Teeth, and toads...and other weird things ʚଓ Adrian Chase
masterlist
Vigilante x osteophile!reader
An osteophile is someone who likes bones. aka partaking in vulture culture (not to be mistaken with a culture vulture)
Summary: Two strangers meet in the woods, and bond over their "weird" hobbies together.
Warnings/Themes: very tame, guns, shooting things, awkwardness, coarse language, just two weirdos hanging out, reader loves odd shit, no use of y/n, no mentions of race. Little editing, no beta reader
Words: 5.8k
The woods felt alive after last night’s rain. The air carried that earthy dampness, the smell of moss and wet bark, the sound of droplets still sliding off high branches.
Fallen branches snap beneath your steps as you crouch now and then, fingers parting moss, flipping over stones in search of something worth keeping. Teeth, mostly. The odd jaw fragment if you’re lucky. A frog you won’t actually touch but want to look at, anyway.
Every time you kneel down, the small off-white charm of your necklace sways against your chest. Your wisdom tooth.
You use the stick in your hands to peel back a sheet of moss, and there it is; the delicate, paper-thin jawbone of a shrew. You tucked it carefully into a small tin you kept in your pocket, the tiny teeth a perfect, miniature marvel.
It was then you saw him.
In the clearing, where the thick brush and ferns thin out by manmade paths wearing the vegetation down. A man sitting on a rotted log in a patch of clearing, slumped forward like a discarded scarecrow. Behind him, on a blanket of leaves, lay an impressive lineup of objects—an old toaster with its guts spilling out, a microwave with scorch marks, a blender missing its lid. He had a gun resting across his knees. He’s muttering to himself, shoulders hunched, like someone trying to will a good time into existence.
It’s weirdly… lonely.
He's dressed head to toe in dark tactical gear, accented with teal, and a helmet covering his head and face.
You stop short, a twig crunching under your boot. His head snaps up. Slowly, he twists, and you’re struck by how startled his eyes look behind the strange red V-shaped visor. He’s masked, dressed in black and teal, like a superhero but… thriftier. Definitely not licensed.
He’s surprised. You’re surprised. A little standoff of two weirdos who had absolutely not accounted for the possibility of another human intruding on whatever this moment was supposed to be.
He could've shot you with the big ass gun in his lap. For a second you see him twitch, like he might if he perceived you as a threat in any way. You gulp, stepping a few paces closer to him, hesitantly.
“…What are you doing?” you ask finally, because someone has to.
“Uh—shooting this toaster with a gun,” he blurted, as if that were the most reasonable answer in the world. He stands up and gestures out to the graveyard of air fryers, food processors, blenders and slow cookers.
Then, almost accusingly: “What are you doing?”
The clearing felt like a place you weren’t supposed to see, like stumbling onto a secret someone thought the world had forgotten. His mask gleamed faintly in the damp daylight, and you caught how tightly he gripped the gun across his knees when you spoke, like he wasn’t sure if you were going to end up being a problem.
When he asked what you were doing, a bit too sharp, you shifted, brushing your fingers over the tin in your pocket.
“Collecting bones,” you answer him with the same honesty he granted you.
His head tilted. “Like… human bones?”
Your brows pinched, you shake your head profusely. You could be strange, but not on the level of grave robbing strange.
“No. That’d be a crime, I think.” You tugged at the necklace resting against your collarbone, the chain slipping between your fingers in a nervous habit.
“Teeth. Animal bones. Things like this.” To demonstrate, you reach into your tin and carefully pulled out your latest find, holding the tiny shrew jaw in your open palm.
“Found this a minute ago.”
He took a hesitant step closer, then another, until he was looming over your hand. You expected a recoil, a comment about it being gross, but instead, he crouched down for a better look, his masked head getting surprisingly close to your palm.
“Whoa,” he breathed, the sound muffled.
“Is that… a baby squirrel?”
“A shrew, I think,” you corrected gently.
“See how sharp the teeth are? For eating insects.”
“Cool.” He stayed leaned in close, mesmerized by the minuscule artifact. His head tilted toward you, his red visor meeting your eyes.
