Chapter 4 - These Eyes (AO3 link)
Trapper x Fem Reader - in-progress slow burn - Brief depiction of alcohol consumption + Mild language + Hawaiian shirt jump scare + a little fluff, a lil angst, a lot of horny + Trapper is his own warning and this chapter is Trapper city + alternating POV - 8.7k
Summary: Trapper takes you home. The reality of your situation sets in. You're both very cool about it.
Note: Huge, huge, huge thank you to my girl @emo-elysium your guidance and insight ultimately led to this chapter becoming what it is 😭 🫶 ilysm
You're escorted back to the ground floor of the facility by Travis. The quiet main entrance teases your peripheral, your one and only landmark of familiarity.
The approaching sundown sees the surrounding desert blown out in exposure, a canvas now blanked before the colors of sunset are spilled across. The position of the sun reveals itself in the dramatic angle that streams through the windows, and sweeps the floor low. Travis glances the light and shadow, his brow softly etched. With a quick draw of his watch, his confirmed hunch whistles through his teeth.
"Well this day was eager to disappear on us. Engaging conversation'll do that." The butterflies in your stomach all take off at once when he looks at you, pointed and unfeigned. "You make for very good company, I appreciate your ear."
As if on cue, you can feel their tips burn.
"And I appreciate you being so welcoming." You try not to sound as bashful as you feel. "You're the first of the team I've met, really. Thank you for letting me in."
Travis blinks, his expression stalled. Then his eyes widen. "That's right, you've only just arrived. I was sure to take up all your time, eh? There goes those first impressions." He grimaces sheepish, but playfully so. "I can take you 'round to meet Dr. Gish tomorrow, if you're up to it. She's packed it up for the day by now, I'm sure."
The end of your day barrels into you like a semi, now that you acknowledge it's arrived.
You'd been up before the sun that morning to make your flight, and the day had only stretched endless from then. The desire to curl up in the bliss of solitude to sleep off your adrenaline high screams for recognition. A twinge blooms in your temples, your shoulders throbbing in a subtle, now persistent, dull ache.
"Sounds good." Even the smile you give him feels tired, but you attempt it nonetheless. "I think I'm ready to call it a day too, if that's okay."
His expression is tender with empathy.
"The circadian rhythm is a cruel and indifferent mistress." He commiserates. "We'll getcha sorted in a tick." Fingertips glide in to soothe with the barest graze between your shoulder blades. It takes everything in you not to shiver.
"Oh! Listen, about that," he starts, his head shaking in apology before he even begins to voice it, "about the lodging, I don't want you to have any worries." A hand still at your back, he brings the other to rest over his heart. "I'll be an exemplary roommate, scouts honor. You say 'jump', and I ask 'how high', right?"
That's when it dawns on you.
Then, and only then.
This is who you'll be spending your foreseeable future with. The one with whom you'll be in close proximity, for that unfixed, indeterminate length of time.
The dry, terse, balding man you'd been picturing - who's turned out to be this man.
This off-beat, scarily perceptive, infectiously affable man. Who smells like sun and sand despite the absence of the beach. Sun-kissed to such thorough perfection it should have been fake, if he wasn't otherwise so genuine. Who slings around pet-names like there's a lifetime of history between you.
Who also happens to share your taste in music.
If the confrontation of your jet lag was an 18 wheeler, this one's a steam roller.
Well. Fuck.
"Likewise." You croak. The smile you force must look as painful as it feels to stretch your lips into. The room gives a lurch. "Thank you for being so accommodating, I really don't want to put you out."
The words are sincere, but the ringing in your ear drowns your Lombard reflex. You can only hope you kept to a normal volume.
"Perish the thought." He's all cheek, but it does nothing to dampen his assurances. "It's been the Travis and Scylla show for the last six months, a human counterpart will do me some good."
His accompanying wink doesn't land nearly as devastating this round. He's as easy and breezy as ever when he says it, but the undertones of alienation cut deep.
So enamored by his peculiarity, you've forgotten completely that it's the leading cause for outcasts.
"I don't know about you, but I could eat." He confesses in a chuckle. You get the sense that he could go all day without eating if he's engrossed in his work. "Let's take you back, yeah? Give you the lay of the land, get your bearings, and then we can rustle up some grub."
