Archive of Our Own

“Oh, what the fuck.”

Billy’s not sure if he’s tired when he says that, or exasperated, or fascinated, because honestly he just came up here for a smoke to calm his nerves and wake himself up a little before the meeting but instead there’s this —

Right out on the edge of town, from the middle of a field: a hazy column of pure, utter darkness, rising up into the sky.

Billy blinks. Blinks again. The cigarette in his hand is quickly burning out and he can barely care because, you know — he swears that wasn’t there before. He should know, they’d just driven by that field when they drove into town, and Billy likes to think he’s pretty observant. Or at least, observant enough to notice a giant, spiraling column of darkness rising into the clouds.

He only snaps out of his exhausted fascination when he feels the heat of a cigarette burning dangerously close to his fingers. He drops it and stubs it out with his heel, grinding it under his shoe, before ducking down to pick it up because he’s not an asshole who litters, and then when he looks up — the column of darkness is gone. And when he immediately snaps back up to stand — it’s there again.

What the fuck.

He blinks. It’s there. He shifts to his other foot. It’s gone.

Billy does this a grand total of twenty times before he finally just — shoves it in his mental vault, that he’s named to deal with when I am stronger. Or at least less sleep deprived and rattled. Just places apparition in field, visibility depending on angle of vision in there, along with everything else he’s encountered in this town in the last twelve hours.

Like the cars that passed them on the highway that had no drivers. Like the grass that whistled back when Sam whistled out the window. The ridiculous amount of oddly coloured helicopters circling the area that Vasquez is still trying to record. The deer with the human eyes and the rabbits with the mouthful of shark teeth. The fact that Billy’s watch started to bleed when he looked at it, and the fact none of them remember actually driving into town limits and to the community college they’re currently at.

Granted, it’s where they’re supposed to be, but fuck. If it weren’t for the fact the rest of the team experienced exactly what he did, Billy would swear that he’s just officially lost his mind.

And speaking of team — Billy jolts back to reality for the second time when his phone buzzes in his pocket. A text from Red.

It reads: come back down we r about to meet the president of the college n Sam wants u here

It also reads: shes a fist sized river rock, btw.

Billy stares at his phone for a good, solid minute before he replies yeah ok and then heads back downstairs. Nothing attacks him or surprises him, which is a first so far for this town, and he’s oddly relieved to see his colleagues gathered together in the hallway in a labcoat-decked cluster. (Another thing he’s shoved into his mental vault: they definitely, definitely weren’t wearing labcoats when they entered this town. So.)

“We’re meeting the president?” Billy asks as he approaches, returning a nod to Red in greeting.

“Yeah. She’s a fist-sized river rock.” Red replies, tone half dry and half disbelief.

“Is that — “

“No, it’s not a figure of speech. She’s a literal fist-sized river rock. Adamant we called her as much.” Sam breaks in, only a little less calm than usual, which makes Billy question what the craziest thing here is: them, this town, or Sam Chisolm.

“At this point, it’s hardly the wildest thing we’ve encountered in the last four hours,” Faraday says in a huff, the same time Vasquez says haggardly, “I think I have a murder of crows tailing me.”

“That’s what happens when you look too long at the helicopters,” comes a voice from a neArby tree that makes them jump a couple of feet into the air and jolts Billy hard enough to bite his own cheek, “You shouldn’t do that.”

The voice — who Billy now sees is a lady in a police uniform with leaves badly duct-taped to her body and a leather balaclava — clambers back into the branches. Faraday and Vasquez stare open-mouthed. Horne says, “Lord have mercy.”

Billy just shuts his eyes and tongues his cheek. Tastes the copper and lets it ground him — he’s here. This is real. For better or for worse, they’re here in Rose Creek. Sam’s description of it being “the most scientifically interesting town in the U.S.” seems laughably like the understatement of the year now, but Billy supposes that’s what he gets for not reading the fine print. And they’ll just have to adjust, all of them. A ridiculous sense of adaptability is why they’ve gotten as far as they have, after all — that, or they may just be the lunatics everyone claims they are, in which case, they probably belong in this town anyway.

Billy opens his eyes to Faraday and Vasquez bickering about the crows that are still watching them all from the power lines, Horne trying to pry them apart, and Sam and Red doing their very best to ignore everything and focus on the door that’ll open up anytime now to let them in for their meeting with the president of the community college about their fellowships.

And also: a man, standing at the end of the hall. For a moment, Billy thinks he’s imagining things, or seeing things again, until he meets the man’s eyes and the man jerks back in surprise. And the first thing Billy sees is —

Blue. The bluest eyes Billy has ever seen in his life. So blue it’s startling, almost like a beacon. They’re just so brilliant, their colour and clarity, and it takes a solid moment for Billy to tear his gaze away from them and to the rest of the man — older, dark hair with flecks of grey, neatly trimmed facial hair. About the same height Billy is. Definitely not a student here, unless students have a habit of wearing three piece suits to class. (Then again, this is Rose Creek; Billy could probably be way off base.) Not bad looking, all in all — handsome, Billy thinks, in a completely objective way.

Billy knows he’s openly staring at this point, though the guy is staring at him right back, so. Fair is fair. But then the door opens and Chisolm is ushering them in, so he nods at the man cordially, and then follows his friends into the unknown.

“A friendly desert community, where the sun’s hot, the moon’s beautiful, and mysterious lights pass up above us while we all pretend to sleep.

Welcome to Rose Creek.”

Billy needs to sleep. He really, really needs to sleep, but Sam and Horne are still in there discussing the details fellowship, and they can’t leave without either of them. But also Billy is — he just — there’s just a lot to unpack, alright, about fist-sized river Rocks that are also community college presidents, that can also write somehow, and can also communicate via telepathy. Billy has a list of many, many questions, at the top of which is am I sane and also please god let me study you.

But he can’t do any of the above, so for the time being, Billy settles for cigarettes.

He tells Red as much, who only nods and tells him where they’ll be waiting. Vasquez is itching to move and see if the crows continue to follow — Faraday is already looking around in the trees for more cops hiding as branches. They’ll text when Sam and Horne are out, Red tells him — hopefully sooner than later, because the faster they can get to their new place and sleep on things, the sooner they can wake up and try to assess their mental status. Probably.

Billy’s thumbing the worn cigarette pack in his pocket and walking back down the hall to the rooftop staircase when he looks up and abruptly sees — blue. 

The man again. Greying hair growing out a little and slicked back, bright blue eyes like marbles, grey three-piece suit that makes Billy feel horrendously underdressed wearing a labcoat to a college. Walking down the hallway again, staring again, wide-eyed like a deer in the headlights. Billy pauses in his tracks, inclines his head. The man doesn’t move.

For a second, Billy wonders if he is imagining this man. Or if this man is some kind of... Apparition, appearing only to him. No one else mentioned seeing him before in the hallway  — though to be fair, they were all a little busy afterwards with miss Clara Winthrop, the fist-sized river rock. So before Billy can think twice about it — and he’ll attribute this to his own tired and overwhelmed mind later — he says,

“Hey, you like science?”

And. Wow. Nice going, Rocks. Of all the things he could ask — just because he’s here for science doesn’t mean —

Well, whatever. Billy had asked just to see if the man would respond, so, there it goes. Bait, cast. Billy’s not one to be consumed by regrets and he’s not going to start now just because he’s doubting his own state of mind. And it’s eased, anyway, when the man blinks and then just — nods, slow, and then more rapidly, as if finally dissolving the information. Like a kid being asked if they want candy. The imagery makes Billy quirk a half-smile despite himself. He thinks he may be going a little delirious.

And then Billy confirms it by nodding to the stairwell and asking, “You wanna see something scientifically interesting?”

The man glances there, and then back at Billy, before nodding again. Huh. Wonder if he’s got trouble talking. Though then again, it’d taken three months before Red had spoken a word to any of them, so. Hard to say. Ha. Pun.

God, he really is going delirious.

Billy starts walking to the stairwell, not particularly checking to see if the man is following him, though he’s gratified instantly by the gentle footsteps that follow after him. He makes his way up to the rooftop, feels the relieving evening breeze on his face, and then steps in that spot, gesturing for the man to follow him and do the same. The wide eyes the man has when he does is enough to make Billy feel a little less crazy, if only marginally — at least he’s not the only one seeing this.

“Now, ain’t that a sight.”

The voice startles Billy, though he’ll never admit to it — it takes him a solid moment to realize that it’s coming from the man beside him, and he’s not just hearing things.

Honey and whiskey, are the first thoughts that come to mind, out of nowhere. He sounds like honey and whiskey. And then he feels a little ridiculous because fuck, he’s a scientist, not a poet, and he doesn’t usually start waxing lyrical in his head over people just because he thinks they’re a little bit attractive. God, he thinks, I really need a nap. But also, he thinks, huh, this guy has a really nice voice.

If the man notices Billy’s internal argument, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead he keeps his eyes on the horizon, staring intently at dark column still hazy in the distance, as confusing as it was earlier.

“Any clue what it is?” The man says, effectively bringing Billy back to the sight before them.

Billy shakes off the thoughts and also shakes his head. “No. But it can only be seen from this exact angle and distance. Look.”

He takes two steps to the right. Without a word, or cue, the man copies Billy’s moves, and as expected: the column disappears. The field returns back to being just an ordinary field, though at this point Billy is highly doubting this town’s ability to be anything close to ordinary. When Billy and the guy take two steps back to the left — there it is again, spiraling upwards, a spire of darkness and completely incomprehensible.

“That certainly is scientifically interesting,” the guy finally says with a nod, “Wasn’t there yesterday.”

“Figured. Didn’t seem to be here when I rode in earlier.” Billy replies, staring out to the column, frowning. “I’ll have to investigate it, some other time.”

“Oh?” The man says, and — that’s certainly a tone of excited awe. His beautiful blues are wide when Billy looks. It’s... kind of endearing.

... And then Billy takes a step back from that thought because, no, he just met this guy. And he’s handsome, definitely. Prettiest eyes Billy’s ever seen — scientifically speaking — and with a nice voice to boot, easy to listen to. But it’s probably a testament to his own tired body and wired mind that he’s thinking any of it to begin with. (Fuck, he’s in desperate need of coffee too.)