“My best friend was supposed to be here. He has a whole truck full of stuff to blow up. But he's really important...and busy.” and definitely didn't blow him off for the third time. There was a palpable wave of disappointment in his voice. A childish pout was sitting just beneath his disguise.
You aren’t good at talking, especially to strangers wrapped in tactical armor, but something in his slumped shoulders keeps you rooted. His helmet hides most of his face, though you can still feel the weight of his disappointment radiating out like cold mist.
“I’m sorry,” you said, and you meant it. The image of this strange man, all geared up for a day of therapeutic appliance destruction only to be stood up, was oddly endearing.
He straightened up abruptly. “It’s fine. He’s probably doing something really important. Like… peace stuff.”
He didn't sound convinced. He kicked at a patch of dirt.
“Hey. Quiz me on manta rays.”
The request was so out of left field you blinked. “What?”
“Manta rays. Quiz me. I know everything about them.”
You nodded gently, a small tilt of your chin more than anything. Your fingers flexed against your thigh before you let out a short breath, racking your brain for the limited scraps of marine-life knowledge you possessed.
“…Okay,” you said slowly, adjusting the tin in your pocket. Your gaze flicked back to him. His eyes were fixed on the ground, but one heel rocked restlessly against the dirt.
“What do manta rays eat?”
Without hesitation, he stood taller, shoulders thrown back like a soldier reciting a pledge. “Seaweed!”
You blinked, shaking your head slightly.
“Plankton.” You correct.
He made a muffled noise under the helmet, somewhere between an exaggerated groan and a curse.
“aw, come on.” His gloved hand comes up to touch his neck nervously. The movement was quick, nervous, sheepish in its hesitation.
“Plankton, right. That’s—yeah—what I meant.”
You can’t help but smile, tucking the tiny jawbone back into your tin before closing it with a quiet snap. “Sure.”
There’s a silence then. Not exactly comfortable, but not hostile either. The kind of pause two people fall into when they’re trying to decide if this is the part where they both awkwardly retreat to their own corners of the woods, or if they’re curious enough to keep going.
“What’s your name?” you ask, titling your head slightly to peer up at him.
He hesitates. Looking you over, then looking over to all the awaiting appliances he had set up. The silence is long enough that you think he won’t answer. But then:
“Vigilante.”
He says it quietly—it's clearly not his actual name, but the one he goes by when doing his woodland activities. The word hangs between you, faintly echoing in the crisp, damp air.
You arched a brow, weight leaning subtly onto one leg. The damp air clung to your jacket, and you squinted at him like you just expected him to give out his secret identity.
“That… can’t be your real name.”
“It is,” he insists, his voice hardening, but there's a flicker of discomfort buried under the bravado. His chest puffs out, a show of confidence, his chin lifting like a badge of honor, one he's clearly worn often.
You stand there, your arms folding across your chest, your fingers brushing against the rough, weathered fabric of your jacket. You observe him with the calm patience of someone who's spent more time watching the world in motion than talking to it. The same focus you used to comb the forest floor for treasures— no rush, no expectations. Just waiting.
“Fine,” you say, lightly. You don't want to push it— push him too hard, pry for information he obviously isn't comfortable sharing. You already know when someone’s ready to share, they will. Until then, it’s just a game of cat and mouse.
“Vigilante, then.”
There’s a brief, stiff moment where his posture doesn’t change, but you can feel it— his shoulders tense like a wire pulled taut. Then, in a practiced movement, his shoulders ease, the tension draining away in one small, barely noticeable release. Like he’s been bracing himself for you to call him out harder. Instead, you let him off the hook with nothing more than a flick of your wrist and the lightest of acknowledgments.
“That still doesn’t sound like something your mom put on a birth certificate.” You retort.
Behind the gleaming visor, he snorts at you, like you had just said the dumbest thing he had ever heard.
“Moms don’t put names on birth certificates. The government does.” He corrects you, then he crosses his arms and rocks back on his heels, like he’s pleased with himself.
His visor tilted, proud of having educated you. He shifted his weight again, fidgety but trying very hard not to look it, and then finally asked:
“…What’s your name?”
Your fingers brushed unconsciously against the tooth hanging from your necklace before giving him an answer. You told him simply, voice soft in the damp air.
