Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A slow sun creeps up over the frigid horizon, a spring of light leaks into the lovers' frigid room, just enough to wake up Mandela’s former lieutenant. Though he doesn’t want to leave the comfort of his warm bed, he needs to start cooking. 

He rolls over and leans into his wife, and presses a light, gentle kiss to her sleep-warm wrinkled face huddled below the covers. How he wishes he could spend an eternity with her like this, snuggling under the warm covers in the frigid room, but retirement and marriage is close enough. 

He tosses his end of the blanket to the side– causing the cold to snap against his weaker body, enveloping it in goosebumps. He shivers as he gets up and slips on his soft slippers. He shuffles down the hall to their kitchen, where he prepares cooking. 

Smoke trails from his lips. He’s huddled up in jeans and a flannel, shivering on his porch, but at least his cigarette is warm. It’s nice to be outside with a crisp clean cold, but there will always be that bit of paranoia lingering in his mind. 

4 hours. He had been cooking for 4 hours when Ruth kicked him out, saying he needed to take a break because the fumes were getting to his head. He didn’t want to, but she insisted, and he knows better than to argue with her over his mental health.

A truck drives into their driveway, a man in sunglasses watches to make sure he doesn’t hit the porch. Once he’s in enough, he shuts off the truck, and hops out. Dave.

Thatcher smiles and pulls him in for a tight hug, embracing his scent of charcoal and dust. 

Dave pulls back and gently says, “You shouldn’t be smoking in your older age, bud.”

“I know,” he shifts uncomfortably, it's a bad habit still lingering from the alternate years.

 “Ruth ordered me out of the kitchen, said I’ve been there all day.”

“Oh Thatch,” he chuckles and ruffles his graying hair, “always working too hard.”

Steam rolls against his face, warming him from the time outside in the cold. His mouth is watering just looking at the savory turkey Ruth finished off, somehow making it better than where he left it off. 

They say grace to the God that had saved them, who won against the darkness and those terrible, terrible beasts, and for their long lives with each other. Then they dig in like nothing happened, talking like the old friends they are, like Dave doesn’t drop in monthly to check up on Mandela’s best retired officers. 

But a dark feeling overcomes him at the table. He shifts in his seat and plays it off, listening to Dave talk about his business. It’s finally doing well, Eve and her wife pop in occasionally to help or to check in, he’s proud to be Eve’s uncle in law. 

The moment dissolves into a pool of warmth around him. He lingers in his, savoring every lasting second. He’d stay for a few moments more if it wasn’t for the voice beckoning him inside his head.

The air is cold against his face. The room is darker than usual.

Wake up, Thatcher. 

Chapter Text

Leaves crunch beneath Ruth’s boots, slowly walking through the frigid grove with her ears peeled for a sound, following the guiding light of her flashlight. She isn’t used to the early evenings winter brought, and the protocols to take to prevent Thatcher from wandering out. Now she gets to scavenge their backyard looking for a wolf roaming like he owns the place. 

Crunch.

Ruth freezes at once, light shining on the yellowed and dirty back legs of an animal. There’s an odd slopping sound–like a dog eating wet food. The light inches up his legs, and casts over his back, making him freeze with his head in the ground like an ostrich. Silence.

“Thatcher?”

He glances over and her eyes grow. Blood smeared across his face, sticking and drying to his beautiful fur. Something dead lays by his paws, too mauled for her to recognize and hopefully not important to any neighbors. 

Ruth sighs and pulls out a snack. She unwraps the stick and offers it to Thatcher. He sniffs– Slim jim! He opens for a bite, but she pulls back. She bribes him away from the carcass, into the kitchen, tracking muddy and bloody footprints all over their clean hardwood floors, to the bathroom. 

Thatcher must have been a mind reader, as he stopped before the bathroom door, muzzle twitching as if ready to bite her. She gives him the treat, and picks him up– hauling his trashing and snarling self into the tub. She locks into his eyes as he bares his bloodstained teeth with a growl.

“You wanna be an outside dog?” She scolds, “Then behave.”

She turns on the shower head and sprays him, making him growl. He fights against the stream, but Ruth rinses down his back. His ears pin back against his dirty head while his jaw wavers, ready to bite. Dirt and blood losses from his fur and rolls down the drain. 

Bath time doesn’t take too long. He calmed down as the warm water pelted against his back and her fingers massaged his muscles. He’s licking the edge of the tub by the time she turns the water off, no longer displaying the previous aggression. The bathroom light twinkles in his clear eyes with his shiny new coat. 

She wraps a fluffy towel around him, patting him dry as she speaks softly to him. She’ll scold him tomorrow for what he did, running out into the middle of the forest and maiming something for fun, because he’ll understand what she’s saying. She can’t look at his opal eyes with an ounce of anger. He didn’t know any better, he’s just a wild animal living off of instinct until dawn.

Once dried, she picks him up, and places him on the bed. He lies down and watches curiously as she changes out of her dirty clothes, damp with mud and blood and water, and slips into something more comfortable. 

Dressed in her hot pink pajamas, she settles in bed. He snuggles up to her as close as he possibly can. Her hand strokes his damp, fluffy chest, as he licks the air. Though he doesn’t recognize her, he recognizes her smell. In just a few short hours, she’ll be aiding him as he transforms back– helplessly watching over him thrashing and growling, unaware of what's going on and why he’s in pain until it's over. 

But for now, they enjoy each other's company until dawn.  

Chapter Text

The repetitional beeps eases him out of sleep. His heavy body is a bit sore on his stiff mattress, much smaller than he remembers. His heavy eyes fight to stay open, he could soon recognize that the ceiling overhead looked different, speckled with gray dots that he’s never seen before. 

He’s not home. 