He does nod to the question though, because, yeah. He’s going to get to the bottom of this. Or he’ll try, anyway. Definitely at least get Red to come with him — the man’s a natural when it’s anything outdoors. Billy has no idea how he’s going to study this weird column of darkness, but he’ll give it a try anyway. That’s what they’re there for. They’re going to milk the department dry with everything they need for experiments in this town, and do so shamelessly.

Billy, of course, isn’t too tired that he says any of this aloud. Instead he just looks at this guy — who’s still looking at him in rapt fascination, and he wonders what that means — and offers a tilt of his head.

“I’ll try,” Billy finally replies, “I’m a scientist, after all.”

And the guy — his face brightens up like the sun, starts beaming enough to maybe power a city, metaphorically. And literally, he grins, and does an extravagant little bow, doffing a hat he isn’t actually wearing.

“Enchante, mister scientist,” the guy says fancifully, looking up at Billy with those big blues and a grin, “I’m Goodnight Robicheaux.”

And Billy — well. Billy can’t help but smile at that. His mouth betrays him before his mind can follow.

“Five dollar name you have there.” Billy points out, lips twitching amused and reluctant to go down again.

The man — Goodnight, Billy’s mind corrects — straightens up, looking simultaneously sheepish and also with a pleased, flushed look. “Oh, no, names come for free ‘round here. Unless you’re born on March 23rd.”

And that is... Interesting, actually. Billy raises a brow, and is halfway to asking just what he means by that when his phone interrupts with a buzz. He shoots Goodnight a mildly apologetic look before looking at it — and as expected, it’s Red. Sam and Horne are out, and they’re about to head to the parking lot to drive to their new laboratory-slash-living space.

“I have to go,” Billy says, pocketing his phone again. “Duty calls.”

“Oh! Oh — of course, I understand.” Goodnight says, except his face and tone look so genuinely dejected that Billy’s a little stunned, though he’s clearly trying to smile and keep that up. “Science?”

And Billy offers a small smile back, nodding once. “Science.”

He walks away then, and either Goodnight really is admiring the view up there or he’s being courteous enough not to follow after Billy back downstairs and make things awkward. Either way. By the time Billy’s down the stairs and walking back to his group, the conversation is far out of memory and tucked in the back of his mind — though never forgotten. He doubts he’ll be able to forget eyes like those, and a voice that sounded like something to drink in, like woodsmoke and wine.

It takes the car ride home before Billy realizes that he never did end up smoking those cigarettes.

“So, a new man came into town today. Who is he? What does he want from us? Why his perfect and beautiful haircut? Why his perfect and beautiful coat? He says he’s a scientist — but we’ve all been scientists at some point or another in our lives, right? So why now? Why here, in ol’ Rose Creek? And just what in the hell does he plan to do with all those breakers and humming electrical instruments in that lab he’s renting — the one next to Big Gavin’s pizza?

No one does a slice like Big Gavin. No one.”

“What kinda name is Goodnight Robicheaux?” Faraday snorts. “That’s a wild name, even for a white dude.”

Red snorts. “Not much weirder than the name Billy Rocks.”

“Who is your driver, and will turn this car around.” Billy threatens tiredly, though he’s definitely not going to. Not back there.

Turns out a little sleep did nothing to help them in their question of sanity. Barely even rested — all of them, each and every one of them, went to bed and dreamt of shrieking doves and dripping paint. All six of them. And then they were woken by a knock on the door by a member of the sheriff’s secret police — that alone had jarred Billy into wakefulness — who said they had to call a town meeting. Declare their intentions. For some reason.

And then a list of miniature catastrophes, that Billy arranged in sequence:

1. There’s a black hole beneath the coffee machine. It’s just a pitch black, perfect circle from where the bottom of the coffee machine was. Everything dropped into it doesn’t drop back out. He had to hold Faraday back from sticking a hand in.
2. Horne’s doorknobs turned into axe blades. They’re still trying to figure out how to open his room door short of kicking it down.
3. The clocks still aren’t working. One started to smoke, smelt like burnt lemons and toast, and then burst into approximately five bats that took them an hour to get out of the room.
4. The crows are still trailing Vasquez. One flew into the bathroom window while he was using it and he shrieked loud enough to almost startle the coffee out of Faraday’s hands.
5. Sam’s bed burst into green flames.

It’s a combination of all this that led to this conclusion: Sam, Horne and Vasquez had to stay behind and try to contain the disasters before they destroyed their new home-slash-workplace on their first day. But the sheriff’s secret police had shown up anyway, demanding that at least one of them had to go and represent them up in city hall. And while Red and Faraday had both gone too, Red can’t be made to talk to people he doesn’t want to even at gunpoint, and Faraday’s public speaking skills usually led to barfights and riots.

In short: Billy hates his colleagues.

He doesn’t know how they made it out of there alive. Metaphorically, and also literally, because while Billy was rattling off an awkward, stilted repetition of Sam’s initial elevator pitch to them about this town, there were: townspeople of various states of being, shady men in all black lurking in the back of the room watching, a sentient patch of haze, an old lady radiating with an actual glowing aura, and a literal five headed dragon.

There was also a disappointing lack of blue-eyed men with nice voices, because Billy had hoped to catch the guy and maybe talk a little. Mostly about what the hell was going on in this town, and were people aware of this, was this normal around here, and — well. Mostly, Billy just wanted to talk to a member of the town that didn’t seem like a being of absolute unreality. Goodnight seemed to be the only person thus far that fit that particular bill. (And the fact he was attractive, well. Billy won’t refuse the cherry on top.)

It was probably a mistake to mention it to the only two people he’s got in his car, though, and also the two most notorious for being wiseasses besides himself. Rookie mistake, Rocks. And now they’re halfway through a discussion/argument about the best way to tackle the axe handle doorknob situation — Red suggesting layered oven mitts, Faraday suggesting some minor explosives. Billy can feel the migraine coming on already. He reaches for the radio in a vain effort to maybe, just maybe, drown them out and shut them up.

And then he nearly slams the brakes.

“... That new scientist – his name is Billy, we know that now — called a town meeting earlier on. He’s got a square jaw, and teeth like a military cemetery. His hair is perfect, and lord do we hate, and despair, and love that perfect hair in equal measure. Old Woman Leni even came ‘round the meeting an’ brought corn muffins, which were... decent, but lacked the salt, seein’ as the angels had taken all of it for a godly mission, and she hadn’t yet gotten around to buying more. Anyway. Billy said that we are by far the most scientifically interesting community in the U.S., and he told us he’d come to study just what is goin’ on around here. He grinned, and everything about him was perfect,” says, swoons the voice on the radio,

“I watched in awe, and fell in love instantly.”

“What the fuck,” says Billy. “What the fuck.”

He’s aware that Red and Faraday are staring at him. He’s also aware that he’s most probably losing his mind for real this time, and so does the responsible driver thing and pulls up at the side of the road. Leans his head against the steering wheel. Counts to ten and eases his breathing, while the voice on the radio — Goodnight’s voice, he knows it, recognizes it without even having to think about it — talks about the Rose Creek harbour and waterfront recreation area and the lack of actual water to front. Like he didn’t just announce Billy’s apparent perfection to the entirety of the town, out loud, in detail, on community radio. (Billy doesn’t even remember grinning at the town meeting. Grimacing, yes. But not grinning.)

Behind him, Faraday lets out a long, low whistle. “Damn, Rocks,” Faraday says, “How come you always get the most attention whenever we go anywhere, huh? Got radio announcers throwin’ themselves over you now.”

“Most people would consider it weird.” Red points out, brow raised. “Normal people.”

Faraday cocks a brow right back. “Uh huh, like Billy’s ever been normal people. And hell, this ain’t even the weirdest thing to happen today. Red, my doorknob has teeth on it.”

Internally, Billy’s conflicted. Because yeah, in fact, he’s pretty sure it counts up pretty high on the creepy list to talk about anyone that way on public networks. But also, Faraday’s right — Goodnight announcing his apparent attraction to Billy over community radio may just be the least weird thing about this town so far. But also, he’d just met this guy once, and he wasn’t even at the town meeting so how did he know any of this? It literally just ended. But also, again, the guy’s going on about a waterfront without any water, and yeah, Faraday’s doorknob has teeth. Billy’s finding priorities just as hard to track here as time.

He doesn’t say any of this, of course. Just leans his head further into the steering wheel and sees if this town will let him meld into it so he can stop thinking and stop this oncoming migraine.

“Aw, chin up, Rocks,” Faraday coos from the backseat, “Least we got a whole bag of corn muffins for it!”

“That are tasteless. Because they have no salt.” Red replies.

Faraday only sniffs. “Because they were taken for a godly mission, Red, you heard the radio man. And also, Vas is a stomach on legs, I don’t think he’d mind.”

“Billy,” Red says, ignoring Faraday, “I think I should drive.”

Billy thinks he nods. He’s not sure. He does end up climbing out of the car to switch sides with Red, though, so it’s a probable thing that he does nod, and then they’re driving back to the labs and Faraday’s talking about an experiment for a house he thinks doesn’t exist while Red points out every single flaw in the plan. And Billy — Billy just leans his head against the window and wonders just what the hell he’s gotten himself into.

“Tis that time of the year again, folks — contract negotiation time with station management, down here in our humble little community radio station. Always interesting, let me tell you, ‘specially since none of us can actually see what we’re negotiatin’ with. Station management just sort of stays in the office all the time. Only way they ever talk to us is by sealed envelopes, spat out from under the door like a sunflower shell through teeth. When we respond we just sorta shout at the door and hope they hear us.

Y’know, sometimes I swear you can see movement through the frosted glass. Big shapes, tendrils whippin’ around — which is really somethin’, since architecturally speaking, management’s office doesn’t make sense considerin’ the size of the building. But what do I know, right? Ain’t an architect, or a chef — just your local community radio host, talkin’ to the lot of you.”

The answer is: everything.

The next few months in Billy’s life are simultaneously the most exhausting, the most bewildering, the most disorienting, and also the most thrilling and fascinating that Billy’s ever experienced in his life.