He says it back immediately, slow, careful, like he didn’t want to mess it up. Then, he looked at you for confirmation that he did it right. You nod in approval.
A crow called somewhere deeper in the trees, and his head snapped toward the sound like he was ready for a fight. Then, remembering himself, he relaxed again, letting his arms fall back to his sides.
“So…uh.” He shifted his boot into the dirt.
“Do you wanna…shoot something?”
You blink. “Shoot…something?”
“Yeah!” he gushes— too quickly, eager that finally, someone was paying him some mind.
“Like, an appliance. I’ve got, like, six microwaves, a dishwasher, and uh—” He turned, gesturing toward the clearing where a small junkyard of discarded machines waited like abandoned monuments.
"Couple blenders." He finishes, turning his head back to you. He sounded strangely nervous, his voice muffled but eager, like someone offering to share their most prized action figures. And, there's a feeling that, if you were to see him underneath the helmet, he would be looking at you expectantly; like a puppy that needs you to throw a stick for him.
You tilt your head, fingers brushing against the tooth at your necklace again. Normally, the thought of holding a gun would’ve sent you retreating back into your section of the woods, but there was something about the way he rocked on his heels, waiting, that made you want to stay. His excitement was awkward but genuine, circling him like static.
You can’t see his face, but you can feel it— there’s that weird, nervous buzz to him, like a kid desperate for someone to play along. And maybe, you recognize it in yourself.
“I’ve never shot anything before,” you admit, your weight shifts awkwardly from side to side. You look out, the forest smelled of wet pine, decomposing leaves, and rusted metal, and all around you were the corpses of appliances.
His head tilts in slight disbelief as he absorbs your answer.
“Nothing? Like, not even a BB gun at tin cans?”
You shake your head at him, you grew up scraping your knees climbing trees, looking at cool bugs and wondering a lot of 'Why?' questions; not shooting cans with pellet rifles.
“Nothing.” You confirm.
His gloved hand was already hovering near the weapon had leaned against him. Not threatening, but almost giddy, like someone about to offer you the first taste of cotton candy at a fair. He’s quiet for a beat, and then he replies:
“I can fix that.”
You stepped toward him, squinting through the visor. Not trying to see into it, not trying to decipher his appearance particularly. just...taking a really good, long look at him.
“Alright,” you agree
“Show me.”
For a second, he went utterly still. Then his whole body jolted in place, like someone had just flipped on a light switch inside him. You can see the excitement, it nearly seeps through the threads of his costume as he vibrates with anticipation.
He jumps into action, putting the gun down gingerly against the log and racing to the other end. He sets up a toaster on top of an old washing machine for you. When he returns, he places a gloved hand on your shoulder gently. His throat clears as he puts you in place, adjusting your posture wordlessly. He has you stand behind him as he lines up a shot, then he offers you the gun, and you take its weight into your arms.
The gun feels heavier than you expected, your palms just starting to sweat against the grip. His eyes, through the visor, are trained on you closely— too closely, but not in a way that feels sinister. It’s more like he’s trying to memorize everything about the way you’re holding it. Maybe so he can jump in before you do something disastrously wrong.
“Okay,” he says, a little too upbeat, like a camp counselor about to explain how to make a paper lantern.
“So, you just—uh—line up the sights with the toaster. Breathe in. And then…BAM! Totally easy.”
You line the gun up, your arms trembling faintly, finger hovering nervously over the trigger. He stands just off to your side, knees bent slightly as if he’s ready to snatch the weapon from you if anything goes wrong.
“Breathe out when you shoot,” he advises you, his eyes are trained on the gun. He speaks softly.
“Makes it steadier.”
You do. Exhaling deeply as you feel your finger pulling back. The shot explodes louder than you expect, knocking you back a little, but the bullet hits the metal casing. A sharp hole punches through the toaster’s side.
Your heart leaps. “I did it!”
He lets out a whoop, throwing his hands skyward like you just scored a touchdown. “Yes! Perfect shot. Nailed it. You’re a natural. Do another one.”
You find yourself laughing, the sound bubbling up without resistance. The woods echo faintly with his cheers, your laughter, and the ringing hum of the shot.