The main lobby disappearing from sight, you follow Travis's lead in the opposite direction. He rounds corners and ducks down halls, ambling with the insouciance of one who knows the place like the back of his hand. He halves his strides for you to keep up without struggle. Carrying himself like he's taking a midday stroll through his favorite park, with the placidity to match.
The further along you go, the more upfront the outpost becomes, giving you but a preview of how labyrinthine its lay-out. Learning your way around will have to be your first priority. Your head on a swivel, you blur through one nondescript, gray section to the next.
Though you suspect, if you do ever get lost, you could grab someone at random and simply ask to be returned to Travis. Without exception, anyone to cross your path is recognized by him, who he's able to address by name. A quick two finger salute here, a clap to their shoulder in passing there, all done with the hallmark crook in his grin. Piercing eye-contact non-negotiable. He seems to know everyone, and he's equally as enthused to see the next person as he was the former.
Your whole day up till now has been a whirlwind, and the onset of fatigue - both physical, and mental - spreads its roots deep. When you come upon the double doors of the back exit, denoted by the clear signage, the question blurts from you without permission.
"Where are we going?"
"Out back, where I'm parked." You can't even help the deepening crease of your brow, and his mirth turns more crooked. "You and I'er holed up aalll the way out on the properties edge." He reveals, his shoulder dipping noncommittal. "Helps in keeping up appearances."
Once your bags had been cleared, they'd been collected from you first thing. Logan - the head of your security entourage - informed you everything would be delivered to your new quarters. You just didn't give much thought to where those might be.
It hadn't occurred to you, not even once, that you'd be rooming separate from the facility itself. The jury is still out on whether this turn of events is preferable. Not that you really have the chance to consider. Or an obvious alternative.
The adrenaline that carried you this far had crashed and burned.
Disoriented as you are, trailing him to the back exit springs giddiness from the pit of your stomach like a well. Crowding your chest until it tingles, tight against its own pressure.
Déjà vu blows in to snuff your fading rationality. You've had these exact jitters before. Walking by his side, all eyes on the two of you together.
The moment he pushes open the double doors, and the flood of natural light rushes you from the outside, you're back in high-school. Leaving through the auditorium doors to the seniors parking lot.
Three whole years older, the premier crush of your adolescence, and your neighbor - Adam Bannion is giving you a ride home for the first time.
Just being seen in the hall with him had been head turning. Whisper stirring. Covetous.
With Travis, now, is near indistinguishable. The difference in men is what sets the experiences apart. Where Adam walked ahead of you, Travis sticks to your side, even as he leads. Already proving himself to be a loyal companion, when given the chance.
I'm definitely delirious.
The reflection does nothing to curve the helpless smile that bullies it's way onto your face.
And as Travis brings you out to his car, you buzz with the same girlish thrill.
All in the effort of maintaining cover, the outposts staff park in the spaces between the layered rows of transport and vacuum trucks, their placement strategic, and explicitly for show. To the odd, distant traveler, the vehicular fleet that would otherwise serve as evidence of Monarch's presence, is then concealed in plain sight. Blending within the back-drop of towering steel derricks and onshore drilling rigs, outpost 55 achieves near-perfect inconspicuity as the oilfield it pretends.
Being back in the fresh-air feels like a lifetime has passed since you last breathed it in. The sky offers light still, though it's fast dwindling. The heat you remember from the afternoon has tamed, but only some. A rogue breeze rustles through you, doing wonders to calm where multiple blushes had earlier inflamed.
Having walked the path many times over, Travis moseys in the direction of his car, sliding his shades into place. Another errant gust kicks up in time to tousle his hair more irresistible. The diffused hues of sun-down shadow him heartbreakingly gorgeous.
"Usually by this time of the day things are pretty well cooled off." He swipes his forehead with the back of his wrist. The tweak of his shoulders unbothered. "Guess today's been a hot one."
Beginning to build your understanding of his brand, when he approaches a rough and tumble '92 YJ Wrangler Sahara and regards it like an old friend, it only makes sense. The tan soft-top pops against its bright copper poly, gleaming burnt umber in the receding sun. Cutting across the sides of the body is a streak of gold, jagged-edged like a thunderbolt. Amidst the sea of muted sedans, it refuses to yield. Standing loud and proud, the metallic flecks in the paint shimmer. A flashy display of just how resolute its nonconformity.