There are dog parks and hooded figures, librarians that bite and snarl and kept in cages, crows that follow and police hiding (badly) in bushes and trees. There are forests that whisper, massive earthquakes happening that no one can feel or experience, gleaming lights in the sky that Billy’s sure aren’t stars and food that turns into snakes and spirits. There’s a dog still wandering around town with a billboard grown right through it, going about its business like nothing’s wrong.

And in truth, a lot of it isn’t. Wrong, that is. As Billy predicted, they’re all known for their adaptability, and things have actually started making... Sense, sort of, but only if you could adapt your own mind to Rose Creek’s idea of sanity and logic. Where the boundaries of physics and the planes of reality meet and meld and go shimmery between the lines — it goes against everything they’ve ever learnt in their lives, but it’s the opportunity of a lifetime. It’s a world that so few will ever see, have ever seen — even after a night where Billy’s bed nearly eats him whole, he realizes he doesn’t want to leave just yet. Missing an opportunity like this would be the stupidest thing they’ve ever done.

And so they adapt. Dedicate themselves to work and to adapting to the oddities of this weird little town. Vasquez and Faraday have started taking bets on who will go up to ring the doorbell of the house that doesn’t exist behind the elementary school. Sam and Clara Winthrop, the fist-sized river rock of Rose Creek community college, have become good friends. Horne has taken to investigating the Whispering Forest, enjoying it’s whispers and conversations; Red to the Glow Cloud that drops animal carcasses all over the place, arranging for them to be fed to the petting zoo wolves. And all of them have gotten surprisingly used to eating everything free of wheat and wheat by-products.

Billy’s own initial pet project — the hazy column of darkness rising out of the field on the edge of town and into the sky — gets aborted abruptly, if only because it just. Disappears. Which happens a lot in Rose Creek, honestly. Billy’s still not sure if it’s actually disappeared or it’s still there, just only visible from a different angle this time, but he hasn’t had the time to figure that out — and disappointing as it is that he can’t, he isn’t, because he’s had plenty of other things to keep busy about.

Like the books that ceased to function. Just — stopped working. They didn’t have any idea how to explain it then and they don’t have any idea how to explain it now. Just books that would give off sparks, or had teeth that bit, or smelled like meat, or — in one instance — came painfully close to killing Red with something they later identified as an amalgam of lethal gas.

Or: the fact that half of Rose Creek is just ridiculously, almost impossibly, radioactive all the time. The first time Billy checked the geiger counter Sam ordered for them, he’d nearly darted to the car to drive straight out of there, because according to the thing they’d all be dead in the next hour from sheer acute radiation poisoning.

Or: the fact certain holidays had both nearly killed the lot of them. Faraday finally got his shit together enough to ask Vasquez out, and then barely got out of being tranquilized by the secret police. Horne still doesn’t talk about what he’d seen out in town when he accidentally got caught in street cleaning day while shopping for groceries — most any of them ever got out of him was ‘my god, the screaming, the screaming.’

Or: the white guy dressed as a cartoonishly offensive Native American caricature decked complete with racist plastic feather headdress, talking about ancient Indian magics and insisting on being called the Comanche Tracker. The one who ended up actually becoming Native American at some point but still only wore shitty racist clothes and said more garbage, though this time only in Russian. (It wasn’t a scientific breakthrough, but Billy chalks it in anyway since it’d been a new feat in itself to stop Red from picking a screaming match or an outright brawl with the man in public.) 

Or: the lights and sounds coming from Radon Canyon that Billy still couldn’t find the source from.

Or: the alleged underground city living under lane five of the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex that’s warranted a militia to surround it.

Or: every single day in Rose Creek, and trying to count them, because time still didn’t flow right in this town no matter how much Billy or any of the rest of the team try to monitor it. (They have a fucking desk clock they’re monitoring in the centre of their lab. Billy thinks he’s coming close to matching up the time on a wristwatch he has to the actual time — but it’s hard when he can barely figure out the latter.)

But out of all the time he is aware that’s passed, there’s only two things he’s figured out that he can count on to be constant (a rarity in Rose Creek, when even the laws of physics fail to be consistent):

1. his friends and the fact they’re as loyal as they are stupidly curious,
2. Goodnight Robicheaux, the voice of Rose Creek community radio.

Which sounds halfway romantic, but it’s not. Not at first. There’s no escaping Goodnight’s voice. Billy’s never been to a single place that’s been as dedicated to a singular radio station as this — though he supposes there’s hardly a choice, considering the only other station available in this town is a station that just repeats numbers in a monotone female voice, and Sam already has dibs on trying to figure out what it means. Everywhere he goes, where there’s a radio, he hears it: a voice like magnolias and moonshine, talking about community events as if temporal dissonance is just another Tuesday thing that happens everywhere else.

Goodnight continues to talk about Billy. And it’s as unnerving as it should be, at first. Of course, Goodnight talks about everything in town, both allowed and disallowed, and talks about the rest of Billy’s team and where they’ve been and what they’re doing — but Billy, specifically, he realizes, gets special treatment. And Billy is aware he’s attractive by most conventional standards but jesus. The way this guy talks about him over the radio makes it sound like Billy’s a celebrity instead of a scientist running blind around a town that defies the laws of the universe. The fact that Goodnight’s words alone seemed to have been enough to drive Billy’s barber out of town the one time he got it trimmed — well, Billy had been creeped out enough by it to stay in the labs for a week.

But there’s no escaping Goodnight’s voice. It’s there, every single day, accompanying all of them. And for all it jars Billy to hear about himself on the radio as if he’s some Greek god or Hollywood model — Goodnight’s voice gradually becomes more tolerable. More than tolerable, as Billy gets accustomed to it, to Goodnight. Having it in the background of his every day — it becomes grounding presence. A constant, in a day full of unpredictable chaos.

And over time... it actually starts to feel safe. Which is weird, considering the guy’s apparently got so much sway that Arcade the barber is still wandering around outside in the sand wastes trying to give haircuts to cacti, but still.

It’s practical, generally. Goodnight talks about everything — news, going ons, announcements, and more importantly: warnings. Things to do and not to do in Rose Creek on any given day. What to avoid, what’s normal, what isn’t — for all the rules Rose Creek bends and breaks on a regular basis, the ones that exist are pretty strict, and there’s always something new to kill them everyday. A lot of the time, Goodnight’s easy announcements and commentary on the radio are the only things keeping Billy and the rest of the team from doing something monumentally stupid by Rose Creek standards. Like visiting a post office, or buying a pen. Or looking at clouds.

And on a less professional note: Billy starts to really like the voice on the radio. The one that prattles on and on about his favourite family recipes with imaginary corn, the one that spins poems and prose out of nothing, the one that talks about his likes and dislikes and fears and gossip on air like he's talking to a friend, rather than an entire community at once. 

It’s part of why Billy starts getting actually used to Goodnight talking about him on the radio. Like. Yeah, it was creepy for awhile. Especially after the whole Arcade the barber incident. But as Billy keeps on listening, with or without intent, over the next few weeks, months — it starts getting less creepy, if only because Billy finally figures out that Goodnight’s just naturally like this. That Goodnight’s as open and genuine with his attraction to Billy as he’s open and genuine with everything else. Sure, he talks about Billy’s hair to an extent that makes Billy wonder — professionally, of course — whether the man has a hair fetish, but also he talks about the dog park and angels in excruciating detail on the regular, despite the punishments Billy knows the city council inflicts on those that do. 

It’s just... Goodnight. It’s just how he is.

Maybe that’s why Rose Creek seems so attached to the man on the radio — the way he sounds on the air makes it seem like he’s talking directly to you, like a friend on the phone instead of into a microphone far away. Genuine and open.

Because people being this honest, this sincere, even at the literal risk of their own lives in the case of Rose Creek — it’s a rarity. And Goodnight seems to offer it in spades, wears his heart on his sleeve and on his voice, for all of the town to hear. His opinions on the shape in grove park, his loyalty to his friends, the angels and all their lack of legal existence, everything. And the more Billy listens, the more it sounds less and less like a stranger on the radio stalking him, and more for what he’s now about 98% sure it is: a man on the radio with a crush, and no sense of privacy, because this is, after all, Rose Creek. And this is just Goodnight. And this is just... What it is. No more, no less.

Sam would call it mooning. Billy calls it ridiculous — and like all things Rose Creek, Billy also calls it intriguing, and fascinating. He’s never been one to stop poking at a curious thing, and Goodnight’s gone back to being... interesting.

Tell him a couple of months ago and Billy thinks he would’ve lost his shit at the image of himself actively encouraging a guy who has no sense of privacy to hit on him but — that was before Rose Creek.

These days? These days, things are a little different. And Billy thinks he’s finally developed a new pet project.

“Well, just got off the phone with Billy and — we’ve got coffee, tomorrow afternoon! I mean, he was talkin’ about gettin’ contacts for the sheriff and clocks that don’t exist and the like, but he also said coffee. He said coffee, and tomorrow afternoon, and are you free, and I said to myself, Goodnight, it could be more. Maybe a lot more. I mean, I ain’t one to get my hopes too high up — but who knows, right?

You know, they always used to say that if you try to meet someone, you may never find ‘em, but it’s when you’re not looking that they find you. Always thought this was about government agents, but you know, I think it applies to dating just the same. Oh, but Billy did want me to ask if anyone’s ever actually seen the Rose Creek clock tower. Told him it was invisible and always teleporting, so no, obviously, but hey, he’s a scientist, not a clockmaker, so I ain’t got a right to judge — ”

In truth, Billy can’t confirm or deny that the coffee date is, in fact, a date. Can’t confirm or deny that he’s dressed in his sleekest wear under his government mandated scientist labcoat either, or that his hair is done up in a more elaborate bun than usual, silver hairpin in place. He can confirm that he’s absolutely, internally, loving the shit out of how Goodnight’s eyes go wide and face goes red at the first sight of Billy upon entering the cafe — but that could just be a bonus to everything, so it doesn’t really count.

“Hey,” Billy greets, standing up to be polite, and to watch Goodnight’s eyes trail almost helplessly down Billy’s body. His labcoat is plain, but the black button up he’s wearing under is form fitting to a fault. The skinny jeans help. He knows.