He tries to straighten up. His thigh and arm are wrapped up with white bandage and gauze, aching acutely in the tourniquets. His chest hurts a bit too as if he was punched by a rocket.  

Oh right, he was shot.

He looks around his empty room. A dull square on the paint where the TV used to be, and a rack of books and magazines in its place. Nearby the blinds, a woman sits with her head resting in her hand, half asleep. Ruth. 

He exhales in relief that he’s not alone, but partially guilty that she hung back for him. She must be exhausted, staying here for hours instead of going back home. She had a rough night too, but he’ll let her sleep. 

He nuzzles back down into the hospital bed, plastic sheets crackling as he tries to get comfortable, and he closes his eyes. The entire room and adjacent floor was quiet, with the occasional footsteps, papers fluttering, wheels rolling past, and so on. Like everyone in the world had gone to sleep and he was the only one up. 

All he could think about was standing with his gun thrusted before him. A sharp punch to the chest, then in his arm and leg. The dry taste of gravel and metallic smell of gunpowder as someone rushes to his aid. 

If it wasn’t for his vest, the bullet would’ve punctured his chest. If it wasn’t for his partner, no one would know he was injured. He could have died.

He bites his lip, terrified at the thought. He tries to shift his attention somewhere else, like the aching pain of the tourniquet wrapped snugly around his arm, preventing him from bleeding out all over the place. He continued to focus on it for what felt like years, until the sun peeked through the neighboring blinds. Ruth suddenly shifts, attempting to get comfortable in her chair. 

Her eyes slowly crack open to see Thatcher lying in the hospital bed.

“Thatcher?”

He perks up, and her arms wrap around him, tight enough to cause a bit of discomfort. Her fingers tangled in his hair, face buried in his neck. Although he’s never been one to show much affection, he hugs her back with his one arm as tightly as he could.

She gasps unsteadily, and he can feel his own eyes tearing up as she lightly cries into his shoulder. 

“I thought I lost you.” She sniffs, giving up on being strong for him. “I was so worried.”

He forces himself to be strong. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You better not,” she chuckles through tears, “cause I’ll grab your soul and put it right back in your body.”

He chuckles, enjoying the small joke in the mist of hurt. Her hand strokes his hair as she asks, “how do you feel?”

He sighs, “I hurt. Everywhere.”

“Think you need help getting around?”

“...Yeah.”

“Can I stay at your place? I’ll pack a bag and stay with you until you’re ready to return to work.”

His stomach twists at the idea of returning to work, but he tries not to worry about that now. 

“That’d be nice.”

Chapter Text

Ruth’s eyes lingers on the radio and the adjacent stack of CDs. Behind her eyes, the wheels in her drunken brain are turning. 

She stumbles over to the radio, and fumbles through some CDs and with some buttons, until tropical music starts. Thatcher watches her, curious, as she spins around with a flourish. 

"Last night I dreamt of San Pedro…”   She sways along,” just like I'd never gone, I knew the song . A young girl with eyes like the desert,” her hands drift upwards, dancing,  “It all seemed like yesterday, not far away …"

Her body sways hypnotically with the music, embracing the chorus in her own little world, slowly pulling him along. He’s heard the song hundreds of times, but somehow now it's more alluring. 

Her half lidded eyes rest on him, lips moving with the music, as she dances closer to him.

" I fell in love with San Pedro. Warm wind carried on the sea, he called to me…"

She dances with the chorus, drunkenly singing along off key. 

His head subconsciously nods to the music, and an invisible rope begins tugging him closer to her, growing stronger by the minuet.

He clumsily rises up. Ruth holds out her hand, swinging her hips, and he rests his on top of hers. She pulls him to the dance floor at the center. 

"Tropical the island breeze, all the nature wild and free, this is where I long to be, la Isla bonita…"

He swings with her, her arms wrap around his neck, leaning into him. Her half lidded eyes sparkled like sandstone, her breath was heavy with alcohol. 

" your Spanish lullaby…"

Her head rises up into his face, the alcohol was stronger as she sung and he tries to hum along too,

"I want to be where the sun warms the sky. When it's time for samba you can watch them go by… Beautiful faces, no cares in this world… Where a girl loves a boy, and a boy loves a girl"

Thatcher's clumsily missteps and they slip backwards onto the ground, Ruth crashing on top of him. Her wide eyes gaze in shock, only to soften when she sees he's alright, just a little startled. She pulls him closer and starts planting kisses along his face.

"Tropical the island breeze, all of nature wild and free, this is where I long to be, la isla bonita…"

Chapter Text

The clock on TV strikes 10 seconds. Ruth is sitting on the edge of their sofa with an excited glint in her eye, counting down in anticipation with the people in Time Square, as if there was a doubt next year wouldn’t come, like time could stop at any moment. 

“6… 5…4…”

Ruth grabs Thatcher’s arm in anticipation, as if something big and grand was about to happen, other than another year. 

“2… 1…”

The TV cheers as the ball falls. Thatcher glances at Ruth with a smirk. Her adorable face lit up with glee. He pecks the side of her face, and she grabs his face and kisses his lips. His arms wrap around her waist and drag her down with him. He couldn’t ask for a better way to start the new year–pinned against the sofa, sharing coffee flavored kisses with Ruth.  

Time Square’s audience sings Amazing Grace like a choir of God’s angels in unison. Meanwhile in Mandela, two officers share their last New Year’s kiss.  

Chapter Text

7:53 PM

The microwave hums as Ruth’s food rotates on the dish. When it dings, she pulls it out of the microwave, and gets seated in the dining room. Steam rises from her Baquet, she waits for it to cool while doing a crossword puzzle. 

Tick tick tick tick…

Ruth glances up as nails click against the floor. A sleepy wolf pokes his head past the door frame. 