Dust coats the windshield. The rims and tubular side-steps caked with orange clay. Somehow, you know that the neglect isn't from a lack of care. It bears the wear and tear like a badge of honor. Travis doesn't seem like the kind of guy to care about getting his hands dirty. Why should his ride be any different?
He retrieves the key fob from his back pocket, not that you're looking there at all, attached to a woven lanyard the length of a wristlet, its edges frayed. Unlocking the passenger side first, he swings the door open to give you a peak inside.
Leather accents and trail-cloth seating, the interior reveals a wear-pattern that favors the drivers seat above all else. The fabric wrinkled, and starting to ravel around the edges of where the seat catches his weight. A pile of his things occupy the passenger side; a loose stack of papers, Old Spice Deep Sea deodorant, and a leather bound journal held together by some masking tape and a prayer. A yellow and blue Sony Sports Walkman sits on top, the headphones still plugged in.
Your eye drifts to the pair of Birkenstocks stowed in the foot-well, ragged too kind a word for their sorry state. They're joined by a box of surfboard wax.
It takes him no time at all to gather everything. A swiftness that suggests he forgot he'd left it laying there in the first place.
"Birks." You remark to yourself without thought, lips quirking. "Of course"
"Yeah, they serve me well." His belongings are tossed to the backseat without ceremony. "But there's a strict policy inside against open-toes. Imagine?"
Stepping back, he invites you in with an extended, upturned palm. A silent offer to help you up.
You're proud of yourself when you're able to conjure a smile of thanks, accepting with your heart fluttering to a relative minimum. You barely even pay any mind to the delicious scratch of callouses you find there.
Only to be smacked by the full brunt force of him once you climb in.
Old, warm leather, and his coastal musk, the heady combination boiled to heavy concentration after hours of baking in the sun. Every inhale makes your head spin. Vision pinched, it swims around the cabin in sensory over-load. First to demand your attention is the gear shifter.
He drives stick. You whine, inconsolable. Obviously. Why wouldn't he.
There's a packet of sugar-free spearmint gum wedged in the cup holder, a handful of cassette tapes overflowing from the center console. A tiny Hula dancer in her grass skirt bobbles on the dash. Arms folded behind her head, one knee tilts inward to pop her hip, her pose decidedly pin-up. A lei of orange hibiscus wreaths her head.
Your gaze continues along it's upward trail while Travis rounds the front of the Jeep.
Clipped to the drivers side visor is a photograph, creased by the decades and faded by sunlight. A woman, with his eyes and the same warmth inside of them, is crouched on a picnic blanket. A black and tan speckled Aussie Sheperd sits at her feet, tongue lolled for the picture. Her arms are wrapped tight to a young shirtless boy, tanned and wiry. Despite the mop of sandy hair falling in his face, the wild expression peeking through the strands is recognizable in an instant. It's the same unruly self-amusement that tweaks his features now, as he plops himself heavily next to you.
Travis begins to pry off his boots with a needless grunt of exertion, like he just wouldn't be himself if he wasn't animated in some fashion at all times. He twists to deposit them behind his seat. His socks are soon to join them.
Pulling his door shut, he cards fingers through his hair before slotting the key into the ignition. Your thoughtful peering has descended into gawking. A smirk spreads through his stubble.
"I'd be walkin' around the place barefoot if I had my way, seeing as how you breath through your feet 'n all." He volunteers, pulling up the parking break. "That's what I was known for at Uni, among other things."
At this point, nothing he could say should surprise you, but every new detail serves in reminder that the only thing you're certain of about him, is how little of him you grasp. "Even while you drive?"
A carefree grin hung lopsided, he inserts the key in the ignition, and twists. "Especially when I drive."
Cranking the engine, it chugs to life in a roar that builds, thundering beneath your seat. His sound system is next to wake up. Jolting to life, it assaults you with the squealing, electrified dueling guitar intro to Reckless. Pledging his allegiance to Judas Priest was no exaggeration. Every beat shakes the car, each synth-heavy propulsion punching straight through your chest.
You couldn't stop the goosebumps even if you tried.
Fingers spinning the volume knob, his adjustment is such that he only has to shout a little bit to be heard, as opposed to a lot.
"Sorry about the A/C." With thoughtless ease, his left foot presses the clutch pedal all the way down, and works the gear shifter to the far right. "On its last legs. I have the parts layin' around, just haven't got the chance to switch 'em out."