“Hey,” Goodnight croaks back, and Billy pretends it doesn’t send a thrill down his spine. (Helps that the man doesn’t look too bad himself — who else could pull off three piece suits so casually?)

Instead he gestures to the chair across from him. “Had lunch yet?” He asks, as he sits.

The question at least seems to bring Goodnight back to himself, shaking his head as he moves to take a seat across from Billy. The table’s a small one, and they could probably grab one bigger — but why would they want to? “‘Fraid not, but I’m savin’ my stomach for dinner. Mandatory monthly at Big Gavin’s you know — figured I might as well just skip lunch and have a whole pie later.”

Even as his speech seems to come back to itself, his eyes keep going back to Billy. Seems to be caught between staring, and looking away when he realizes, and then looking back anyway. An undeniable pink on his cheeks. Fidgeting. Classic signs of human attraction even as inhuman Rose Creek is, and that Billy devours hungrily, notes in his mind these observations.

Because this is his new side study, his new pet project: figuring Goodnight out.

There’s no mistaking the pleased flush on his face every time Billy stops over. The last time Billy had come by the station to test the area for radioactivity, Goodnight had almost spilled coffee on himself opening the door for Billy, and then looked at Billy for the whole time he was there as if Billy’d personally climbed a ladder to hang every star in the sky. Perfectly respectful in every other sense — hadn’t tried to move in anywhere close to Billy’s personal space, or prod personal questions — but the minute Billy’d left, he heard Goodnight gushing about him over the car radio.

For all his flair and charm on the radio, his charisma, his five dollar words and soliloquies that Billy’s sure doesn’t actually exist in any literary texts outside of Rose Creek — in person, Goodnight is still the man Billy met in the halls of the community college. Still stops and stares at Billy whenever they run into each other, with those ridiculously blue eyes. Still looks elated, almost incandescent with happiness whenever Billy talks to him. 

These days, Billy accepts that he’s a little vain. Nothing wrong with that. Definitely not going to turn away any compliments turned his way, especially if the people saying them are attractive too. And once he stops grimacing at the way Goodnight talks about him on radio and starts paying attention, starts taking interest back — Billy starts shifting his way of thinking. All a matter of perspective.

So what if he preens a little whenever Goodnight comments about him on the radio these days? It’s worth it to see Faraday huff about never being even regarded by name on air. And if Billy starts calling — for non-personal reasons, of course — and dropping by the station in person to deliver reports and announcements face to face, well. He’s a scientist. This is a study. Obviously.

Purely scientific. And Billy likes science, a whole lot. So he’s unashamed about openly observing Goodnight everytime he drops by, lowering his eyelids and keeping his eyes trained in a way that brings red splotching up Goodnight’s face every time. Cross examines and keeps note of the way Goodnight grins like the sun’s yolk breaking over sunrise everytime Billy even half-smiles at him, the way he gestures when he talks whenever Billy asks him about anything, the way he sounds like some excited infatuated schoolgirl on the radio after every visit. Billy really loves his science. And he’s personally, and professionally, enjoying the fuck out of watching Goodnight’s blues on him, that oak and maple voice talking about him and laughing and eager to please, the curve of his smile everytime Billy drops by.

So sue him. This town’s already insane as it is. The term you only live once and seize the day has never meant more than it does now — and if Billy finds, in the course of his scientific pursuit, that he’s also entertaining the idea of pursuing the man who’s been spending half the year now talking about him on the radio like he’s gossiping to friends instead of the entire town, then, well. There are worse ways to live. And besides, it’s not like it’s an actual relationship, or commitment. Just... Testing the waters. Scientific flirting. Testing hypotheses.

( He’s aware that this makes him kind of a dick. That he’s sort of stringing Goodnight along like this — but he also knows that he can’t actually make the decision right now. He’s still trying to get used to the place, and in all honesty, he’s figuring himself out as much as he is Goodnight. He’s not usually a dating kind of person, and definitely not while working, and definitely not while working 24/7 like he is in Rose Creek just out of the sheer environment they’re in. 

He’s got no idea if he’s date material on the regular, let alone when he’s busy trying to figure out why and how their blender got possessed by the soul of a constipated duck. And that’s not even broaching the topic of how dating works in Rose Creek — if Goodnight would even want that, or if Billy’s just a temporary object of fascination. If Goodnight’s serious, or this is just a case of infatuation and lust that happens to be broadcast live. Not that Billy would be opposed to a one night stand, or three.

Still. Too many variables, not enough concrete information. So for the time being, Billy just enjoys the way Goodnight looks at him. Enjoys hearing Goodnight’s voice on the radio, heady and smooth, all chocolates and cigarettes. Weighs his options, balances the pros and cons, calculates his risks, observes, and just. Tries to survive, in the meantime. He’s still got a job to do anyway — attractive radio hosts or not. )

“So, the clocks.” Billy says, leaning back into his chair, keeping his eyes trained forwards.

Goodnight blinks, before straightening up immediately. The picture of rapt attention, steepling his fingers together and nodding affirmatively. It’s enough that a smile almost slips from Billy before he can think about it.

“Yes, yes, business,” Goodnight nods, “You were sayin’ about uh — clocks with hair?”

“Hair, teeth, and some kind of ooze I still don’t know the origin of yet. All of the clocks in Rose Creek are like this.” Billy explains. “I’ll need some of your contacts, if you don’t mind. Sheriff, city council, and anyone who’d know the distributor.”

“Ain’t a problem,” Goodnight says, “I’ll text it to you. Shouldn’t be too hard to figure it out, though — only got a few places ‘round that make clocks these days. Not enough soul power to make more than a couple a decade, y’know?”

That’s interesting. Billy crooks a brow. “Is soul power the normal power source for clocks here in Rose Creek?”

Goodnight’s blue eyes just blink. And then he laughs, bright and cheery. “Well, obviously! How else do we measure time than by using the souls of the same creatures that invented its concept?” Goodnight explains, amusement in the quirk of his mouth, talking as if this is common knowledge. It probably is, knowing Rose Creek.

Billy considers explaining to Goodnight the concept of proper batteries. And the mechanisms of an actual clock. And then — he thinks twice, thinks better of it, and just ends up shrugging, looking down at the twin cups of coffee that’s appeared before them on the table even though neither of them have ordered yet. (Unsurprising — this restaurant never takes orders. Orders are all taken without you knowing, and presented when you don’t expect it. It’d taken him a little while to get used to having to wait for food and drinks that he didn’t even know he was getting, but so far it’s all been pretty good in their choices, so he’s got no complaints.)

He takes a long, slow sip while he thinks about what to do next. (Banana latte — odd, new, but not unpleasant.) He’d mostly come here to get the contacts from Goodnight and maybe see his reactions to a couple of things, but beyond that, he didn’t really have much planned. He’s never been a strong conversationalist anyway. Not because he doesn’t like to, but he’s never been the kind of person to fill empty air with empty words, and not a lot of people can draw chatter out of him. And there’s nothing wrong with comfortable silence — one of his best holidays was spending Christmas with Red and Sam and saying maybe half a dozen words in the span of three days.

Goodnight doesn’t seem to share the same sentiment though, because then he says, “So, you uh. You like science?”

Billy can’t stop the quirk of his lips at that, amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. “Yes, Goodnight. I’m a scientist who likes science.”

Goodnight breaks into a laugh, half nervous and half embarrassed, if the burning reds in his cheek is any indication. Billy has half a mind to prod further, before deciding to show a little mercy and putting his coffee down instead, leaning back comfortably against his seat. There’s no missing the way Goodnight mirrors his ease — shoulders slouching, a little of the buzzing awkwardness seeping away into the afternoon air.

“Well, I’d like to think I’ve been a fan of science for a good long while. Used to be a regular participant in science fairs when I was in school!” Goodnight says, picking up a little more of his usual flair and charisma as he puffs up a little in pride. “Won an award once for it even, for my miniature volcano that spewed real lava, made of potatoes and obsidian.”

Billy blinks. “That... is impressive.” He says, slowly, because — honestly, it is. How the fuck, even.

Goodnight doesn’t seem to detect the question in Billy’s voice though, because he turns like a flower to the sun at the praise. Grins wide and almost sheepish, cheeks flushed. “Not nearly as impressive as what you do, I’m sure.”

“You could say there’s a difference between grade school science fairs and studying in the actual field of natural sciences, sure,” Billy says, amusement still on his mouth, “But science is science in the end. In any form. Except here in Rose Creek, apparently. Never seen so many anomalies in a singular location — and not all at once.”

“Well, you did say we’re the most ‘scientifically interesting town in the U.S.’,” Goodnight points out, eyes twinkling, “So I hope you’re gettin’ your money’s worth, comin’ down from — wherever you’re from.”

“California.” Billy answers to the unasked question.

Goodnight furrows his brow. “’scuse me?”

Billy cocks a brow himself. “California. The west coast?”

“Never heard of it,” Goodnight shrugs, shaking his head. Billy takes note of that fact immediately: does Rose Creek not know about the existence of other U.S. states? “But! I’m sure it’s a lovely place. The coast, you say?”

Billy nods as he files his other thoughts for later. “Mm. Not a bad place to be. Was never a fan of the coastline itself though — too wet and humid for me.”

“And so here you’ve come to bathe in the sun and sand, much alike a bird, flown far from home to seek new sights.” Goodnight sighs dramatically, hand on his chest, before pausing to wink at Billy. “You’d be a shrike.”

Billy raises a brow, smirking. “The butcherbird?”

Goodnight snaps his fingers. “Precisely! Petite, beautiful — but full of deadly wit and cunning and brilliant smarts.” Goodnight explains, in a flourishing fashion. “And I, I would be — “

“ — a parrot?” Billy offers.

“Well, I suppose so,” Goodnight grins, mischievous twinkle in his eye as he says, “Because I was going to say rooster, but I figure I might be too chicken.”