“Hey, baby, you’re up early.” 

Thatcher trots to Ruth and stares up at her, pupils dilated. He can smell her food, and he’s hungry from his agonizing transformation. 

She gets up and makes him something in the kitchen. Poor Thatcher, it hurts her knowing he has to go through this monthly. A long, painful hour to transform on a full moon, and another painful hour to turn back at dawn. But he agreed to this to get her back. He’d take the monthly 2 hour long transformations– as his bones stretch and thicken as his skin fuses and morphs– over going the rest of his life without her. She loves him, truely. 

Ruth sniffs back a tear and chops up the freshly cooked meat on a plate. 

“Thatch,” she walks out into the dinning room, and freezes with the steaming plate. 

Thatcher glances back with his ears pinned, standing on her seat with evidence all over his face and muzzle. The microwaveable tray was licked clean. 

She sighs. She’d be angrier if she didn’t feel bad for him, and had rubbed his back while he hollered throughout transformation. As a wolf, he’s a wild animal and doesn’t know any better. 

“You’re lucky I love you, Davis.”

She sets the plate down on the floor, and he eats while wagging his tail. She goes into the kitchen and makes herself another microwaveable meal.

Chapter Text

“I drink to forget…”

Dave turns over a card, “The people of Florida. I drink to forget…Survivor’s guilt. Sorry bud, self deprivation doesn’t get you a point.”

Thatcher sighs as Ruth wins her second round. She slides the black card with her other win– ‘How do I maintain my relationship status? Watching a robust Italian man jerk off.’ The next round begins as Thatcher– and his only win– becomes the card czar. He flips it over and reads outloud, “My penis is.”

Ruth and Dave consider their cards carefully. Out of the many lewd combinations, which one will make him laugh? Once decided, they put their cards down, and he judges.

“My penis is,” he flips it over and giggles, “having sex with your mom.”

He turns the next one over and his giggles die down as he blushes, “Litterally fucking the police.”

He glances at Ruth, and she winks at him. 

Normally, Thatcher would give Dave the point, but this time, it changes. 

“Ruth wins.”

She smirks and Dave congratulates her. The next round begins with Ruth as the card czar. 

She flips over the top card, “In a world ravaged by what, the only solace is what?”

Thatcher considers his options, taking the risk to flirt back. He pulls out two cards from his hand and slides them face down to the black card. Dave eventually does the same.

“In a world ravaged by” she reveals and giggles, “out-of-this-world bazongas,   the only solace is… soft kissy missionary sex.”

Thatcher chuckles at Dave’s silly combination, and he beams.

“In a world ravaged by,” she reveals, “committing suicide, the only solace is… pulverizing my prostate. Davis.”

She slides the cards over to him, and Dave congratulates him.

“Look at you bud, you’re on a roll!”

He chuckles thanks, the only reason he’s finally winning after his losing streak is because Ruth is flirting back. 

Dave reads the next card. 

“Don’t forget, starting this week, Casual Friday will become ‘what Friday’”

The lovers consider what's in their hand, then nudge their choices to Dave. Dave reads Ruth’s first,”‘butt stuff Friday’, or, ‘unquestioning obedience Friday’. Hm, I’ll go with…”

He ponders the combination, exchanging glances between both cards. Butt stuff Friday, or unquestioning obedience Friday?...

“...Neither.” Dave glances up with a neutral expression, “it’s not a holiday if you do it everyday.”  

Their eyes bug out and faces go red. But Dave simply pulls another black card,“What killed my boner?”

Chapter Text

Walking into the tech shop was like walking into a cheap winter wonderland. A wreath around the door, garland wrapped around the counter, employees wearing Santa hats or reindeer headbands, sticker window decals on the window advertising sales.

But most of all, Santa– a very last minute idea by Dave– and his elf, Evelin. 

Adam didn’t exactly react well with department Santas, Thatcher couldn’t blame him. Someone who breaks into your house and leaves without a trace isn’t exactly someone he’d trust at this day and age. 

But Dave? He trusts with his life. 

“Ready to see Santa, kiddo?”

“Yeah!” Adam responds giddily, practically hopping. Thatcher smiles, unable to remember the last time he was that happy. 

He knocks on the Employees Only door and waits for a response. 

A hearty “ho, ho, ho,” is heard and Adam is practically vibrating. Eve opens the door, and ‘Santa’ gets down with open arms and a wide grin. Adam runs into his arms. 

“Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas,” Santa picks him up. Adam is glowing, and Thatcher takes a picture. 

“Santa!”

“Ho, ho! I’ve heard a lot about you, Adam–”

“Santa, why are your eyebrows brown?”

“Uh,” Dave panics, “got ‘em dyed, recently. You like them?”

He scrunches them, and Adam giggles. 

“I’ve heard you’ve been a very good boy for Davis. So tell me,” he sits down and Adam sits on his lap, “what do you want for Christmas?”

Adam leans into his ear and whispers. ‘Santa’s’ face scrunches.

“Hm, well I’ll see how I’ll use my Christmas magic for this one. May take a while. In the meantime, is there something else you would like?” 

“Star Wars Lego set!”

He laughs, “Ho, ho, ho! I see your dad taught you well! I’ll get my elfs to make you something really special. I’ll see what I can do about the other thing. Sound good?”

Adam nods excitedly. 

The two put their heads together, and Thatcher takes another picture. 

“Adam,” Eve says, “we made cookies for you in the break room. Want one?”

“Cookies!” He exclaims and runs off with Eve. Thatcher chuckles, watching the two. 

“Just what he needs, more sugar.”

He returns his attention to Dave, “Thanks a bunch for doing this, Lee.”