What of your shame has survived until this point then dies an undignified death. One hand on the wheel, he crowds your space. Sliding his arm around the back of your seat as an anchor, he cranes to check through the rear window that behind him is clear. Beads loop the rear-view mirror, with a single shark tooth dangling from the end. It twitches and sways with the car as he backs it out.
You catch his body-heat like dry kindling, and erupt in a full-body blaze just as fast. His scent is heightened, a cocktail of mandarin and magnolia and him that further stokes your fire.
Fortunately for you, he's oblivious to your plight. Falling back into his seat with thighs kicked apart, he guides the shifter into neutral and eases off the clutch. Once it catches, he sticks it back to the floor and throws it in first gear.
The horizon scorches vermilion ahead, its surface warping with heat while the sun continues to drop. The Jeep bucks with vigor as he accelerates straight for it.
He doesn't shy away from speed, but nor is he out of control. His movements are fluid and certain, innate with confidence. He handles the Jeep like it's an extension of himself.
You're looking at months ahead of you, spent with this man. Plural. Months, with an 's'.
I'm not even gonna last the weekend.
He misinterprets your frown as dread for the climate. Glancing your way, his penchant for consoling is as crushing as ever.
"Not to worry though, it's only a stones throw from here. And the A/C back at our place runs beautiful."
You nod with a thin smile, chewing your tongue. Your internal screams have reached a fever pitch.
Our place. You nearly combust on the spot. Thanking the desert terrain, and the rugged, high-contact four-wheel-drive. For every divot and drop in the ground, the chassis is jerked, jostling you to your senses, and out of your body's mortifying default to go limp whenever his line delivery hints dreamy.
You arrive before the guitar solo ends, and his remark about keeping up appearances then falls into place.
Before you sits a trailer home, 800 or so square feet, all by it's lonesome on the property line. Canyon rims carve out a border of seclusion in the far off distance, their rusty bedrock glowing in the setting sun. By your estimation, this is as close to an honest oasis as real life allows.
Vertical board siding in a soft, unassuming cream, the mobile unit fits right in with the facade of standard-fare utility. In an already remote desert plain, anyone passing through would deduce it was a temporary work trailer, completely within the ordinary.
"Monarch didn't purchase it for me, so much as it was lumped in with the acquisition. A bit homier than the facility itself, I think you'll find. The nature of Scylla's case making the time frame what it is, I thought putting a little tlc into the place might pay off. They certainly had no objections." He dips his head to regard you from over the top of his shades. "Really, they're just happy to get a break from me."
Situated alongside the trailer where an actual garage might occupy, Travis jerks his head towards what looks to be a double-wide shipping crate of corrugated steel.
"They were gracious enough to supply the carport, though." His gratitude sincere. "Everything else has been on me."
He pulls in through the open doors, and kills the power, the engine puttering once it's cut. The inside walls are lined with various tools, and equipment. A beat up jack, and orange traction boards readily identifiable among them. In the corner rests a small plastic cooler, with an old silver boombox perched on top.
You weren't outside for long, and the drive over in total took less time than the struggling a/c could splutter into action, yet it was plenty of opportunity for the heats damage to be dealt.
Whereas on you it clings grungy, on Travis it's just… sexy. Unfairly so. An action-star shimmer, the sheen makes his tan glisten, instead of seep, like sweat. You wilt a little where you sit at this discovery.
Travis continues to bop along to a rhythm only he can hear, pushing his door open to drop his sandals to the ground, echoing with the clap of impact. Stepping into them, he's at your side in a flash. Once more getting the door for you, with a hand ready to help you back down.
In just a few steps, you're out of the carport, and face to face with your new home.
An aluminum awning shelters the front door, and what could almost constitute as a porch, no wider than to allow the two of you standing side by side. A wind-chime of tiger cowrie shells twirls from the front post. As you ascend the steps, the wood gives weak protest to your combined weight, creaking in a way that feels lived. Weathered.
If a home could give a first impression, you're almost certain you're pleased to make this ones acquaintance.
"Alright, without further ado," glossing over the preamble, he opens the unlocked door, and steps aside to allow you ahead. "Here's home."
You're welcomed by the lingering of extinguished incense, and more warmth than you ever could have imagined.
