you remember?”

“Remember?” Mitch said. He shook his head. The ache was still pervasive, but with a little focus, he was able to get the nausea under control. “I mean, I was at home. Making dinner. Brody and I were going to have dinner.”

Her look was cool, cautious, and calculated. Careful. “That’s it?” she asked, clearly dubious. “You don’t remember anything else after that? Before that?”

Mitch shrugged as best he could in his current position. “After that, nothing clear,” he said. “But I mean, before that, I had just finished up the day. Came home. Normal stuff.”

She looked increasingly uncomfortable. “Normal stuff? Everything?”

“Well, I ran into Jimmy on the way home,” Mitch offered. “He looked good.”

“Jimmy?” she repeated. “Jimmy who went to jail for drugs?”

Mitch huffed a little with an affectionate smile. “He’s trying to get himself back together,” he said. “Even took up cooking.”

“Brownies?” Summer asked.

Mitch frowned, the memory becoming a little more concrete. “Yeah,” he said. “As a matter of fact.”

Summer nodded, wetting her lips with a sigh. “We found the package in your pocket,” she said. “You ate most of it.”

“Just trying to be polite,” Mitch said. “You know how it is.”

The smile she offered in reply looked like it almost hurt. “I do,” she said. “You’re a people person.”

Mitch was still in pain and woozy, but the gnawing sense that something was wrong -- very, very wrong -- was something he couldn’t put aside any longer. He shook his head. “Summer, what the hell happened? Why am I in the hospital? Why are there restraints?”

He might have expected pity from her, sympathy of some form. But she seemed to retreat further into herself. “You really don’t remember anything after that? After Brody came home?”

Mitch was starting to get worried now. He tried to sit up even more, his mind passing over memories, each one hazier than the last. He remembered uncooked chicken and piles of cereal. He remembered Brody and a broken chair. Brody’s face going dim.

She was watching him, even more carefully now. “You do remember, don’t you?”

He shook his head, attempting to laugh. “It’s nothing,” he said, and the pieces fell into place quickly. His throbbing headache; the gnawing nausea; the strange sensations. Mitch was a people person, but he sure as hell wasn’t a pushover. “I mean, the brownie. It was laced, wasn’t it?”

She nodded stiffly. “Some variant of LSD,” she explained softly. “Amplified hallucinogenic properties made by some home mixture. It was found in your blood stream, and we were able to match your sample to the brownie.”

Mitch sighed, long and hard. Normally, he was more careful than that, but Jimmy had been so damn earnest. There hadn’t been malice involved. “Well, Jimmy was probably a little high when he gave me one,” he reflected, somewhat rueful. “I know that dude. He wouldn’t do anything like this on purpose.”

Summer was usually pretty understanding about things. She didn’t look very understanding at the moment. She was restrained, reserved: different. “Still,” she said. “Ellerbee’s going to need to talk to him.”

Mitch liked Ellerbee -- he did -- and he saw value in interagency cooperation. Still, he made a face. “Ellerbee? Why do we need to involve him?” he asked, a touch incredulous. “It was a mistake. Maybe not a fully honest one, but you know Jimmy. You like Jimmy.”

If anything, his exhortations only made her withdraw further. “Mitch, it doesn’t matter if I like him.”

“Of course it does,” he said. He looked at her, increasingly confused. “I mean, this was an accident, plain and simple. You know that.”

It almost looked as if she wanted to cry. “Accident or not,” she said, forcing the words out. “The cops will have questions for you, too.”

“Well, okay,” Mitch said. “I’m sure I can explain this to Ellerbee. No harm, no foul, right?”

She hesitated. For a horrible, awful, pregnant moment, she hesitated.

He swallowed back hard. The nausea, the headache, the emotions. “There wasn’t any foul, right?”

Her eyes were definitely wet this time, and Mitch’s stomach flipped again. This time it had nothing to do with nausea or a pounding headache.

“Summer, what exactly happened?”

Her expression faltered, and for a horrible moment, it looked like she was going to break entirely.

He sat up a little more, restraints be damned. “Summer, did Jimmy do something?” he asked. When she wiped at tears in her eyes, he pressed on. “Did I do something?”

This time, she couldn’t hold it in entirely. Summer let out a small sob, which she barely pulled back under control.

Mitch strained against the restraints now. “What did I do?” he asked, careful in his demand. “Did I do something to you? To Jimmy?”

No, that wasn’t it, and he knew it.

He had been at home.

He had been making dinner.

The chicken had been thawing.

Brody had come into the door.

Mitch stopped, his breath catching.

Brody wasn’t here.

He looked at Summer again, almost desperate now. “Did I do something to Brody?”