“Uh, Mr. Davis,” Dave goes serious, “we need to talk.”

“About what?”

“Remember what I said about letting things go?” he asks, “how you can’t find peace until you do?”

“Yeah.”

“Adam said he wanted you to have Ruth back.”

Thatcher’s stomach drops. 

“He what?”

Dave nods. “Says he wants you to be happy.”

Thatcher goes silent, “... Shit.”

“You need to let her go, Thatcher.”

“I know, I know. I just…”

Thatcher sighs, and rubs a hand across his miserable face. Dave embraces him.

“I miss her.”

“I know, Davis, but you need to find purpose outside of that. You can’t change the past. Things are different now– you have a son and you need to take care of him. Let this be a chance to redeem yourself.”

It hurts to hear, but it’s true. Dave pulls back and looks into his teary eyes. 

“You’re a great dad, lieutenant, and Ruth would be so proud of you. Now pull yourself together and be there for Adam, okay?”

He nods, rubbing tears back from his eyes. 

“Okay. Go clean up and join us. We’re waiting for you.”

He manages a weary smile, “Thanks, Dave.”

“Hey– that’s Santa to you!”

Thatcher chuckles, as ‘Santa’ pats his shoulder before moving off into the break room, leaving him alone in the room with nothing but what he said to keep him company. The words swarm him, stinging at his heart. 

He needs to move on. 

“Ruth, if you’re here,” he hesitates. Tries again, “Ruth, if you’re here… and you think I need to move on, give me a sign.”

Nothing  for a bit as he stood in the empty room. The overhead lights flicker, and just briefly, he could hear her laugh. 

That settles it.

He chuckles, and moves into the break room. 

Chapter Text

Heat trails beneath the bathroom door. Ruth opens it, and pauses. An uneasy silence fills the chill air of the bedroom. Amid the silence, Thatcher is curled up on their bed, his side shuddering in an uneasy rhythm. 

Ruth takes cautious steps across their wooden floor towards him, stopping right at the edge of their mattress. His back remained to her as if he didn't even hear her exit the bathroom.

“Thatcher?”

He snaps over as if nothing happened. The light outside glimmered along the tears on his face. Her concerned face met his nonchalant red face.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he rubs his face, drying the tears and wringing it of stress. Ruth gets under the covers.

“I know bullshit when I smell it.”

He chuckles. Ruth huddles close to him, close enough to see how puffy and red his face had gotten, and the little wet spots on the sheet beside him. He can’t hide from her. 

“Thatcher,” she tries again, “what’s wrong?”

A silence lingers in the air as if the whole county was holding its breath to hear him be vulnerable. In a voice, smaller and softer than a mouse, he confesses, “I’m scared.”

“Of?”

“Everything.”

There's a pause. His breath hitches and he continues, “This whole town has gone to shit, Weaver. I just want this to end.”

“It’s okay. Everything is going to be ok. Just focus on your breath, can you do that for me?”

He nods and inhales, hitching on the way in, and exhales. He does it again, Ruth wipes his tears away, speaking soft words of comfort amid his dying cries. 

“We’ll be alright, promise.”

He nods, wishing he could take her word. She leans in, pressing soft kisses to his damp wincing face, and tears roll down faster.

“It’s okay, Davis, let it out.”

He flops into her arm and she cradles him close, letting him cling to her as her shoulder grows wet. His cries were barely audible in their otherwise quiet room, as if he was scared of anyone learning his secret. 

“It’s gonna be alright,” she whispers, stroking his back heaving with his uneasy breaths, “we’ll be fine.” 

He so desperately wanted her to be right, than the dark twist in his gut telling him otherwise.

Chapter Text

“Thatcher, where’s Adam?”

“Uh,” he keeps his eyes on the sizzling pan as he cooks, “he should be in the play pen.”

“Really.”

He glances back to show her Adam playing, but the pen is vacant except for a few colorful toys lying idle. Shit.

He abandons his station at the kitchen and starts searching the living room for him– uprooting cushions and tearing open drawers. How did Adam even manage to leave the playpen– it's closed! He swears on his life he took every precaution to keep Adam locked safe in the playpen, if he couldn’t have climbed over the gate, then something took him. Jesus Christ, he’d end his life if something took Adam because he was too negligent to watch him more closely. 

Self loathing continues consuming him as he searches other rooms– beneath table cloths and behind furniture. A faint giggle from the next room catches his ears, and he follows it, all the way to the bathroom.

Ruth holding Adam as he plays with her earring– relief washes over him like a tidal wave.

She raises an eyebrow and Thatcher swallows. 

“Ruth, I-I swear I was keeping an eye on him.”

“Well clearly, you weren’t. Plus, you left the stove on.”

His throat tightens up, forcing a, “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about dinner, I got it,” she puts Adam in a highchair with a little toy. Thacher attempts to question her, but she pulls out a chair and faces it to the wall. 

“Sit.”

He blinks with a puzzled look, and he glances at her for answers. 

“...You’re putting me in time out?”

“Yup, until dinner is finished. Now sit and think about what you did.”

Thatcher sighs and shamefully saunters to the chair where he takes his seat. Adam is giggling at his dad’s predicament, watching him get treated like he’s 4 instead of 41. 

He’ll let Adam giggle all he wants. Whatever makes him happy.   

Behind Ruth’s back, he makes silly faces at Adam, making him giggle harder and prompting Ruth to scold him, threatening to take away his dessert if he keeps it up.

Thatcher smiles to himself, listening to Adam’s delighted laughs as Ruth denies his desserts for the rest of the week. 

He loves his family.

Chapter Text

Thatcher never expected his date to end with Ruth pinning him against her front door, heads twisting as they make out with carnal desire and need for more, but he wasn’t complaining. The date’s savory dinner taste lingers in their mouths, her sweet perfume rubbing off on him as her lipstick colors his lips. 