If it passed for utilitarian on the outside, it more than makes up for discrepancy on the inside. The walls are wood-paneled. The windows outfitted with woven bamboo shades. Details you're confident are original. It looks like it was taken straight from memory, near identical to the beach bungalow your family would rent on occasion when you were young. The last evocation you were expecting was nostalgia.
"Not exactly shiny and new, but she's cleaned up well." The door shuts behind Travis as he joins you. "A bit dated, perhaps, but I'm not fussy."
You're distracted first thing by just how many windows it boasts - and all the natural light available for their greed. But when he reaches over to turn on a nearby floor lamp, habitual in the way he doesn't have to look, but finds the switch by touch, the space unfolds all the richer for it. An added effulgence that dims it velvet soft, and hazy. No harsh overheads. All the lighting is task, and ambient, originating in little pockets from where they make the most sense.
The golden hour does wonders for any space, but Travis Beasley's lends itself to the pink flood of left-over sunlight in a way that only already inviting homes can achieve. A strong foundation to support the compliment, it's modest, and intimate. Cozy. Full of texture variety, and color contrast. Your surprise doesn't last; it has big personality, much like the man it homes. Desert afterglow bleeds through the shades like it doesn't belong anywhere else, and pours in a dreamlike wash of amber. Your eye is drawn up towards the ceiling, where a pair of sky-lights wait for you to notice them. Your breath catches when you do.
You toe off your shoes with care, settling them as out of the way as you can manage. There isn't a designated shoe spot that you can see. Travis follows suit, leaving his Birkenstocks right where he steps out of them.
A small rattan shelf to your right, it's bursting with CD's and cassettes. An expansive collection, you can hardly believe it all traveled with him. Though the more perceptive part of you can't imagine him without them.
He returns his sunglasses and car key to the coconut bowl on top. Along with a wallet that wouldn't survive the weight of too long and hard a stare, and another stick of deodorant. Above the console is one brindle leather outback hat, hung by itself. When you spot it, you have to bite your lip to keep from grinning too much like an idiot.
"When I first checked her out, I just sorta fell in love. She's got good bones, good energy. Wasn't exactly move in ready, but with Scyll as hurt as she was, I had downtime. So I took a crack at fixin' her up myself." He hangs back out of the way, hands in his front pockets as he tracks your motion. You haven't strayed too far, by your head bobs this way and that, as every detail all tries to ingratiate itself at once.
The front entrance doubles as the living room, and it draws you without effort. A comfortable looking loveseat in deep chocolate takes the back wall, where the right cushion dips considerably to give away his spot. An acoustic guitar propped in the corner by its arm. The teak coffee table is low profile, and unadorned in it's construction. All of it's tethered together by an oversized, dusty blue rug.
You make sure to nod along as you listen, before taking your first hesitant steps forward. Afraid to break the spell that cradles the atmosphere, rosy and dreamlike. Delighted to find the wool fibers are even more plush underfoot than they looked.
Not too far away from the couch on the same wall, underneath one of the windows, sits a desk. Appropriately cluttered, a handful of paperbacks are stacked in unapparent order, next to the lamp. Loose-leaf sheeting and post-it notes flank a lap-top, one that was left open.
The kitchenette takes the left corner, the whole of it able to be seen from anywhere in the living room you stand. Only a half-wall of separation, it allows for conversation to carry between both rooms. Complete with a dining table, it's just large enough for two, but too big for the kitchen. Pushed against the divider, it's chairs are mismatched. An observation that flutters your insides.
Running parallel with the kitchen, to your furthermost left, is a narrow hall to the other end of the trailer.
You've completed your spin, arriving back at the couch where you started. A used mug on the coffee table lures your attention, leading your gaze to a ceramic incense burner, the base smudged with ash. This close, you're really able to lift the specifics of vanilla, pineapple and cranberry. You hum.
"What scent is that?"
You look over to see him still standing by the door while he watches you. His expression curious.
"Sex on the beach." He tells you.
With a subtle noise of acknowledgment, you find another nook to admire, ducking away to hide your stricken expression.
Maybe, your self preservation suggests, we just stop asking questions.
A homemade mountain range of even more CD's and tapes is what saves you. Pushed against the far wall of the living room beneath the west-facing windows, they're gathered in haphazard piles that form the peaks and valleys. It would take you hours to read every album label and artist, but you move to crouch before it anyway. You can feel his eyes follow.