The minute he asked the question, the images bombarded him. Brody’s face, wide eyed and surprise. The apology spilling from Brody’s lips. The terror in his face when Mitch advanced. The way he’d hit the ground so hard. The way his face went red, his arms went slack. The way he stopped breathing while Mitch squeezed and squeezed.

Hallucinations, he told himself.

He looked down at his hands, large, strong hands, shackled to the bed.

They weren’t hallucinations, he realized with a numb horror.

No, these were too clear, too real, too pervasive.

These were memories.

On the chair, Summer wiped at her tears again, but this time she wasn’t fast enough. She sniffled loudly. “Mitch--” she hiccoughed.

“Summer,” he said, urgency coloring his voice now. “What did I do?”

She got up in a rush, sniffling loudly again. “I can’t do this,” she said, fumbling for her purse as she took a step to the door.

Mitch was not inclined to panic, but he could feel the twinge deep in his chest. He tried to get up, pulling against the restraints. “What did I do?”

Summer faltered, looking back with a tortured expression. “I know you didn’t mean it, Mitch--”

He tried not to pull against the restraints, but the tension building in him was almost more than he could handle. “Summer--”

“You almost killed him, Mitch,” she said. She inhaled raggedly. “You almost killed him.”

He remembered, of course. He remembered choking Brody, squeezing the life out of him. He remembered it with a disconnected clarity that he couldn’t even understand anymore. “But he’s okay?”

She sighed, shrugging her shoulders. “He’s alive, if that’s what you mean,” she said. “They’ve got him a few doors down under observation. But I had to pull you off him, Mitch. And he was -- he was--”

She couldn’t say it. Mitch closed his eyes. “Summer--”

He opened his eyes in time to see her shake her head, almost vehement. “I know you didn’t mean it,” she said. “I know that. But, Mitch, what you did--”

“I’m sorry, Summer,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

It only seemed to make her cry more. She withdrew another step. “I just can’t do this right now,” she said. “I thought I could -- Brody wanted me, too, but I can’t.”

“He’s awake, then?” Mitch asked, seizing on hope. “He’s okay?”

She laughed, short and incredulous, like the notion was ridiculous. “I told you, he’s recovering. Two doors down.”

“So can someone bring him? In a wheelchair or whatever?” Mitch pressed. “Summer, please--”

She seemed to recoil this time. “But you nearly killed him,” she said. “I just -- I can’t get it out of my mind, okay? I keep telling myself it wasn’t you, you didn’t know, you had no control -- because you’re Mitch. You’re a damn people person. You would never do it on purpose, but you did do it. You did.”

Easing himself back stiffly, Mitch could not argue with her. His chest felt tight; the pounding in his head was still persistent. And he felt sicker than ever and it had nothing to do with the lingering effects of the drugs in his system. “I did do it,” he said. “Even now, I can remember it like it was something I was watching on TV. And I don’t know how to explain it. I can’t even try to justify it, but, Summer, I’m not some people person. I can like a lot of people, I can be nice to everyone, but it’s different with Brody. I’m not even sure how or when it happened, but it’s different.”

She regarded him warily, but made no further move to exit.

“That’s how messed up all this is,” he said. “I am friends with everyone up and down the beach. But in my own home? I don’t just let anyone in. And that’s what’s different for all of us now. Brody isn’t like Jimmy or anyone else. Brody is Brody, and I’m not even sure what the hell that means.”

Shuffling her feet, she visibly swallowed. “I know that,” she said softly. “Which is the only reason I was able to come in here at all.”

“And I appreciate that, I really do,” he said. “So you know why I have to see him.”

Hesitant as she was, it was clear that Summer was moderately persuaded. Still, she shook her head, eyebrows drawn together. “I don’t know.”

Mitch really wished he wasn’t strapped down at the moment, but this was exactly the wrong time to push on that point. “I need to see him.”

He was her boss, so it wasn’t exactly fair to call it a request, but Summer had never been a push over. She had also clearly been through a lot today -- more than Mitch probably knew at this point. He would have to make amends for that -- and he would. He swore he would.

But Brody.

Brody.

It was a testament to how bad things had been that she still didn’t give in. “He’s under observation,” she said. “And, just for the record, so are you.”

Mitch was still strapped down to a bed, but he wasn’t about to get into the semantics right now. He had to validate this nightmare with reality, and he had to confirm that the reality wasn’t as bad as the nightmare. “Please, Summer,” he said, voice low and even. He needed to sound reasonable even if he felt like he was going crazy inside. “I need to see him.”