A gunshot rings through the air. Hearts hammering in their ears as they pant. Someone blocks from them just took their life.

An uneasy tension lingers in the air as they catch their breath. IIt’s not safe to be out here, but neither of them wants to go. 

Ruth glances at him, the porchlight glimmering in her eyes.

“You wanna finish that inside?”

Thatcher's eyes grow, and for a sec, Ruth questions if she overstepped her boundaries.

“Fuckin’ please.”

The blabbering alarm clock cut through the thick peaceful quiet of the bedroom. Ruth mindlessly shuts it off, hand left lingering on the button as she slowly grows conscious. The bed feels a little heavier and her space is very limited. She glances over and freezes, breath caught in her throat. 

A man laying on the adjacent side, facing away from her. She’s terrified, briefly, before memories come flooding back in waves, leaving her face glowing red in the dark. 

She softly asks, “Thatcher?”  

He raises his head, “yeah?”

“You okay?”

He chuckles, that was the best sleep he’s had all year. 

“I’m alright. You?”

Ruth stretches her arms with a small squeal and sighs. 

“Yeah. I’m gonna make us some coffee. Think you could stay for a little while longer?”

He glances at the clock. He’ll have enough time to drink with her, go home and change, and arrive at work on time.

“Yeah, I can make it.”

“Do you need clothes to change into?”

“Please.”

She rolls out of bed and heads to her wardrobe. She puts on some loose fitting clothes and hands him some to change into. 

“Take your time. Come out whenever you’re ready.”

Thatcher lingered in bed for a bit, collecting his thoughts from the previous night. Her scent covered the bed and himself. He rolls out of bed, makes his side, and puts together his clothes from the previous night. He cringes at how carelessly he tossed his suit on the floor. But Ruth fogged his brain and ability to think ahead, and all he cared about in that moment was her. 

Thatcher trudges into the kitchen where the smell of coffee engulfed his senses. He slips right next to her. She glances up and her face washes with concern. 

He blinks, “What?”

She reaches out and gently strokes his neck. Her fingers linger on his skin, drift along his pulse and bruises.

She pulls back, “Did I really do that?”

“Do what?”

She gestures, “all this.”

Thatcher glances at his reflection in the microwave glass. Dark splotches cover his neck like a poorly done finger painting. 

“Yeah,” he chuckles, “every one of them.”

“Thatch, you can’t be going to work like that, you’re gonna get made fun of.”

“So?”

She adorably pouts. The kitchen light sparkles in her soft eyes. 

“We need to cover that up.” She instructs, pouring his coffee inside a tumbler. “Go home and get ready, then meet me at the drugstore down the street before work, m’kay?”

“What if I don’t?”

“Trust me,” she says smirking, “you will. Meet me there, or else.”

Thatcher takes his coffee, playfully muttering, “Yes, ma’am.”

Thatcher’s parked car sat in the parking lot outside the Walgreens, headlights on to make him easy to spot. 

A woman officer briskly walks out of the store as the glass doors shut behind her. Ruth. 

Thatcher rolls down the window. She removes things from the bag, “Open the door.”

He does, and she applies flesh-colored liquid to a hot pink sponge. He watches, puzzled, “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to cover up that shit on your neck, unless you want to be the laughing stock for the next month,” she chuckles.

“This isn’t gonna smear on my uniform, is it?”

“It shouldn’t.”

She has him undo his tie and the first few buttons of his uniform, and she dabs the cool liquid across his neck. A firm hand on his shoulder keeps him steady.  She pulls back a few times to reapply foundation to the sponge and goes right back to touching him, but if he closes his eyes,  he’s in her warm bed once more, letting her smear her lipstick on his neck with every kiss and nip and suckle. 

The cap snaps. She places the supplies in the bag. “Try to keep your hair down today, unless you want to explain to everybody what happened.” She chuckles, “see you at work, Davis.” 

They wave off, Thatcher closes his door behind her. Silence. 

He glances to the rear view mirror, and examines his neck. She did a damn good job– matching his skin perfectly, covering every single mark and blemish she made. She erased all the evidence from last night like it never happened. But it did, it was the best night he had in a while.

He sighs and shifts his car into drive– he’d kill for her breath back on his skin.

Chapter Text

Streetlights fly past the car. Thatcher couldn’t wait to get home and take off the stiff suit. Fucking mandatory office party. Though it wasn’t all bad, he was granted the grace to see Ruth in her glittery red dress, with the lowest cut he has ever laid eyes on, perfectly exposing her midriff. 

“Thatch.” Ruth playfully swats at him, “eyes on the road!”

“Sorry,” he mutters, returning his gaze to the oncoming pavement and trailing road lines.

“Y’know, you’ve been getting awfully distracted today. What’s on your mind?”

“Just the usual.” Of course Ruth, work, all the cases, and Ruth. But she playfully side-eyes him with doubt. His nonchalant face stays the same. 

“My dress isn’t distracting you, is it?” Her hand hovers over the zipper on the back, “do I need to take it off?”

He snorts, “only if you want me to wreck.”

“Then we’ll switch. You sit back and enjoy the view, and I’ll take us home.”

“I could still wreck, Weaver.” He glances at her, “I’ll be a wreck.”

“You always are, Davis.” Ruth chuckles as she pats his shoulder, “you always are.”

Chapter Text

The Mandela County Police Department, for once in a very long time, was silent. 

Well, as silent as it could get. Davis leaned back in his swivel, playing catch with a stress ball; Ruth sat next to him, reading about a lost cat in the newspaper; and the telephone, right in front of them, remained silent. Not a single call. 

True bliss. 