You lower the gun, ears still ringing and chest buzzing with adrenaline, though you’re not sure if it’s from the actual shot or from the way he’s practically bouncing next to you, radiating pride, you can't help but giggle with satisfaction. You glance down at the toaster, smoke curling lazily from the bullet hole, and something hot and giddy tickles up inside your chest. The smell of gunpowder twists through the air. He’s practically bouncing in place beside you, the sound of his joy spilling out in little whoops that make it hard not to grin back.
“You’re smiling,” he points out suddenly, leaning toward you. You can feel his grin even if you can’t see it.
“Maybe,” you admit.
His hands clap together with a loud smack before he spins on his heel and jogs back toward the pile of discarded appliances. He returns with a blender tucked under one arm, like it’s some kind of prize turkey. He plops it down on top of the dishwasher and gestures broadly.
“Next target!”
You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re really into this, huh?”
“Uh, yeah,” he says, almost defensively, but then his voice softens to something more earnest.
“It’s fun. And you—” He cuts himself off, hesitating. The toe of his boot digs into the dirt.
“You’re fun too. Like…no one else besides Peacemaker ever wants to do this with me.”
You glance at him for a long moment, the admission hanging between you. There’s something more tucked inside it, something laces around the edges that tells you he’s half afraid you’ll vanish the second you realize how odd he is. But you don’t feel that way— if anything, you recognize the same lonely streak in him that has you combing the forest floor for bones to put in your little tin.
The second shot goes smoother. You brace better this time, focus on your breathing, just like he told you. The bang still startles, but you stay solid on your feet. When glass shatters and the blender’s lid flies off into the dirt, He explodes into sheers and laughter— the sound bouncing in a strangely beautiful way against the quiet forest.
He takes the weapon before placing it back on the fallen log gently. But when he looks back at you, his posture shifts. There’s a pause, a rare moment where he doesn’t seem to know what to say right away, and that silence hums thicker than the gunshot still vibrating in your chest.
Your fingers drift back to the necklace at your collar, pinching the smooth tooth strung there. You can feel his gaze dip toward the gesture, the red visor angled like a curious tilt of his head.
“So…” His voice lifts a little at the end, unsteady and maybe a bit anxious.
“Do I…uh…get to try your thing now?”
You blink. “My thing?”
“Yeah! You know, the bones, the teeth, the…uhhh…” He snaps his fingers a few times, trying to remember.
“That tiny monster jaw you showed me? Super cool, by the way.
You giggle at his description of the shrew you'd shown off earlier. A slow smile tugs at your lips. “You want to help me collect things?”
“Uh, yeah!” He replies, a slight snort at the end, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. like who wouldn't want to help you collect bones.
“Like, big time. I’d be, uh— like, the best bone-collector’s assistant you could ever ask for.”
You give him a soft laugh as he hypes himself up. You'd never actually let anybody into your space in this way before, nobody had ever asked to join you. Sometimes, you'd show off the pieces in your collection; people would either nod along indifferently, or look at you like you just told them you partake in casual cannibalism.
“Alright,” you say softly. “Then let’s look.”
The transition from the makeshift firing range into the underbrush is quiet. He follows close behind you, boots crunching against pine needles, occasionally catching his boots on long roots. You could feel his gaze, not primarily on the ground like yours, but sweeping the trees and the path ahead, a silent, watchful perimeter. It was a strange mix – him letting you guide, yet still inherently guarding.
Every time he crouches, it’s sudden and dramatic, like he just discovered treasure that could solve all the world’s problems—only for him to stand up holding a pinecone or a stick.
“This!” he declares, brandishing a twisted root inches from your face.
“Possible bone?"
You can’t help the small laugh that escapes, and gently push his hand down. “That’s… a stick.”
His shoulders droop, though only for a second before he straightens up again, determination practically buzzing off him.
“Right. Right. Got it. Only bones. I know the difference.”
You step further into the woods, the space around you thick with trees and the gentle rustle of leaves. Every so often, you glance back at Vigilante, who’s clumsily trying to keep up while pretending that he knows what he’s doing.
You hum noncommittally, crouching to peel back a layer of leaf litter with the stick in your hand. A beetle scuttles away from the sudden light.