Billy snorts, and then surprises himself by laughing. A short, quiet thing, but he’s laughing anyway, because god, that joke was fucking terrible, but it’s also so very Goodnight. The man’s laughing at his own joke, even, and his energy is infectious enough to keep the smile on Billy’s mouth even after the laughter’s died down to nothing but good spirits — the emotional kind, and not the ones still haunting some cupboards of domestic Rose Creek homes after the wheat and wheat by-product incident.

“Awful,” Billy says, mirth tugging at his mouth, “Terrible.”

“Well, some might say I’m a little birdbrained.” Goodnight grins, waggling his brows. “But no harm, no fowl.”

Billy barely stifles the chuckle at the sight, settling to a smirk instead. “Could say you’re an owl, thinking you’re that much of a hoot.”

It turns out to be the wrong thing to say. And not in the usual Billy Rocks can’t do any form of humour that isn’t dry and scathing kind of way. In an instant, Goodnight’s mirth disappears, the brightness of his blue eyes replaced suddenly with a distant, icy hollow. Mouth abruptly curved down, body stiffening. Staring into the middle space, past Billy — haunted, and almost... Sad. It’s enough to have Billy tensing in his seat.

“Funny,” Goodnight says, not sounding at all like he’s found any of it comedic and more like a vacant grimace, “My ma used to say somethin’ like that. She’d say, someone’s gonna kill you one day, Goodnight, and it’ll involve an owl.”

And. That’s. Billy has nothing to say to that. There’s nothing he could possibly say to that, because what can you say to that? Billy winces to himself anyway. It’s usually Faraday who sticks a foot in his mouth. And for all that Billy’s been calling Goodnight a pet project, he’s not actually looking to poke holes in the man and dig out his dirty secrets or find out how he ticks. He just wants to get to know the guy, maybe see if he’s up for a one night stand or something. Not turn him into the haunted looking statue he’s turned into now.

“Hey,” Billy finally says, when the silence stretches long enough to be more than uncomfortable, “I’m s — “

But that’s as far as he gets, because just like that — it’s like Billy’s voice brings Goodnight back. And Goodnight snaps back up, face back to bright and brimming with easy contentment and amusement.

“Enough ‘bout that. Death comes to all of us, ghastly or otherwise, at some point or another. Immortality’s far too much overrated, and expensive.” Goodnight says, breezy enough that it gives Billy whiplash. “You were sayin’?”

Billy blinks. “I was saying?”

“Natural sciences! California!” Goodnight encourages. (Billy takes precise note on how Goodnight says california completely wrong, and thinks about that later.) “And you’ve yet to tell me ‘bout your team.”

Well. At least this he’s confident he can talk about without fucking up. “The one who’s always visiting the community college — that’s Chisolm. Faraday and Vasquez are the ones always investigating that non-existent house down behind the elementary school. Red’s the one usually following the Glow Cloud; Horne’s the one normally set up by the Whispering Forest.”

Goodnight nods, attention back to what it was. “You met all of ‘em in california?”

Again, completely wrong pronunciation, but Billy skips over it. “No, not all of them. Red and Vasquez, first — we studied in the same university, same classes. Then Faraday came in later from a different university, looking for flatmates. Horne was one of our professors. Met Chisolm in Kansas on a conference Horne let us join him on.”

“Kansas!” Goodnight brightens, “I know that one! Known for the best fresh bleeding pears that side of the country.”

Billy stares. “Bleeding pears.”

Goodnight looks almost affronted by Billy’s words. “Of course! You can’t tell me you’ve been to Kansas and never tried a bleeding pear? I mean, sure, de-veining ‘em and taking out the entrails can be a lil’ tedious, and the blood gets everywhere if you ain’t careful, but I assure you, they are magnificent and juicy and sweet as can be. Why, one summer, my daddy drove down to Kansas and came back with crates of ‘em, forgot the flesh starts rotting if you keep ‘em in the heat, and the smell when he reached home — “

And Goodnight goes on. Talks at length and in grand detail about the pears Billy swears doesn’t exist, and then — listens, when Billy talks about actual pears. And then, somehow, the topic moves on: to family recipes, to family, to why relatives can be so irritating during family reunions, to general pet peeves of people, and.

That’s how the rest of the afternoon goes. Just — talking. More than Billy would ever thought he’d talk with another person. It’s alarming, how easy it is to talk to Goodnight — his natural charm, his enthusiasm, his sincerity plain on his face and sleeves as he talks and listens in equal measure. His voice is easy to listen to, and he’s an active listener everytime he throws the conversational ball into Billy’s court — which is never forced, so easy and simple, that Billy finds himself replying without really thinking about it too hard. And not in the Rose-Creek-mind-melding way either. Goodnight’s just that easy to talk to.

More than that, Billy’s surprised by how much he likes it. Genuinely. It’s one thing to see the man in short bursts, observe him in little spaces of time, or hear him gushing about Billy over the radio over a thirty second phone call. This is the longest time they’ve ever been around each other, and outside of a setting that isn’t Goodnight’s radio station or in the middle of a crisis. And Billy is surprised to find that Goodnight is — he’s genuinely good company. More than just an attractive man who’s both eye and ear candy, he’s actually someone Billy finds he just... Enjoys being around. For all the differences they have in terms of the people they are and the environments they’ve grown up in — Rose Creek, and everywhere outside of it —  they really are just, at the core, people. And Billy’s starting to find that he sincerely likes the kind of people Goodnight is.

( It’s a rarity. There’s barely more than a handful of people Billy likes in this world, and he’s already living with most of them. )

He likes it enough that the afternoon passes into evening without either of them realizing it. That only happens when Goodnight’s halfway through a story about his trip in ‘Svitz’ and his pocket starts howling.

“Oh! Shit, sorry, hold on — “ Goodnight scrambles, digging into his pocket to haul out a phone, swiping it and silencing the howl that has Billy’s ears ringing. And then he grins up, sheepish. “Awful sorry ‘bout that. The usual alarm for Big Gavin’s mandatory pizza — it’s almost time for me to get goin’, lest I incur the wrath of the sheriff’s secret police. Last thing I need is staples in my coffee again.”

Billy thinks it’s a real testament to how much he’s adapting to Rose Creek that he doesn’t outwardly wince at the idea of staples in coffee. Instead, he says, “That late already?”

Goodnight only nods, checking his wristwatch. (Billy notes: the strap is fuzzy. What the hell. When.) “Mmhm. It’s about seven forty-five — though, I’m not sure whether that counts to you.”

“Ah. Right. The clocks don’t work right here.” Billy says half-heartedly as Goodnight finishes his coffee. It’s hard to say why, but he just. He feels a little disappointed, that they have to cut this meeting short — even if they’ve stayed past his initial assumption of an hour by four and a half hours. (He knows exactly why, but he’s not saying it out loud just yet.) “I suppose I should get back to investigating that.”

Goodnight’s smile is sad, this time. Billy tries very, very hard not to find a little hint of gratification in his heart at the fact Goodnight’s as disappointed as Billy is at leaving. (He fails, but only a little.)

“Science never stops, eh?” Goodnight says wryly.

Billy half-smirks. “If it did, I’d be out of a job.”

“And we can’t have that.” Goodnight smiles, before looking away abruptly. Fidgets, for a moment, before turning back to Billy. Cheeks, pink. “Listen, Billy. I know this meeting was purely professional ‘n all, and I promise I’ll get you those contacts — but. I just wanted you to know I had a great time. An’ if you ever wanted to do this again — I mean, gettin’ anything from me, contacts or broadcasts or anything, really  — I’d be more than happy to oblige.”

And there it is again. Those blue eyes, that sincerity — it’s enough to wind Billy a little. Leave him a little breathless, his heart pounding a little faster. Something warm, curling in his gut, sprouting like a seed starting to grow. It’s around here that he realizes that this changes everything, that he’s more than a little fucked — and around here where he decides that he doesn’t really care.

“Of course,” Billy says, offering a smile, now, and just as real, “And. I had a good time too, Goodnight.”

“Goody,” he says, almost in a rush. “Call me Goody.”

Billy blinks. And then feels warmth coming to his own face, when he nods and finds the corners of his mouth ticking up and says, “Okay, Goody.”

When Goodnight — Goody grins at that, cheeks flushed pleased and eyes wrinkled at the edges and all of it hitting Billy like the most welcome gutpunch Billy’s ever felt — well.

Billy thinks there’s more than one thing he could get used to in Rose Creek.

“So word’s come in ‘bout a disturbance down at Teddy Q’s Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex. Says there’s been the sound of chanting and machinery from under the pin retrieval area of lane five, and Teddy Q’s changed all the bowlers’ names on the electronic score cards to ‘They Are Here!’, which is a little confusin’, and a right unfortunate thing for One Eyed Lucas, who’s rented out a few lanes for the afternoon due to it being his 50th birthday party.

The man was last seen drinking a light beer out of a plastic cup, shakin’ his head sadly as he swished it around, lookin’ out the window at the sky (mostly void, partially stars.)

Teddy Q on the other hand, was last seen howlin’ and commanding his militia to surround the pin retrieval area and prepare for an attack. And Billy, sweet Billy, brave Billy — “

A year goes by. Just like that. A whole year that Billy never thought he’d make it through, but did — and with surprising ease, for all the lack of non-deadly crises happening every other day in this town.

They get through rampaging librarians, floating cats, feral dogs. They get through airplanes that disappear and reappear in elementary school gyms, and mountains that aren’t real. They get through hornets at the Olive Garden, poetry week, monoliths, pyramids, men in tan jackets with deer skin suitcases, boyscout initiation rituals, missing and reappearing mayors, Erikas, Brown Stone Spires, baby Glow Clouds, an entire underground city living within under a bowling alley and apparently planning to attack Rose Creek. They adapt. They get used to it. They take each day as it comes.

Billy can barely believe that it’s been a solid year since they first arrived into Rose Creek, because sometimes it feels longer and sometimes it feels like just yesterday. They’ve all gotten used to eating wheat-free, barely even blinking when they take turns every day to make an offering on the bloodstone circle in the labs for protection, giving coffee to the secret police hiding in the bushes by their door. Hell, Billy’s even gotten used to the faceless old woman secretly living in their home. Likes her, even — probably because the only person she actively fucks with is Faraday, and he deserves it for being a slob and not picking up after his own shit.