"Hey Ruth," Davis catches the stress ball, "wanna arm wrestle?" 

"Sure." 

A childish pastime is just what the two needed. 

Ruth set aside her paper and plopped her elbow on the desk, just across from Davis', and locked hands.

"On three," he says,

"One,"

"Two,"

"Three!"

Their forces compel against each others'. Little by little, Ruth's hand inched to the desk, until it slammed, marking her defeat. 

She says, "You win." 

Davis squints, studying Ruth's calm expression as she picks up her paper and returns to the section.

Why is it she can’t beat Dave, but never him? Everyone in the department knows she's one of the strongest on the team. She's helped them constantly with heavy boxes of equipment.

But with Davis, she didn't seem like she was even struggling.

He shook his head, "No, I didn't." 

"Yes you did." 

"You let me win," the pieces begin to click, "you always let me win." 

She scoffs with a raised eyebrow, "You think I let you win?" 

"Yes."  He states, more sure of it now. "All of Mandela knows you have more strength than that." 

She smiles, slightly condencending, "About time you noticed, Lieutenant.”

His eyes grew wide with hurt, “Why? Why do you do it? ”

“Look at you," she gestures, "I'd kill you." 

So she thinks she can kill him, huh?

Davis rips off a glove, rolls up his sleeve, and nails his bare elbow on the desk, hand open expectantly, 

"No more games, show me what you can do." 

She raises an eyebrow, "I'm going to hurt you." 

"Then hurt me." 

Ruth studies him; and judging from his eyes cold with determination, this is what he really wants. 

"Alright," she sighs, setting her paper to the side and leveling with him, "but don't go crying to Dave when you need a cast." 

Her cold hand firmly interlocks with Davis'. Starting now, he's digging his own grave. 

"On three," he says, 

"One,"

"Two,"

"Three!" 

At once, their forces clash. He's trembling as she starts to bring him down. 

He sucks his breath and shifts to the opposite side, trying to get some bodyweight in. It only brings them a nudge back.

His muscles burn as he strains them, forcing everything he has against Ruth.

So this is why she lets him win. 

He winces as he summons every bit of strength in his body and complies it against her.

But it's to no avail. His arm does a slow 90 degrees turn as his hand inches closer and closer to the surface until it's pinned against the cool wood, marking his defeat.

He doubles over the desk in exhaustion, feeling every arm muscle ache in unison as he breathes audibly.

Today, Davis learned a valuable lesson to never arm wrestle Ruth again.

She smirks, "Not too bad, Lieutenant Davis."

" 'ank you." 

"From now on, do you still want me to go easy on you?" 

" 'lease. " 

She chuckles and pats his back.

Dave peaks into the room, seeing a proud Ruth comforting a defeated Davis.

He asks, supposing they're talking about Davis' life choices again, "Is everything alright?" 

"I beat him in an arm wrestle, and this time, I didn't hold back." 

"Oh," he nods, "well, uh.." 

She raises an eyebrow, "is something the matter, Dave Lee?" 

He winces, "Not sure if this is the time, but you two missed a call." 

Their eyes grew at once, "How? The phone never rang once."  

"Is it unplugged?" 

Ruth pushed away from the desk to get a good look at the wire spaghetti underneath. 

Sure enough, one core hung out. 

She curses and fixes it.

"How did this happen?" 

"Probably when I was cleaning the floor earlier. Forgot to plug it back. Anyways, I think it's urgent now." He squints at the report, "Some guy has been trapped in a Walmart by what he believes is an al--" 

"I'll check the police scanner," she rolls on her glove and pockets Davis'. 

Davis glances up to her as she grabs the keys.

"What?" He pants, "we're going ?"  

"Crime never rests, Lieutenant."

She drags him out by the wrist as he wails.

Chapter Text

The stillness in the air was thick enough to cut through. Officers Thatcher Davis and Ruth Weaver stand at attention before their boss’s desk. 

“Late again for the fifth time this year.” He sighs, “what happened this morning?”

Ruth covers for them– “Our car was stalling.” 

He chews his pen, exchanging glances between them. Heavy traffic used to be their go-to explanation for their tardiness. But now with the invasion, the roads are empty as ever, with no one wanting to leave their house and no one even around. And with a lack of people means a lack of staff, which means no more time off for anything. 

“Sergeant, I want one of you to tell me why you two were late again. I don’t care if it's because your alarm clock wasn’t working or because you two couldn’t keep your hands off each other.”

They blush with the last statement, but Ruth remains firm. “Sir, I told you, our car was stalling this morning because of the cold.” 

He exchanges glances between Thatcher’s bruised neck, and her. Her face reddens as she lies again, “that was done the night before, sir.”

“I don’t believe it.” He removes his glasses and leans into them, “you two are my best officers in this department, and there are not many of you left. If it weren’t for those two circumstances, you two would be fired. I want you two to either think of a better excuse, or try keeping your hands to yourself, even if it means sleeping in separate houses. Understood?”

They lie in unison, “Yes, sir.”

Chapter Text

It’s been 5 years since Ruth passed. 

Everywhere he looks he sees her face. Her painted lips pulled in a bright smile, her uniform matching his, her hearty cackle. Everywhere he looks he sees a reminder of what he’s done. Yellow ruffled petals overflowing trash bags, some scattered across the floor that he’s unmotivated to clean up. The fully developed marigold falling from his mouth into the sink, flopping on top of the drain, waterlogged with saliva. His heavy lungs heave with relief, relishing every half-breath he takes. His lungs are heavy with many, many more. 

Marigolds were her favorite flower, vibrant and bright like her. She’ll never know how many times he wanted to buy them for her, or how many times he’s thought about tucking one behind her ear. She’ll never know because of him. 