“You'll get the hang of it,” you say, brushing dirt from something small and ivory; a vertebra, tiny and smooth. Could be from a snake. Maybe a bird. You hold it up between your fingers like treasure, the curve of it catching a sliver of wet light filtering through the canopy.
Vigilante crouches next to you, visor tipped downward, peering in like he's afraid to breathe too hard and mess up the moment.
“Is that… part of a spine?” he whispers, like you're in a museum and this is a fossil behind glass.
“Probably,” you say with a small smile, turning it delicately in your hand before placing it gently into the tin. It clinks lightly against the shrew jaw.
Vigilante makes a sound behind the mask— kind of a reverent “Woah.”
You straighten up and keep moving, and he mirrors your motion a beat later, like he’s syncing his movements to yours. You wonder if he even notices he's doing it.
He knells in the dirt suddenly; the excitement bubbling up again, like before with the toaster. Sifting through the soft soil with his gloved hand.
“Can I…keep one if we find another? Like…start a collection? Adr— uh, I mean, Vigilante’s Bone Collection” He asks suddenly, as if he needed permission
“Has a ring to it, right?"
You glance over your shoulder, giving him a look that’s half skeptical, half amused. He’s still crouched, one glove caked in mud, visor tilted toward the forest floor like he could will the bones to the surface if he stares hard enough.
You shift your weight and watch him, head tilted, the mud on his gloves, the desperate hope in his posture—like a kid at a beach convinced every shell is secretly a pearl. He’s impossible. You like that about him.
“Yeah,” you say, the corner of your mouth tugging up.
“You can keep one.”
He looks up at you, beaming under the helmet— you can’t see it, but you feel it. The way his shoulders go all squared and proud again, the bounce in his posture returning like you’d just knighted him on the spot.
His head dips once, a sharp nod like he’s just been given a mission. Then, with the serious concentration of a soldier defusing a bomb, he goes back to sifting through pine needles and clumps of moss.
You let him have his moment. After all, you’ve had your own moments like that, crouched down with your face inches from the ground, holding your breath because maybe, just maybe, you’ve found something special.
You brush a stray strand of hair from your forehead, then guide your hand to the edge of your jeans, pulling them up slightly to get a better angle.
“Just keep looking,” you murmur, your focus returning to the damp earth. He’s still beside you.
As Adrian continued his diligent search, a small, rustling sound caught your ear from a nearby patch of ferns. It was a quick, furtive movement. You moved towards it, Adrian’s attention momentarily forgotten. You carefully parted the fronds, and there, nestled amongst the greenery, was a small, damp, and very much alive toad. Its golden eyes blinked up at you, unbothered by your intrusion.
You freeze, a thrill shooting through you. It’s alive. It always felt special to find. Most living creatures you encounter out here scatter at your approach. You wave your hand, beckoning your bone collecting assistant forward.
“Vigilante,” you whisper, carefully extending a finger. The toad doesn’t flinch.
Vigilante crouched slowly, eyes locked on the toad, the red visor catching the sunlight in flickers. His gloved finger reached out, trembling just a little— like he was trying not to break the magic of the moment.
The toad blinked again, unbothered, its golden eyes seeming almost ancient, like it carried secrets of the forest in its stillness.
“Look.”
“Can I touch it?” he whispers, the words hopeful, reverent.
You shake your head, voice low and gentle. “Don’t. Just look.”
He nods, obedient. Quiet.
For a long moment, you both stay still, the only sound the soft rustle of leaves and distant birdsong. The toad remains unmoved, its tiny chest rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. You fiddle with the wisdom tooth on your necklace, and like before, his visor follows the movement.
“That a tooth?” he finally let himself ask about it, speaking softly.
You look up at him, then down at your necklace again before nodding.
“Yeah, it's mine.” You reply, holding it between two fingers.
"Wisdom tooth, had it pulled a while back.” You shrug, tugging the twine idly. “I really wanted to keep it.”
Vigilante's gloved hand twitches, as though he wants to reach out and touch the necklace, but he holds back, the tension between curiosity and restraint almost palpable. His head tilts, visor gleaming under the filtered sunlight.
“Cool,” he murmurs.
The toad croaked suddenly, as if sensing the silence was growing too thick, too still. It hopped forward a few inches, and then, with surprising speed, bounded away through the ferns, vanishing into the underbrush as quickly as it had appeared.