But for all they get used to it, Rose Creek never stops finding new ways to surprise them. For all they adapt, it never gets less fascinating or less confusing to live here. Always some new anomaly to investigate and study, always some new theory to pry apart and put together again. Some of them they’ve even started solving, by Rose Creek logic — it’s more satisfying than anything else Billy’s worked on in his life.

And through all of it — Goody’s there.

Not always physically, but his voice is always around him, somehow. Becoming more and more a part of their daily lives, like steam billowing off of a coffee cup in the morning, like soap bubbles in a bathtub. For all the rest of them like to complain or tease that Billy just listens to the show because it panders to his ego, they never try to turn off the radio or switch to anything else whenever Billy puts it on in the morning. They work, and while they work, the voice of Rose Creek speaks like black cherry rum and gunpowder, keeping them informed. Safe, more times than not.

Though, that’s not to say that Billy doesn’t listen to the radio just for Goody. Or that he doesn’t see Goodnight in person. Billy’s mature enough to admit that he’s definitely more than a little attracted to the radio host now (“Crush, just say crush — “ Red had said at one point, before being interrupted gracefully by Billy’s elbow into his ribs) and it definitely influences his listening preferences.

And they talk more. Billy calls more often — for non-personal reasons, of course, and if they talk for longer than necessary to just pass on a short announcement about some new public danger, well, no one else will know anyway, besides the sheriff’s secret police and the faceless old woman. They even grab coffee sometimes. Not often, because they’re both too busy with their respective careers and daily emergencies to warrant that, but they do it sometimes. Always, always under the pretense of business, or needing something from each other, though at this point Billy thinks even Goodnight knows that it’s just an excuse to meet up and talk.

( “Dude,” Faraday had asked at one point, “Why don’t you just ask him out?”

Billy had frowned, then. Kept his focus on the charts in front of him, and not the heat that was rising up his neck. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Vasquez snorted from across the room, tablet in hand. “You are a terrible liar, amigo. You have it bad for the radio host. Everyone knows it. And he’s had it bad for you since you got here. Might as well make it official, eh?”

“Billy’s just chickenshit,” Red, the traitor, said from the doorway, walking in with more charts, “Because he’s a grown ass adult who doesn’t know how to do feelings.”

Billy had shot Red a glare that probably would’ve killed a lesser man. Because it was Red, however, the guy had just blinked and unceremoniously dumped the charts onto the table.

“I’m just saying.” Red concluded, shrugging.

“And you should go back to not saying anything.” Billy bit, and then went back to his own business, and definitely did not think about the fact his face was definitely, definitely going warm. )

It’s not that Billy’s afraid to date Goodnight, per se. He’s just... unfamiliar. Still feeling things out. At first it was a little unnerving, this man on the radio, and then it became a fun little attraction game, yanking a little on Goody’s collar to see what gets it hot underneath. But that was before Billy had actually talked to him, before Goodnight had turned to Goody, before Billy could lose hours and hours just listening to Goody speak and having Goody listen to him right back, drunk on the rapt easy conversations and dizzy with how much he likes hearing Goody’s voice right in front of him, talking about anything and everything and nothing at all.

Now things are different. And Billy doesn’t mind different, he doesn’t — he’s not one to hesitate to change, likes barging headlong into whatever challenges he’s given without any regard to anyone else. He carved out his own future with his own two hands, and he’s not the kind of person to be consumed by overthinking. He takes life by the reigns and strides forward. That’s just who he is. Billy Rocks just isn’t the kind of man who gets hung up on what ifs and maybes.

But this is Rose Creek. And this is Goodnight. And Billy, for all his years of education and all the knowledge he’s crammed into his brain — he can’t figure out why Goodnight is different. He just is. (And that in itself makes Billy freeze more often than not — the fact that when he thinks about all the reasons why he could possibly like Goodnight, his mind can come up with so many that he can hardly count them. There isn’t just one.)

... So. Okay. Yeah. Maybe Billy is a little afraid. Big deal. First time for everything, and this is the first time Billy’s felt this way for anyone. He’s allowed to be a little hesitant.

But he does plan on doing something about it. Eventually. When things calm down, just a little bit. When Billy makes sure that this is definitely a him-and-Goodnight thing, not a Rose-Creek-playing-mindgames thing. (It’s not, he knows in his gut it’s not, but Billy just — he’s just not sure whether he’s ready to take that next step yet.)

For now, he’s perfectly content to call Goody up every so often, for personal non-personal reasons. Is more than content with seeing Goody every couple of weeks, taking their days off together to just lounge in that cafe in the barista district, hearing Goody talk about anything and everything, letting Goody draw out words from Billy that only a few people can ever do. For all of how different they are, every part that matters syncs up just fine — Billy thinks, for now, it’s enough. It’s more than enough.

And then Teddy Q just had to start howling about the underground civilization in his bowling alley, and fucked that part right up.

“ — was last seen approaching the entrance to the underground city, sayin’ that he was gonna get to the bottom of this, that someone had to, that Teddy Q was deranged. 

And then Teddy Q said, “Oh yeah? Oh yeah? Say that to my face, hotshot!”

But Billy. Lord, my poor Billy — he was already gone — “

There’s blood on his hands. There’s blood on his hands and on his coat and on his clothes, and he should maybe not be driving in this state, but he also thinks — fuck it. No time like the present.

He still feels dazed as he slides into the car. (not even his own car, and god, that’s another thing Billy will have to unpack later when he’s feeling a little less rattled.) He doesn’t know if it’s the minor concussion he definitely has or the shock of what’s happened over the last hour, but he feels simultaneously buzzing with nervous energy and tired enough to sleep. He supposes that’s just what happens when you nearly die in a bowling alley.

Maybe it’s a sign that he should maybe stop running headlong into challenges. Even if it means shutting up the annoying owners of bowling alleys and arcade fun complexes with sweet vindication. Especially not when it backfired. It’s almost embarrassing — finding out the underground civilization was instead just the size of a dollhouse, full of tiny people, pointing it out to everyone and then immediately being shot down by the threat he was trying to prove wasn’t a threat. Billy figures it might be karma. Or at least a sign to stop being so cocky.

( “God... something. Something truly horrifying’s happened, listeners. Billy, standing glorious and triumphant by the toy-scaled city — he was attacked. By the miniature inhabitants of the miniature land, using projectiles and explosives ‘til he fell, to the side of the small hole in the pin retrieval area of lane five.

Blood. So much blood, welled through his shirt. And me, here, stuck in this goddamn booth, absolutely useless — only able to talk. Billy staggered, fell to his knees, collapsed — lord, there was so much blood — ” )

The scientist in him is admittedly curious. Intrigued. Half by the existence of a miniature city beneath the bowling alley in the first place, and half by how they could make projectiles so powerful that it felt like gunshots. Billy has been shot before. Twice. He thinks he would know what it feels like, and it definitely felt like getting shot, feeling the projectiles hit him dead in the chest, searing cold through his flesh, carnage in its wake.

The person in him, though, the one that isn’t a scientist — thinks I almost died.

Billy’s not above admitting that vulnerability and helplessness are two things he hates feeling most in the world. He’s used to doing what he wants. Used to carving down his own paths if the mountains won’t move.

But there, falling to the ground, shock spreading through him as he watched his own blood seep and puddle around him — he’d felt both. And he hated it. And he hated watching, barely able to do anything, as he watched the miniature people reload their weaponry. Hated the sick feeling in his gut, the fear curling in his spine at the realization that he wasn’t going to live past tonight. That he was going to die, here, in a fucking pin retrieval area under a bowling alley, in a pool of his own blood.

Billy starts the car, now, if only to remember that he’s here. That he’s still alive. His hands dig out his phone, sends a text he should’ve long ago. If they tremble, he doesn’t give enough of a shit to think about it.

( “ — curse this town, that saw Billy die. Curse me. Curse it all.

... Let us take a moment to —

Let us... Take this moment —

... Ladies and gentlemen, let us mourn the pass —

... Can’t. I can’t — “)

The rest of the experience had been a blur. He remembers thinking about his family, the one in california. His mother, his brother and sister. And then thinking about his new family — Red, Sam, Faraday, Vasquez, Horne. He remembers thinking about all of them, about having planned to fly back on thanksgiving to visit his mother, about just having had pizza with the team this morning and promising poker night — he remembers thinking, I’m never going to see them again. 

Cold. Going cold. And then, as his vision started to darken, he remembers hearing the sound echoing around from the bowling alley above him, above the panicking crowd and the angry civilization — Goodnight’s voice.

Clear as day, even over bowling alley speakers. Voice like bourbon and syrup, breaking apart over Billy, right there on radio. Billy can hear the tears, hurts more than the wounds in his chest.

And he’d thought: shit, I never got to ask him out.

But then —

Hands. Arms. A feeling of weightlessness, his head lolling across someone’s broad shoulder. The sound of pained grunts, stars behind his eyelids. He remembers sudden cooler air, fresher air — remembers being laid on a cold, smooth floor, and then more hands around him. A few on his wrist, some on his head, and a voice that sounded a lot like Red saying Billy, hey man, stay with me, stay with us, come on, and a honey and whiskey voice over speakers a couple of minutes later saying —

( " — Ladies and gentlemen, the most wonderful news has been placed before me, ‘cause it says that — Billy isn’t dead!

Seems that the Comanche Tracker ran in, crouched awkward through the pin retrieval area, shouted “наконец, мое время пришло!” And leapt into the pit, his awful feather headdress trailin’ behind him. And then he heaved Billy up, in a bear hug of his own mighty arms, and carried him up ‘n out of the pit, attacked by the miniature citizens all the while.

Even One Eyed Lucas, upset fella as he was about the ruined birthday party, couldn’t help but cheer as the man laid Billy down safe on the linoleum floor. Teddy Q — bein’ a licensed doctor as all bowling alley owners have to be — checked Billy’s wounds, and through a series of rhythmic hoots said that Billy — that Billy will be alright! He’s alright!