They’ve gotten worse over the years. Petals gagged him when she hugged him– Mandela’s new Sergeant and Lieutenant. How he wished he told her how he felt, but he was too scared of risking their friendship. 

Maybe that’s the silver lining. If she didn’t feel the same, that would mean the end of their friendship.  

To get them removed means going outside. Getting them removed means he deserves to live, to be freed from this fucking nightmare killing him from the inside, to finally let go of his guilt. Getting them removed means forgetting the only light he has in this cold, dark world. 

No, he could never live without her. He’ll cling to the guilt if it means she’ll live in his memories, vibrant and sweet.

Thatcher coughs. His lungs are already fucked up for all the drugs he’s done to cope, and the cigarets he chain-smoked with her. Now, they’re heavy with her favorite flowers. 

He’ll die here on a bed of petals and flowers of marigolds. 

Chapter Text

The clear sky behind the closed shutters slowly brightens to a baby blue as the sun prepares to rise. It’s a quiet, chill fall morning in the county. 

Mandela’s lieutenant is curled up on the sofa, under a flimsy blanket that can’t shield him enough from the cold. He’s still dressed in his uniform from the night before. There's been a heavy void in the center of his chest, anchoring him to the sofa since the moment he got home. Nothing feels right anymore. His brain is like a stretched out rubber band, he’ll never be the same.

Thatcher flops to his side. God, how he hoped Ruth made it home okay.

He didn’t see her when he returned to the station. Did she ever make it home?

Thatcher reaches for the nearby phone and freezes– there’s writing along his wrist. He adjusts and reads it.  

“Shit, do we have someone to take care of that?”

His face drops, Thatcher bolts up and runs his fingers over the new addition to his body. The ink is embedded deep in his skin.

He licks his finger and scrubs the tattered area, trying to erase it like a mistake. Heat from friction warms his skin, turning the area bright pink. 

This couldn't be right. Ruth couldn't be dead because he left her there. 

He scrubs, and scrubs, and scrubs, but despite his efforts, the tattoo remains on his skin. 

Thatcher sits back dumbfounded. The tattoo bulges on inflamed skin.  

His breath hitches. Reality sets in, guilt and regret stack on top of it.

Ruth is dead– an idea he can’t even wrap his head around– because of him.

The autumn sun peaks between the gaps of the closed shutters. Beams of sunlight reflect on the opposite wall. 

Thatcher is curled up on his sofa, crying the hardest he has in years.

Chapter Text

The rain has not stopped since 4PM yesterday evening. Thatcher waited and waited for the rain to let up but it never did. He hopped on the chance to pull another all-nighter at the station, get some work done for the following day, at least until maybe the rain lets up. He got settled on work, he had Ruth there to keep him company.  

It’s 2 AM and the streets are flooded, and he’s still working. 

“Hey”

He glances from his work. Ruth is standing in the doorway and gestures, “you shouldn’t work this long without stopping. Come, take a  break.”

He’s making them coffee. He knows how she takes her coffee like the back of his hand– enough milk to change the color, but a bit more than how he takes his. While lost in the comforting repetition of making her cup, Ruth swoops in and pecks his check, making him drop the milk and it spills across the counter. Thatcher stands the milk up, apologizing profusely, and Ruth hands him some paper towels as she helps to whip up the mess. 

“Sorry, I just,” he chuckles, and Ruth finds herself admiring how much cuter embarrassment makes his face, tucked in behind his platinum blonde locks.  

“My hand slipped.”

“It’s okay, so did mine.”

He snorts, more than the joke required, as they work together to wipe down the counter, making sure to get the bottom of the cup and around the coffee machine, while Thatcher occasionally glances at Ruth. His body was buzzing for the first time in years. How he wished he had the courage to kiss her back, but his consciousness was in the next dimension. 

“It’s getting pretty late,” Ruth glances up from her watch. “We should be going.”

Thatcher wheels around to the break room clock– a quarter to 4, he should be waking up in a couple of hours. 

“Shit.”

“I’ll save this for later,” she says, wrapping tin foil on top of the cup, “give me something to look forward to a few hours from now.”

He chuckles, feeling dumb he didn’t know how else to respond. He wanted to return the kiss so much but was far too shy to just do it like she did. Thats something he admires about her, her spontaneousness, how she just swoops in and takes action.  

“Thatch?”

He perks up out of his thoughts. She playfully smiles. 

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I just,” his voice trails off as he rubs the back of his neck. How was she so spontaneous and brave, and how was she in love with him?

He decides it’s now or never.

“Can I kiss you?”

Her smile grows bigger, genuine, as the office lights sparkle in her eyes. 

“I thought you’d never ask.”

She tucks her hair behind her ear, clearing off a side of her face, and closes her eyes. While her face was nice and all, he’d rather go for something more intimate. 

Ruth feels him hovering over her lips and she relaxes them as her insides flutter with the beat of a humming bird’s wings. He leans in, and presses his soft lips against hers. 

Fireworks. Supernovas. Shooting stars. It feels like the first time she was kissed but better– so much better! She takes in everything– the scent of his cologne, the taste of coffee on his lips, the warmth of his face as blood rushes to his cheeks. 

He pulls away, leaving them awestruck like two blotchy-faced lovestruck idiots in the break room. The buzzing fluorescent lights overhead didn’t compare to how they internally felt. 

Thatcher awkwardly breaks the silence.

“So,” he licks his lips, dusted red from her faded lipstick, “see you later?”

“You better. Take care and get plenty of rest. Call me when you get home,” she pats his shoulder, “see you later.”

“Yeah, see you too.”

Thatcher slips out of the breakroom, leaving Ruth alone with her thoughts and his taste on her lips. It felt like a dream, but better, and she wanted nothing more than another kiss, but she knew there would be plenty more in the future. Plenty more in the future. 