"There's still some more to be done, but I don't mind the work. I like to keep occupied." Leisurely, he moves to join you, stopping at the carpets edge. "I think more clearly with busy hands. There's only so much maintenance the Jeep needs."
The longer the silence stretches on, the greater his need to fill it swells. He's been observing you carefully, waiting for something he can't name.
It's only when he catches sight of the genuine little smile tugging at your lips, one that so badly wants to pull wider, does it click. A sensation that lifts up and off of him - one an awful lot like relief.
That euphoria is short lived, as he finds another project to feed his fixation. He snags on the books left strewn all over the coffee table. As if noticing them there for the first time, he's swept up by an impulse to straighten them.
Suddenly conscious of the fact that he didn't do as good a job cleaning prior. That for some reason, it needs to be more presentable now that you're here.
"I didn't really "move in" so much as I've invaded." He disclaims, before he attempts another pass at tidying. He plucks the balled up hooded sweatshirt from the couch, spotting an old sneaker missing its pair on the floor. He nudges it underneath with his toe, in the off chance you hadn't caught sight of it.
"I was wrappin' up a gig in Machu Picchu when I got the call about Scyll. Already had most all my stuff with me. Whatever I don't, I grab as needed. Op shops are wonderful for that kinda thing." He motions around to the eclectic mix as reference.
Everything felt intentional because it was. A curation of accomplishments and life experiences built up over time. It gives you a more complete picture of him than you ever could have hoped for, an even playing field. You realize you'd been crafting a caricature of him, an imitation.
All around you now are little signs of life, proof of his existence. His habits, his preferences, and they help you fill in the gaps. His home frames him as not a stranger to you, but a person. One relatable, and reachable, now that he's within the proper context.
You straighten, abandoning the stacks of his music. Your face scrunches as you mull over 'Machu Picchu', thumbing through your memory. Their titan on the tip of your tongue.
"Peru…," you murmur, hesitant to reply at the possibility of getting it wrong. Blinking, it comes as more a question, than statement. "Quetzalcoatl?"
Travis looks thrilled.
"You know your stuff, very good." He praises. "Poor fella was sporting some nasty stress fractures in his beak. I was with him for about, oh… four months, give or take. I'm pleased to report he's made a full recovery."
He tucks the hoodie under his arm while he sets about neatening the books. You're able to glance the title Aquaculture Pathophysiology (Volume II: Crustacean and Molluscan Diseases) before it's covered by another.
You consider how to express that while you appreciate his efforts, the flurry of organization isn't needed, in as less an overbearing way as possible. He continues to talk.
"I've made do," he tosses his chin, indicating the house at large, "it's not for a lack of trying."
"No, no," still continuing your scan, afraid miss even the smallest detail, you beam at him. One ear to ear. "It's… perfect."
His posture already at rest, it loosens even more.
"Ah, well, it could certainly use a woman's touch, anyway." He scratches his jaw, boyish. "So, shall I give you the grand tour?"
Wood-grain cabinets, and the basic amenities. Thre's only one window in the kitchen above the sink, but it spans the length of the wall it occupies. The sill holds a mini trove of shells, all varying in texture and shape. As he brings you over, he rattles off the work he's done so far. Tackling everything, from minor caulk work and ceiling fan installation, to repiping the bathroom, and both reglazing and weatherstripping no less than every last window.
The grand finale comes when he reveals he had to gut the kitchen walls.
"Water damage." The threat of a smirk betrays an otherwise grim tone. "One causality of many from the shoddy plumbing, no two ways about it." He leans against the counter next to the fridge. A lime has already been left out to come room temperature. "A little conscientious demoing, some new drywall. No biggie." Reminiscent, he studies the cabinets, and the fresh coat of butter yellow paint around them. "Which reminds me, gotta hit up the loo next. It's due to be re-primed."
The visual of him shirtless and sheened, and powdered by spackle dust, while his arms and shoulders flex around a sanding block, intrudes with a vengeance. It takes effort to swallow it down, but you manage.
"You've done an amazing job." You try not to sound too breathless. He accepts the compliment as well as water accepts oil.
"She just needed a little love, is all. It's been a welcome change of pace for me, gotta say." He nods to himself, concurring. "I don't stay put for long, but it's been nice, y'know, to put the work in. To have someplace to come back to."
"To have something that's yours." You offer gently. Full of an understanding that has heft. Mutuality.
"Ours." His correction is light, but insistent.