Never in all my born days have I gone through such a roller coaster of emotion. To think, I almost lost him, that most precious thing to me, the presence of Billy in my life and then to have it brought back, to love and appreciate even more than I ever have before  — my god, Billy, all the words I would’ve missed saying to you— “)

It was funny, because at the time, he really thought he did die. When he opened his eyes again a couple minutes later, everything was bright. Had wondered, blearily, for a good few moments whether this was the afterlife.

And then his vision was swarmed by the faces of his team, his friends, his family, and then they were all hugging him, and it took Billy a few moments of wide-eyed staring before he realized he was hugging them back, breath shuddering, chest burning. Had held onto them for a long, long while, a pile of bodies on the linoleum, breathing.

But there was a price. There would always be a price. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. And for Billy’s life, it meant someone else’s.

( “... Ladies and gentlemen. In his valiant rescue of our beloved Billy — the Tracker was mortally wounded. Bled profusely over his fake feather headdress, said even his ancient Indian magics wouldn’t help.

Well, yeah. Since they’re not real.

We were wrong ‘bout this man. All of us, myself included. Was he a racist, embarrassing sunuvabitch to our town? Clearly. Was he a real jackass? Obviously. But he was also a man with Rose Creek’s best interests at heart, had worked long ‘n hard with the angels and the man in the tan jacket to protect us from the miniature city. The one that had almost killed Billy. The one the Tracker had saved Billy from — at the cost of his own life. The projectiles that’d nearly taken Billy from us, successfully took his own.

Tell me nothin’ else, and I’ll tell you this: here was a good man. A good man, dead. The end of a good man’s life. His last words were, addressin’ the sky behind the ceiling: “ладно, ладно. Я знал, это случится. Ты можешь взять мою машину.” Teddy Q confirms he passed on not long after — One Eyed Lucas confirms that this was the worst birthday anyone’s ever had.

You have my thanks, brave Tracker. The thanks of all of Rose Creek. Rest easy.” )

Billy’s learnt a lot of things over his life. Most of it learnt the hard way. Why you shouldn’t touch a hot iron, how to change a flat, dealing your parents’ failed marriage.

But no one’d ever taught him how to deal with someone literally dying for you.

Vasquez had hugged him the hardest after Billy had the strength to stand again, making him wince in pain at the jostle of his chest — freshly bandaged, bleeding already stopped. Faraday had scolded him for doing something so stupid and then made him promise a bottle of whiskey to make up for the scare. Sam had squeezed his shoulder, told him they’d came over and soon as they heard; Horne whispered a prayer beside him. And Red — Red held onto Billy’s arm, fists clenched hard enough to go white, and he said don’t go doing that shit again, you’re fucking lucky it completely missed anywhere vital, if you die on us I’ll fucking kill you, you’re lucky we had your stupid radio on.

The radio. The show. Goody.

Billy’d come so close to dying. If the miniature people had struck him just a couple of inches down, he would’ve bled out long before the Tracker could haul him out. He’d come so close to never seeing his friends again — and he knew that he was going to need them close by for awhile. Would take a week off, watch Red’s dumb movies or Horne’s existential russian flicks or anything, because he’d been this close to never seeing them again and for all the strength Billy knew he had, he knew there was no going around the fact that this shook him. Scared the shit out of him.

And he’d come so close to never seeing Goodnight again. Never talking to him again, never listening to that mahogany and maple voice, a candlelight of chance snuffed out before they could see it lit proper.

He made it, though. Billy was alive, somehow. That had to mean something. A second chance, at everything. Including Goodnight. And something had lit in him, something screaming at him to go, to see Goody, to grab this second chance for what it is and make it right, find the spine he’s been lacking all this while and talk to Goody while he still had the fire in him to —

But he’d stared instead, almost unseeing, at the body still lying on the linoleum floor. Covered in Rose Creek’s ceremonial death cloth — tie-dye, with runes on it — and racist feather headdress still trailing from under it, bloodied. And for all that he was racist and more or less a stranger to Billy before this, it didn’t feel right to run off when the body of the man who saved him was cooling just some twenty feet away.

It wasn’t until someone was standing right in front of his face that he realized he’d been frozen, Red and Vasquez trying to call out to him.

He’d blinked. The person in front of him wasn’t any of his team. It took him a few tries before he’d remembered who it was — which said a lot for Billy’s state of mind, considering she was glowing faintly with a dark light.

“Leni Frankel,” Billy said then, throat grating in a reminder that he hadn’t spoken for what felt like hours now.

“Old Woman Leni is fine,” she’d replied, smile friendly and sweet even as Billy’s mind instinctively went that’s longer to say though, “You know, it’s not about you. He’d been waiting for this.”

Billy’d blinked. “What?”

“The Tracker,” Old Woman Leni clarified, gesturing to the body still cooling under the hideous cloth of rainbow vomit and Nordic runes, “He’d been waiting for this. That’s what he said. That’s what Erika told me.”

Erika. The angels. Goody said something about the Tracker working with them, hadn’t he? “Oh.” Billy would never claim to be good with words.

Old Woman Leni went on though, humming as she smoothed out her long skirt. “If not for you, someone else. He was meant to do this, he was waiting for it. You can ease that weight off your heart, boy — you were a variable here, not a definite.” And then she gazed up, direct into his eyes, voice suddenly like it was echoed directly in his ears as she said, “Go to him. Follow your heart, and follow the voice.”

And then she’d placed a hand on his shoulder, and suddenly — suddenly Billy wasn’t tired anymore. His chest didn’t ache and burn where the projectile had shot through — had energy again as he felt, knew, some of that aura she’d gotten from her exposure to the Erikas leaked onto him. It felt like he was asleep, and then doused in cold springs that rejuvenated him. Made him straighten immediately — the fire from before relighting again with new vigour.

It wasn’t until another hand touched his arm did he remember they had company throughout the whole talk. When Billy’d turned to look — well. He’d made up his mind that he was officially sick of making Red look that worried. Wasn’t right.

“Billy,” Red said, vulnerability rarer than even Billy’s leaking through his tone, “You sure?”

And Billy only took a moment, barely half of one, before he nodded. Resolute. “Yeah.” And then, “I’m coming home right after. I promise.”

Red looked at him then. Really looked. And then — he’d nodded, resigned but reassured, squeezing Billy’s bicep one last time before letting go. And as Billy straightened to stand proper, he’d barely caught the keys thrown at him in time.

“From the Tracker,” Old Woman Leni had said when he looked up confused, keys in his palm as she smiled knowingly, “He said you could have his car. His final wishes.”

And, well. Second chances. Final requests — a man just fucking died on him tonight after he’d nearly brushed death himself.

Billy thinks it’s perfectly, scientifically understandable that he grabs the opportunity he’s given and runs with it.

Which lead him to here, now — halfway slumping over the steering wheel, getting on by sheer determination. Whatever angelic aura or whatever it’s called that Old Woman Leni had transferred to him back in the bowling alley was a short-lived thing — it’d started to wear off before he’d even hit the car, and now halfway to where he was going he already felt the same way he did before she arrived. Exhausted, cold, concussed.

But Billy has somewhere to be. And it’s been a known thing that Billy Rocks is a stubborn motherfucker.

Part of the reason for his current stubbornness is talking to him now, even. Or not to him. Not directly. But crackling, over the outdated car radio, a voice like charcoal and velvet.

“... Prob’ly won’t learn a thing from this. Or maybe I will. Who knows how things will work out? The answer is: the Glow Cloud, but we sure as hell ain’t gonna ask it. Overfeeding the wolves at the Rose Creek petting zoo as is with all these animal carcasses.” The voice on the radio says, in a way that makes Billy’s mouth tug a little upwards without even thinking. And then, “ — oh. Message on my phone... It’s Billy. Folks, it’s Billy. Says he wants to meet me in the Arby’s parkin’ lot. I... I’m not sure what kinda scientific exploration needs the services of you wonderful listeners this time, but I will go. I’ll meet him, as is my duty. ”

Billy pulls up to the aforementioned Arby’s parking lot right as the first few notes of the weather rolls in. Guitar plucks in his ears as he parks. Shuts down the engine. Takes a few moments to just — lean his head against the steering wheel, and breathe. Recollect his thoughts. Whatever’s left of his composure, and his bearings.

Everytime he thinks Rose Creek can’t surprise him, and every single time he’s been proven wrong. Maybe he should stop challenging life. (He banishes the thought a moment after — if he’d stop taking on stupid challenges, he wouldn’t be Billy Rocks anymore. Maybe, though, he could at least learn to calculate his risks a little better before starting a pissing match with the universe.)

After a few moments, he summons the strength to straighten up. Takes a little time to try and fix his hair — he’d lost the hairpin, probably still down with the miniature civilization — and then decides to shrug off his labcoat too, since there’s too much blood on it to be worth having on. No salvaging it either, though he figures replacements will show up in his closet by tomorrow morning, as his closet seems insistent on doing to him and all of his team since they showed up in Rose Creek. His own button up underneath is dark enough that the dried blood shouldn’t be too obvious.

And then he steps out into the cool night air, grateful immediately for his own decision. The brisk chill helps clear his mind a little. Summons a bit more energy to his step. He shuts the car door behind him, walking to his trunk and then somehow finding the strength to perch himself on top of it, leaning on his palms as he settles in for the wait, steadying his mind by watching the lights pass gentle above the Arby’s.

Right on time, some minutes later — Billy doesn’t know exactly how long — he hears footsteps in the parking lot coming up closer. Billy moves his gaze from the sky back downwards, and feels something heady and warm settle in his gut when his eyes land on what, or who, it is: Goodnight, hair tousled as if he’d brisk walked his way over, eyes so blue and searching, and then finding, when it lands on Billy. The warmth in Billy’s gut only spreads when he sees the man’s form physically un-tense, shoulders sagging in clear relief, smile so open and genuine as he walks over.

God, Billy finds himself thinking, how is this man even real?

And then he finds himself biting his cheek to keep from laughing to himself, because he could probably ask the same for the whole of Rose Creek. Besides his own team, Goodnight is the realest thing about this place. (The thought isn’t as scary as Billy once thought it would be.)

“Hey,” Billy greets first, nodding as Goodnight approaches.