Because Mitch could make time for every person on that beach, but Brody was different. Brody wasn’t a passing conversation or polite chitchat. Brody wasn’t a high five and a bottle of beer on a Friday night. Brody was a friend, roommate, coworker.

Brody was family.

That was something he had to reconcile. Being a people person was one thing; being part of a family was another. He’d always called Baywatch a family -- and he stood by that. But he probably hadn’t totally realized what family meant until he had to teach it to someone else.

Summer drew a long breath and let it out. “I don’t know,” she said. “Honestly, that’s probably not even my call.”

“The doctors--”

“No, I mean, Brody,” she said. She sniffled, wiping the tears away once more as she got her emotions fully in check and tucked her hair behind her ear. “What happened back at your place -- I mean, it’s hard enough for me to be here. It’s up to Brody as to whether or not he’s ready to face it.”

He could hear what she was saying -- and he could almost make sense of it on a logical level -- but the emotional crux of it still didn’t compute. Mitch knew he’d tried to kill Brody -- he could see it in his head -- but the devastation such an action suggested didn’t parse.

It didn’t make sense.

If he could just see Brody, just talk to Brody, then he could make sense of it.

Then this nightmare could be reconciled with an unwanted reality.

“But you’ll ask him?” he asked, and he knew he was asking more than he probably had a right to ask from Summer. “You’ll tell Brody I want to see him?”

Summer had been traumatized by all this, and her reticence was visible. She clearly wanted to be mad; she wanted nothing to do with him. It was a testament to just how deep Mitch build the bonds at Baywatch that she was able to think about it at all.

Because Mitch was more than a people person.

He was a good guy.

When he talked about family, he meant it.

More than that, he helped others mean it, too.

It was that basis that defined them, and Mitch wasn’t dumb. He knew that foundation was all Summer had left to fall back on now. Because what Mitch had experienced was disconnected. What Summer had experienced was far more real.

Baywatch was realer still.

She sighed, shaking her head in defeat. “I’ll tell him, yes,” she said. She wiped at her eyes again. “It’s not like he hasn’t been asking about you, so I guess it’s inevitable.”

“Thank you,” Mitch said with a rush of relief. “Thank you so much.”

She pressed her lips together with one last second of hesitation. “I’m not doing it for you, for the record,” she said. She wet her lips and swallowed hard. “But what you’ve told us about family, how to treat people -- how seriously Brody takes that.”

Mitch felt himself shrink back, duly chagrined.

“It means so much to him, Mitch,” she said, blinking rapidly a few times. She took a breath. “I have to believe it still means something -- for his sake.”

His own throat constricted, he had no reply as she ducked toward the door, and he was left in silence as it shut behind her. Alone again, he sank back down, trying not to tug on his restraints. There was a part of him that wanted to insist they weren’t necessary, but it was a bravado he wasn’t probably entitled.

He looked down, tightening and loosening his fingers. There were nicks and bruises on the knuckles from where he’d lashed out at Brody. Now, his fingers closed on air, but he could feel the give of flesh -- Brody’s flesh.

And to think, Brody’s last words had been to apologize.

Mitch shook his head, refusing to think it.

Those weren’t Brody’s last words. Because Brody was alive. No doubt, his survival was no thanks to Mitch, but he wasn’t about to debate the details right now. As long as he and Brody both had air in their lungs, they could talk this out.

They would talk this out.

And really, maybe it wasn’t as bad as he remembered. It had been a drug-induced haze, so maybe he hadn’t actually tried to kill Brody. Or, you know, not been very successful on that front. It was probably fine.

When the door opened a short while later, Mitch was banking on fine.

Brody was wheeled through the door by a sober-looking nurse, who check Brody’s IV bag before confirming that Mitch’s restraints were still in place before huffing back out, clearly against her own better judgement.

It was anything but fine.

The wheelchair was one thing; the IV pole was another.

But Brody himself?

Looked horrible.

His face was bruised, and his coloring was pale. The loose-fitting hospital gown hung low enough to show bruising on his chest, undoubtedly from CPR. And his throat was a messed. It was deeply discolored, the shape of a handprint emblazoned in darkening shades of purple.

Mitch felt the nausea swell up with renewed vigor. The pounding in his head reached nearly a fevered pitch. That handprint was his.

He’d choked the life out of Brody.

And Summer had brought him back from the brink.

This wasn’t fine.

This wasn’t even just bad.

This was one step shy of the worst possible outcome.

The nightmare wasn’t just real. Reality was a nightmare.

Mitch had done this.

Mitch had tried to kill Brody.

Mitch had succeeded.

Sitting on the chair, Brody winced as he made eye contact. “I’m sorry,” he said before Mitch could even attempt to rally his shocked brain. The words were hoarse and garbled, but they still managed to cut Mitch right to the core. “About all this. I’m sorry.”