Oh, he’s definitely a keeper!

Chapter Text

They ride the gentle waves of the sea, their raft drifting over each one like nothing, rocking them into a perpetual calmness as they stare thoughtfully to the sunset sparkling on the water. 

Thatcher was the happiest man alive– at least in Mandela. He finally had Ruth as his darling wife– their hands joined in matrimony–  and he was promoted at his job, officially Lieutenant! And now, the two rest on a raft in the middle of the sea, watching the sun set on another beautiful day of their honeymoon. 

It’s like a dream, Thatcher thinks, with you.

“Then don’t wake up.”

He’s momentarily taken off guard only to realize he said it outloud. He chuckles and lovingly stamps a big kiss to her salty forehead.

Once the sun goes down, the lovers migrate into their room. Thatch throws a pizza in the oven, and comes swiftly when Ruth asks for “a little help reaching her back” in the shower.

Finally, the lovers sit at the table eating a pizza they picked up that morning, washing it down with a bit of wine, admiring the shells they picked up along the shore. A whole pearl whelk, cockle, and oyster shell, mixed with fragments of shattered cockles and conches. Ruth laughs at Thatcher’s expense as he cringes, pulling out a cigarette bud from the welk. He flicks it onto the napkin, and laughs at himself with her.  

It's just too good to be real. 

At last, the lovers wind up where they started their morning, snuggling under the thick white sheets of the condo’s bed, listening to the waves crash against the shore. His arms are wrapped around his darling wife, holding her close to him, arms encompassing her and he is her whole world. Nothing and no one could ruin this moment, as a star shoots across the sky over Ursa Major’s tail. 

And maybe, just maybe, everything will be alright.

Chapter Text

“Welcome dear family and friends. We gather here today to join Miss Ruth and Mister Thatcher in marriage. They have known each other for quite some time. Today we recognize and celebrate this new chapter, as we join….”

As the minister continues with the introduction, Thatcher keeps his face hung low in shame and his sweaty hands folded behind his back, like a scolded child. Across from him was Ruth in an upright, dark oak casket. Her makeup was done perfectly for the occasion. 

“Do you, Miss Ruth, take this man as your wedded husband, to live together in matrimony, to love him, to comfort him, to keep him, in sickness and in health, in sorrow and in joy, to have and to hold, from this day forward, as long as you both shall live?”

Silence, as Ruth’s painted red lips hold a soft smile. 

“And do you, Thatcher Davis, take this woman as your lawfully wedded wife, to live together in sickness and in health, in sorrow and joy, from this day forward, as long as you both live?”

Every pair of eyes from the small crowd fell on him. His throat restricts, but he forces an answer. 

“...I do.”

“Then you may kiss the bride”

Before them, Thatcher shyly leads into Ruth and kisses her blushed cheek.  

The small crowd of mostly friends clapped for the newlyweds, making Thatcher turn pink. He takes one last look at Ruth as pallbearers shut her coffin, marking the end of the ceremony. 

“Thatcher,” Dave sighs from the phone, “you gotta let her go, bud.”

“I know, I know, but…. She deserved better,” he sniffs, “and I took that away.”

“But that doesn’t change the fact she still loves you and she wants you to move on. I know its hard, especially when you feel responsible for it, but you can’t change the past, Davis.”

The weight of the world rests on his chest, restricting Thatcher’s breath. If he was a better man, Ruth would be snuggled next to him, sleeping soundly.  

Thatcher hangs up, silence settles in. It’s just one night of many without Ruth, all because of him. All because he was too scared to save her. 

He rolls to the side, and tears begin falling down his face, damping him and his pillow.

As the stars glimmer in the night sky, a lieutenant is one of many to cry and long for a wife he can never get back.

Chapter Text

Through the many decades Thatcher has known Ruth, he has only seen her cry twice– their wedding vows and the day she lost her daughter. He remembers it like it was yesterday– fear still fresh in his mind from when she called him in the middle of the night, begging him to come over quickly between incoherent sobs. He can still feel her clinging to him for life as she cried like a howling wind, he can still feel the back of his shirt dreached with her tears, as he couldn’t do much more than be there for her. Her baby is now one of the thousands dead in Madela County.

“No use of keeping this,” she sighs, and pulls out anything unstained and unused by her daughter.  “No use in keeping any of this.” But the look in her eye says otherwise. 

“I think you should,” he says, picking up her old teddy bear she rarely snuggled with. “It was your daughter’s.”

“Yeah, but it’s just sitting here. No use in keeping it,” she takes it from him and tosses it in donation. She returns to the tub and continues sorting through, tossing things in the pile with a longing look. 

“Baby,” he says carefully, “I don’t think you’re ready.”

“It’s fine,” she insists. 

As she goes through her old things, Thatcher rummages through donation– unscathed bibs, onsies, and toys. He rescues the teddy bear and dusts him off. 

“Ruth, I think we should give this to our kids.”

She snorts, “I wish.”

“Well, we could still have kids, right?”

“Yeah, in a dream.”

Thatcher looks into the teddy bear’s black beady eyes, the attic light reflecting off of them. An idea goes off in his head. 

“What about our friends? Could we give them to their kids?”

“No, I’m not regifting shit. Besides, I’m not comfortable with Sarah having something of hers, especially after the way she’s talked to you.” 

Thatcher chuckles, examining the teddy bear in its mint condition. 

“And Dave?”

She snorts, “like he’s ever gonna marry.”

He frowns, holding the teddy bear who suddenly looks sad.

“I still don’t think you’re ready to give any of this stuff up.”

“I’ll be fine.” She sighs, “not like I’m going to notice anyway.”