You know he's technically correct, but your nerves demand you reject the privilege.
"I'm not looking to take up more room than I have to."
A reassurance he neither wants, nor needs.
"We're a bit of a team now, yeah? Wouldn't do either of us any good to dance around each other. You take up as much or as little room as you like."
You relent quietly, averting your gaze with a small simper. In dodging his eye, the fridge door comes into view, and the picture collage stuck to its surface. You move in for closer inspection.
A smattering that would put National Geographic to shame, you wouldn't be able to identify all of the destinations with several days, and hints. He gave the impression of traveled, but severely understated just how well.
Lush, endless forests and tall grass prairies, mountainscapes are the most prominent feature. An avid hiker and rock-climber, his rare appearances are either scaling the side of a crag, or stood triumphant on it's peak.
And always by himself. You think back to his counterpart remark, and your heart aches.
Before you can think to comment on any of them, impressive as they are, you spot the outlier of the bunch. The rest dissolve to obscurity. Another landscape shot, but one far less exotic.
A row of young lifeguards stand huddled on a beach, just after sunrise. Red and yellow uniforms, wicked tans, and blinding white smiles. It takes you mere seconds to find him, third in from the left.
Sonofabitch. He is a life guard. You almost scoff out loud. A real one.
"Right, love. This dinner business." He startles you from another spiral, hands clapped together. "What are we in the mood for? What's the craving?"
A yawn breaks free before it can be stopped. Travis chuckles as you try to conceal it behind your hand.
"I think I'll take a rain check tonight. It's been a long…," your tongue pauses on the word day, but you decide on a different one. "Well, week. I should probably turn in early."
"Say no more, darl'. You've been a trooper." He says with too much ease and not enough awareness. The pet names are gunning to take you down before his scruff and scoundrel even get the chance. "C'mon, I'll show you where to crash."
He brings you down the hall, where three doors wait. The bathroom is central, and it sits between what is to be your room, and the second, which he'd converted into a proper office space. Your stay either puts him out on the couch, or a cot in his office. Guilt rushes you without mercy. Not that the situation allows for a different solution.
Travis can see the protestation building behind your pout, and quickly comes to your defense.
"You'll make better use of it than I have." He placates. "It was one all-nighter away from becoming a catch-all for the laundry."
The bedroom is simple, airy, and unobtrusive. Which is all to say it's exactly what you need.
You worried for a moment, once you had seen the rest of the house, that if enough of Travis was embedded in it's framework, you'd be too timid to settle. But the walls are bare. The bed soft, and clean. There's a low wooden dresser of straight edges and lines, already emptied for your belongings to fill.
So you set to it.
Mindless busy-work does wonders for helping you decompress, and the quiet monotony has you floating before you're even half-way through. Granted, you didn't bring anywhere near a comparable amount of your life with you as Travis did. Your stay here even more temporary, you brought the essentials. Toiletries, clothing basics, small comforts, and a literal handful of personal mementos.
Hunting for your work bag, you know exactly what needs to be unpacked from it, and you reach for that pocket first thing.
You didn't bother to bring many pictures with you (your phones bursting storage attesting there was plenty material to fall back on in the event of homesickness) however there was one from your place that just couldn't be left behind.
A 5 × 7 candid of you and Max from the office holiday party, two years prior. Your arms are wrapped around his neck, lips squished to his scruffy cheek in a sloppy, capricious peck. Yours are colored with the one-too-many vodka cranberries that preceded the snapshot. Your hair different, back then.
And then there was Max, in that stiff wool turtleneck. With his perpetual dark circles, and signature deadpan. His affection for you obvious, in the way his fingers are curled around your wrist.
As you set it down on the dresser, you swear you can hear him muttering from over your shoulder.
“Oh gimme a break.”
You grin despite yourself, nose crinkling. It comforts you in a way that only annoying him is able to provide.
You're about to dive in to putting away more clothes when there's a knock at the door, two quick taps in rhythmic succession.
You call for him to come in, and the door creaks inward. Travis's upper half peaks in, hanging from the doorway by an arm raised above his head.
"Hey! Sorry, you got a sec?" Despite the time of night, and the hours he put in with Scylla, he's bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. An endless well of energy that's traditionally reserved for toddlers, and puppies.
"Sure, yeah," you motion him forward, "come in."