“Hey,” Goody replies, voice rough in a way that sends a shiver down Billy’s spine. “You wanted to see me? You — are you alright? We in danger, any new science mystery you need me for?”

There it is again. So open, raw and sincere. Always, always the community first. Billy first, even now. The only thing Billy can’t believe is that it’s taken him this long to do anything about it. He was a fucking idiot.

“Nothing,” Billy finally says, shaking his head. Keeps his gaze on Goodnight, and holds it. “After everything... I just wanted to see you.”

Even in the dim light that the Arby’s provides in the night, Billy can see the rapid blush splotching up Goody’s neck, up to his cheeks, his ears. It’s probably the cutest thing Billy’s seen all year — and there was that really cute video going around during the time of the sandstorm, the one about the cat that kept jumping in and out of boxes. (Goody had liked it too — Billy remembers him cooing about in on the radio, with that intern Emma who’d killed her double after. Billy realizes that he remembers a lot about what Goody says.)

“Oh?” Goodnight finally speaks, voice warbling, sounding simultaneously unsure and hopeful.

And Billy, in lieu of words, only lets himself smile, and scoot a little to the side. Leaving space for Goodnight — if Goody wants. There’s probably some poetry in that motion. But he’s a scientist, not a poet, so he leaves it be.

With barely a beat, the car sinks and shifts a little to one side with the added weight of Goodnight — he took it, of course he took it, why would Billy ever think otherwise — and then:

This. Them. Sitting side by side in the Arby’s parking lot, the crisp chill of the night dissipated by the warm spot where Goodnight’s shoulder is nudged against his own, at the spot where knee meets knee. Billy’s still exhausted, concussed. Will probably need to make a bloodstone circle offering tonight so he can regain more blood by tomorrow (An irony he doesn’t fail to notice.) The rest of the team will probably hover like mother hens around him for a week.

But it’s good. All of that, it’s good. And this, too, with Goodnight beside him — that’s good too.

“You know. I used to think time was weird in Rose Creek.” Billy says, finally breaking the fragile quiet, staring at the moon. Feels Goody straighten at it — like he wasn’t expecting Billy to talk. Oh, Goody. It makes him smile. “Actually, I thought everything was weird in Rose Creek. Strange. Thought you were weird and strange too.”

“That so?” He can hear Goody’s smile in his voice. “And... now?”

Billy finally turns his head, meeting Goody’s gaze plainly, and without fear. “I still think you’re weird and strange.” Billy answers honestly. “I still think this town is weird and strange, and that time doesn’t work here.” But right as Goody opens his mouth to respond, Billy ploughs on, gaze moving back to the parking lot, to their dangling shoes, to the glowing Arby’s sign.

“But weird and strange doesn’t mean bad.” Billy shrugs. “Sometimes, it’s... Good. Great. Magnificent, even.” A pause, as he racks his brain for more words, and feels oddly ashamed that he can’t find more. “Sorry. I’m not good at this.”

The shoulder nudged against his presses a little more. Not insistent, but sort of — kind of like a comforting gesture. And I’m here, and it’s okay, and when Billy turns to look at Goodnight he finds the man’s face saying the same thing. Eyes bluer than anything Billy’s seen, gentler than anything. Mouth curved into something tender enough that even Billy’s heart hurts a little.

“You’re doin’ wonderful, cher.” Goodnight insists, cheeks still a warm pink. “I promise.”

And Billy — Billy can’t help but duck his head a little at it, his own face warming. He knows he’s probably smiling like an idiot. But Goodnight is too, so. Fair is fair. Equal shares of awkward emotional conversations.

“... What I mean is, you were right. Time is what we make. It’s not real, and it’s weird, but we came up with it, and — “ a pause. A breath. “Goody. I’ve already wasted enough time. I don’t... Want to waste any more.”

For a horrifying, painful second, Billy wonders if Goodnight got it. Billy’s never been great with words, preferring to let his actions speak for him. But for Goodnight — for Goodnight, words are his life. His passion, his living, his bread and butter and the air he breathes. Billy had to at least try. And that’s it, it’s out there, that’s all the words he has left to say about it. Not the best words, but they’re his words. That has to count for something.

As it turns out, the passage of time in the last year doesn’t affect this: Goodnight, being dependable as always. Present, and grounding. Safe. Because one moment Billy’s staring hard enough into the Arby’s sign that he can see it when he closes his eyes and feeling the cold nip his arms — and the next he feels a sudden warmth around him, carrying the faint smell of rosewood and lighter fuel and whiskey.

“Looked like you might’ve been cold,” Goodnight says by way of explanation when Billy looks at him, Goodnight’s jacket draped over his shoulder. Face somehow even more open, more raw, more tender than ever, looking simultaneously elated and soothing, eyes crinkling with his smile. Cheeks, redder. “If we’re plannin’ to stay out here. Unless you wanna head back to your labs.” If you plan to stay, is the unspoken phrase. With me.

And even as his pulse quickens, blood thrumming and thundering quiet in his ears — Billy finds that he’s not scared. Not at all, not anymore. Any hesitation, any doubts or apprehension he had before this — it disappears in the ease of Goodnight’s touch. The sound of him, his smile. The weight of his coat around Billy, the pinky now lying over Billy’s own. A question unasked, but nudged anyway.

It just feels right. Like a bullet clicking into place in the chamber of a gun — no. Not a bullet, not a gun.

It feels like a key, fitting into the place it should be, clicking all the tumblers in the right place. It feels like a well loved sweater. It feels like a hypotheses proved right, numbers adding up to a logical conclusion, or illogical, in Rose Creek.

It doesn’t feel like coming home, but it feels like opening the door to a place that someday might be. And that’s a feeling, a chance, that Billy finds he’s all too happy to take.

He slips his pinky out of Goodnight’s, and then does one better by covering his hand with his own. Intertwines their fingers. Swears he can feel Goodnight’s pulse racing from just that — it feels a lot like Goody can hear Billy’s, with how hard it’s thrumming. The answer unsaid, to the question unasked: yes. Yes, yes, yes.

Goodnight inhales softly, sharply, trembling gorgeous that makes Billy want to press his mouth to Goody’s throat. Instead, Billy just. Leans against Goody. Head on Goodnight’s shoulder. And they just do that, for a little while — holding hands, watching the lights above the Arby’s zip and twirl and dance. Sharing body heat, and all the warmth Billy didn’t know he had.

After a little while, Billy gently untangles his hand from Goodnight’s. Reaches into his pants pocket, pulls out a crumpled cigarette pack and the lighter he always keeps there. Puts a stick to his mouth and lights it, cherry bright against the night; inhales the silk of smoke and lets it out between his teeth. And then — takes the cigarette from his mouth. And quietly offers it to Goodnight’s own.

Goody’s eyes turn to look at him — blue burning like a low flame, a look that makes Billy’s gut and groin go warm, heat up his spine and simmering — and then leans forward. Rough fingers touching Billy’s own as he takes the offer from Billy, wraps his chapped lips, perfect mouth against where Billy’s just was, and breathes in. And Billy watches, almost hypnotized, before letting the warmth nestle in his bones and settles.

They sit like that, for a long, long time. Billy doesn’t ask; Goodnight doesn’t say. They don’t need to. Billy wonders whether the weather is still going on — but Goodnight looks to be in no hurry to go back, and, well.

Billy doesn’t feel all too much like doing anymore science tonight. This, them — right now, it’s all he wants.

“I rethought about it,” Billy says at some point during their third cigarette, watching a car speed by. “You wouldn’t be a parrot.”

Goodnight lets out an amused sound as he ashes the cigarette. “No?”

“Nope,” Billy confirms, “You’d be a nightingale.”

Billy hears Goodnight inhale, then exhale. Smoke clouds them, faintly, before dissipating. Goodnight places the cigarette back to Billy’s lips, and Billy accepts it without even needing to think about it.

“Never heard of ‘em. That a play on my name, cher? Goodnightingale?” Goody says, eyes twinkling.

Billy snorts. “No. Awful puns are just you. I wouldn’t debase myself.” He smiles at Goody’s indignant squawk, and then takes a slow pull of the cigarette before he continues. Voice lower than before. Just for Goody to hear.

“They're one of the most beautiful sounds in nature. Known to sing, to attract mates. People — I don’t know about here, but outside — make songs, plays, books, poetry about it.” Billy murmurs. “For a long time people associated the nightingale’s song with lament. But Red told me about it one time, when we were super high, and — it’s not.” A pause. “It’s a love song.”

And that’s Goodnight to the core. Singing his siren song over the radio waves, nothing but love. For this town, for the people in it, for all the weird shit that happens even though half of it’s tried to kill them, or is still trying to.

And when Billy turns to look, and sees Goodnight gazing at him with more adoration than Billy’s ever deserved — he knows there’s love in it for him, too.

“I’ll always sing for you,” Goody says, voice low and sincere. Liquid moonlight, and cigarette ash.

Billy swallows. And then says, “I know.” I’ve always, always listened.

He watches Goody, watches his adam’s apple bob as Billy props himself on his arm, leans over him. Takes one last, long pull of the cigarette as Goody’s blue eyes go dark, want and longing and desire so raw — then leans closer, Goody meeting him halfway, as he parts his lips and lets the smoke wind itself around them. Lets Goody take his fill. Listens, quiet, as Goody breathes in as Billy breathes out, lips close enough to nearly brush, unhurried warmth like spiced wine.

And when Goody finally breathes his own lungful out, Billy closes the last inch of space between them, and kisses him. Slow, soft. Chaste. And Goody kisses him back. And the universe —

It breathes with them.

“... We sat, watching the stars, who were watching us in turn. We smoked, in the comfortable quiet between us. And then he’d grinded the stub against the sole of his boot and pocketed it, because, and I quote, he’s not ‘a littering jackass.’

Lord, do I love him. And like him. I like him a lot. And he loves, and likes, me back. Ain’t that a thing. A beautiful, amazing, magnificent thing.

There’s so much we understand, so much we’ve come to understand. But the sky behind those lights, twinkling above us — mostly void, partially stars? That sky reminds us we don’t understand even more.

And as always.

‘Til tomorrow comes, Rose Creek. ‘Til tomorrow comes.“