“Shit,” Mitch said. He let out a small breath of disbelief. “Brody, I’m the one who’s sorry. I mean, I did this? I did all this?”

He nodded to Brody, who only shrugged. “Technically, I guess,” he said. “But it wasn’t you. They told me when I woke up about the drugs in your system.”

He was trying to make Mitch feel better, but it only made him feel worse. “Wait, when you woke up?” he clarified. “What did you think when it was happening?”

The question seemed to be disconcerting for Brody. “I don’t know,” he said, visibly working saliva up into his damage throat. “That I’d pissed you off, I guess.”

“You think I’d try to kill you because you pissed me off?” Mitch repeated, feeling vaguely hysterical by this point. He prided himself on being cool and calm and collected. But then, he also prided himself on being the good guy. Needless to say, he was none of those things right now. “Brody, what the hell?”

Brody looked sheepish. “I know, and that’s why I’m sorry,” he croaked. “I should have known something was off.”

The apology was so sincere on the surface.

And so utterly asinine in every other way.

“I was drugged, Brody,” Mitch reminded him flatly. “That’s me. I ate the drugs. Didn’t even think twice about it.”

“Because you’re a people person, you’re nice and trusting,” Brody protested. “I came home to blow you off, and I was so worried about how to tell you that I missed all the signs. I wasn’t looking out for you, man. I’m sorry.”

Mitch stared, wondering if he was still on a bit of a trip. Because Brody’s logic? Made no damn sense to him.

Brody, more sheepish still, stared back.

Finally, Mitch said with a touch of incredulity, “You do remember the part where I strangled you to death apparently.”

Brody looked stricken. “So?”

“So,” Mitch said, marshaling up his patience. “I’m the one who needs to apologize. Like, a lot.”

Shaking his head, Brody was emphatic. “No, you were drugged. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Oh, okay,” Mitch said. He rolled his eyes. “So it’s yours then?”

The question took Brody back for a moment. Sitting in his wheelchair, he slumped back, mouth open. Mitch could hear the rasping of his breath as he contemplated his answer. He swallowed with visible discomfort. “I guess I’m so used to everything being my fault,” he said. His voice was still badly damaged, fluctuating between a whisper and a squeaky choked sound. “I didn’t think about it any other way.”

And that, on top of everything else, was still probably the worse. The fact that Brody had died thinking it was his fault; the fact that he’d woken up and still thought that when he had all the facts to the contrary--

Well, it was a sign that there was a lot left for Brody to learn about how to interact with people.

A lot Mitch probably had to learn, too.

You couldn’t just make chitchat. You couldn’t live on small talk and friendly nods on the beach. You couldn’t even live life from one teachable moment to the next. You had to be real with people. You had to be open, honest and vulnerable. There was parity in that, a depth of balance that Mitch had talked about but not opened himself up to in the end.

Sure, he’d eat any brownie you gave him on the beach.

But was he willing to have the hard conversations and ask the questions he didn’t always want answered? Was he ready to stop being a people person and start being a friend?

“Start,” Mitch said. “I mean, I know I spend a lot of time telling you what I do wrong, but you’re not the only one who can screw shit up.”

This answer appeared to be vexing for Brody. Sitting in his wheelchair, he stared at Mitch with a furrowed brow. “Is that how this works then?” he asked. “Being a people person?”

Mitch exhaled, letting the air pass through his lungs with relief. “No,” he said. “But this is how we are.”

“Coworkers?” Brody attempted to clarify.

“Friends,” Mitch confirmed for him with a smile.

Brody, bruised and battered and confused, smiled back. “Sounds good, then,” he said. “Though, if I could make one suggestion.”

Mitch laughed, trying not to feel antsy in his restraints. “Anything, man,” he said. “You name it.”

“Can we maybe lay off the brownies for awhile?” Brody asked. “Of any variety. Just to be sure.”

With a snorting laugh, Mitch nodded his head. “No brownies, no drugs, no asphyxiation.” he said. “And I don’t know. Maybe we’ll make it?”

Brody was grinning now, face splitting nearly ear to ear. “Hell, yeah,” he said, and the words were still garbled by they had never sounded clearer. “I mean, you just strangled me. If we can survive this, then I think we’ve got the rest made.”

Mitch couldn’t help but smile.

He had to hope so.

With Brody there, it was more than hope, however.

It was a different kind of confidence.

That was the difference, after all, between being a people person and being part of a family. They weren’t mutually exclusively, Mitch knew that, but he had to admit, one was a little -- or a lot -- better than the other.