You and Vigilante stand there for a moment, both of you caught in the remaining buzz of the encounter, the hum of the forest slowly filling the silence.
Vigilante’s voice breaks the stillness.
“Do you think… it’s gonna come back?” he asks hopefully, like he wants to believe the moment isn’t over yet.
You shake your head, almost apologetically.
“No. Once they go, they go.”
He stands still for a moment, staring at the empty patch of ferns where the toad had been. His shoulders sag slightly, but then, with a small sigh, he pushes himself upright, brushing dirt from his knees.
“Right,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, then glances around the clearing.
"Well, the toad's gone, but we can still... keep looking for bones and things, right?"
You nod, pulling your tin from your pocket again. It's an easy thing collecting what the forest offers. You don’t need to be told twice.
“Yeah," You agree, straightening yourself up and leading the way. Vigilante watches you for a second, and then with a slight shuffle of his boots, he follows your lead deeper into the underbrush.
The rustling of leaves and the crunching of twigs underfoot were the only sounds. You move like you’ve been here a thousand times, but for Vigilante, it's a strange new rhythm. You glance over your shoulder to see him again, trying to act casual but clearly focused on every little thing that crosses his path—every twig, every rock, every clump of moss.
“Hey.”
His voice is low, urgent, and you look over your shoulder. He’s frozen, kneeling in a patch of ferns, his body perfectly still.
“What is it?” you ask, keeping your voice low.
He doesn’t answer right away. He just slowly raises one gloved finger and points.
“Is that… one?” he whispers, the reverence back in his voice, the same tone he used for the toad.
You move closer, crouching beside him to see what he’s found. Poking out from beneath a thick root, half-buried in the rich, dark soil, is a pale curve of white. It's larger than anything you’ve found today. Carefully, you use your fingers to brush away the dirt and loose leaves around it. As more of it becomes visible, you see the distinct shape of a jawbone, complete with a row of yellowed, flattened teeth. You dislodge it with care, holding it between the two of you.
“It’s a deer jaw.” You breathe, a genuine thrill in your own voice.
Vigilante’s eyes go wide under the helmet as he stares at the bone in your hand. His breath catches, and for a second, you can almost hear his heart hammering against his chest. His fingers twitch at his sides like he's resisting the urge to grab it from you immediately.
There’s a moment where neither of you speaks. You just stare at the bone, the story of its past playing out in your mind. How long had this deer roamed these woods? How long had it wandered here, just like you, only to meet its end in this very spot?
You look over at him, and hold the mandible out for him to take.
“Go ahead,” you say softly.
“It’s yours, if you want it.”
He hesitates, a gloved hand hovering above the jawbone as if he’s unsure whether to touch it or leave it be. For a moment, you wonder if he’s unsure about the whole bone-collecting idea— that, maybe he thought it would be more of a joke than something worth actually doing. Then you remember the way he’d looked at the shrew jaw, the pure, unadulterated awe in his voice when he’d called it “Cool” He wasn’t joking. He was just… as captivated by the quiet wonders of the forest floor as you were.
He pulls his hand back, the hesitation clear.
“You… you really want me to have it?” he asks, his tone laced with surprise and a hint of disbelief.
You nod insistently. “You found it. It’s yours.”
You gently place the jawbone into his outstretched, gloved hand.
Finally, his fingers flex, and he accepts the jawbone. He cradles it carefully, his movements surprisingly delicate for someone who’d just been handling guns. He turns it over, examining the teeth with a quiet intensity. You feel a strange warmth in knowing that someone else is so taken by the forest; like you so often are.
His gaze flickers from the bone to your face, trying to decipher your expression through his helmet. He doesn’t know what to say, and the silence stretches, punctuated only by the distant chirping of unseen birds. You can see his chest rise and fall beneath the tactical gear, a little faster than it should.
Then, "thank you."
It’s quiet, and he’s not entirely sure what he’s thanking you for— the bone? The time spent together? The fact that, for a moment, he didn’t feel so alone? He’d been sitting in silence, wrapped up in his own thoughts, when you appeared like a quiet lifeline. You hadn’t judged anything he said or did, hadn’t looked at him with the usual distance people did. Your laughter wasn't causing him to feel mocked; instead, it felt like an invitation to share in something. It wasn’t just the bone, it was the way you made him feel seen, the way your presence eased the loneliness that had been sitting heavy in his chest.
He was just so unlike anyone you’d ever met, and yet, beneath the costume, there was a vulnerability that resonated deep within you.
You start to notice the shadows growing longer, the air cooling just a little as the sun inches lower in the sky. Vigilante stands beside you, still turning the deer jawbone over in his hands, his face unreadable behind the helmet. But there’s something about the way he glances at the fading light, a quiet understanding that’s beginning to settle between you two.
“Hey, I should probably start heading back soon,” you tell him quietly, though you don't want to say it. The thought of leaving makes something inside of you pull.
“It’ll be dark soon.”
He stills, and you can feel his gaze lock onto you. “Oh. Right. Yeah. Of course.” He fumbles slightly with the deer jaw, tucking it carefully into a pouch on his belt.
“It’s… getting late.”
You sigh deeply, heels sinking into the dirt as you lean down to brush stray leaves and dirt from your pants.
“It was good meeting you.” You murmur softly, not even knowing if he heard you.
He stands motionless, and you can feel the tension in the air, like he’s processing. His posture shifts, not stiff but not quite relaxed either. Finally, he speaks, and his voice comes out softer than usual, almost uncertain.
“Yeah… it was, uh, really good,” he says, testing the words on his tongue.
He hesitates for a beat, looking up at you; then, he clears his throat, his voice gaining a slightly frantic edge.
“Look, I just… I got this thing where I… sometimes I end up in the same places as people. It’s just a coincidence, usually. Like, if you happen to be at the grocery store, and I’m there too? Purely by chance. Or if you’re at the library, and I just happen to be browsing the same section.”
He took a deep breath, eyes boring into the forest bed, not daring to look up at you; before he continued in a panic.
"It’s not stalking. Not at all. Because, definitionally, stalking involves intent, right? And I’m not intending to see you. It just… happens. Because we’re in the same town. And I live here. And you live here. So, statistically speaking, it’s not that improbable. Right?”
His brain was tripping over itself to try and justify his words. You could tell. It all tumbled out in a nervous torrent, a manic sort of energy that just filled him. It was both endearing and a little concerning.
"Hey," you say reassuringly, taking a few steps closer to him. You extend your arm, trying to ground him a little as you reach for his arm.
You can feel the flex of muscle beneath your fingers, the warmth that seeps through the material of his suit. It’s a solid presence, despite the almost crazed energy radiating from him.
“Hey,” you repeat, your voice a soft counterpoint to his agitated rambling.
“It’s okay.”
He looks at your hand on his arm, then back at your face.
You glance up at him, and a thought strikes you. It’s stupid, really, but you can’t help it. Maybe it’s the way he’s been so interested in everything you've done today, or how enthusiastically he participated in everything. Or maybe it’s just the way he makes you feel seen, in a way no one else has for a long time. You kick at the dirt.
"Or...you could just, like, put my number in your phone? And text me?"
You feel your heart in your chest, pounding a little louder than usual, and you try not to make eye contact, feeling the heat of a flush creeping up your neck. You’re really not the type to do this, to just… offer your number out of nowhere. You dig your toe into the dirt, wedging it back and forth into the soil.
“You… you want me to have your number?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper.
You bring yourself to look at him again, trying to appear unbothered as you shrug, and nod.
"Only...like, if you want it."
Your hand flexes by your side, itching to pull out your phone and offer it, but you wait, letting him process the offer.
"Yeah, okay, yeah." He agrees, nodding. His voice is excited, but not panicked and as intense as it was getting earlier. He pulls his phone out of a tactical pocket with fumbling fingers, opening it and almost throwing it at you in eagerness.
“Here,” you say, taking his phone gently. You quickly input your name and number, then hand it back to him.
“There. Done.”
He snatches the phone back, his gaze fixed on the screen as he saves your contact. He nods, a little too vigorously, and stows his phone back in his gear. He’s practically vibrating with contained excitement now.
"I'll text you." He promises.
You nod, a gentle smile gracing your lips.
"I hope so."
I'm so tired bros