He drops from the door frame, but doesn't take more than one step inside. There's something he's fidgeting with slightly, but the ridged width of his fingers, long and work-worn, hide it from sight. A crease forms between his brows, as he regards what he's holding, before those baby-blues snap back to you.
"I wanted to give you this." His hands part, and hold out for you a house key. A single chain is clipped to the head, and on the end dangles a mini, plastic 8 ball. "It's the key to the place. I never lock up, there's not much point out here."
Your lips part in the moment to say something, even a word of acknowledgement, but nothing sounds. Your tongue sticks like its glued. Dumbly, and with unsure fingers, you reach up to accept the key. Clasping it like its something precious.
Travis continues in nonchalance.
"Thought having it might help you come 'round to the idea that you're more than just a guest." He lounges back against the frame, both hands slotting into his front pockets. You're staring down at the key, still evaded by cohesive thought. "Monarch's got you on a tight enough leash as it is, you don't need to be choked up like that here. I reckon even just a bit of autonomy'll go a long way."
A hush falls over you both, suspending you further at a loss.
I don't know what to say. I don't know if I can accept this. Are you sure you want me to have this? You really don't have to-
The slew of acceptable remarks crowd against the back of your teeth in a jumble, but none of them hold the appropriate weight to land if spoken. Only to evaporate when you try to find articulation in their mess.
The skin at your nape prickles. He's waiting for you, and all you're giving him is dead air. The anxious in you braces for the fuse of his patience to hit it's end.
It never does.
When finally you chance a look back at him, he's calm. Relaxed. He's got nothing but time for you.
Your fingers grip the key tight.
"What about you?" Is what wins out. Blurted fretful, and quiet. You're aware your eyes are bowed cowish.
A half-finished thought, he understands your fear of locking him out, and waves the scenario away like it's truly immaterial. "Nothin' about me to worry for. There's always plenty to get up to at the facility." His eyes turn softer on you than they have any right to. His assertion more straightforward than you're equipped to handle. "I don't mind having to wait on you."
You're not able to hold his eye-contact for very long at all, and it retreats back to the key chain where it's safe. You nod a little to yourself, biting your lip as you spin it around, the motion instinctual.
"If it's trouble, I can get a spare." He compromises, now able to recognize your expression as an inward retreat. He begins to draw you back out like he's had a lifetime of practice. "I don't think it will be though."
In rotating the charm, you realize it's not just an 8 ball, but a magic 8 ball. You give a testing shake without thinking about it, and the dice rises up through the blue dye. Outlook good, it says.
It's weak, and hitches on the knot in your throat, but a hum works itself around it.
Travis takes that as a sign you accept. As well as his cue to go.
"Right then, I'll leave you to it." His smile, like every one to come before it, is all teeth. "If you need anything, anything at all, give us a shout, yeah?"
"Yes." You acquiesce, mild and polite. It's all you're able to get out.
His head bobs, poised to take his leave. Just as he pushes off from the doorway, you clear your throat, and pipe up one last time.
"Wait, uhm - Travis?"
Your voice cracks around his name for the second time, but the first time you address him so intimately. The length of his fingers wrap the doorjamb, catching himself before dipping away completely. He stays quiet for you, head cocked anticipatory. Allowing your lead without interjection.
"Thank you. Seriously." You're firm, despite how his direct focus makes you want to shrivel away into nothing. You motion to the room around you, the key-chain swinging from your grasp. "For everything."
"Don't mention it." His tone notches lower, almost lulling. "And I've already had a word with the bed bugs, set 'em straight about any funny business. Rest assured you'll sleep tight."
A snort you can't stop, it slips through a half-cocked smirk.
"Good night." You shake your head, incredulous. Seconds ago you were back in your shell, and without any effort from him at all, he's made you forget it exists.
Travis's eyes crinkle in triumph. "G'night." He parts, and the door clicks shut on his way out.
Behind the cover of a closed door once more, you stand there for a moment. The pad of your thumb gliding over the tiny plastic sphere. How he knew that your sentimentality trends loud is beyond you.
Moving back to the dresser where the rest of your bags sit abandoned, you set the key down with reverence, placing it next to the picture frame of you and Max. You let yourself linger on it for a beat longer, your pulse all sorts of erratic. Your brain laggy.
You grab for the bag you think has a pair of pajamas.
Sifting through the clothing, your fingertips meet hard plastic and silicone. Your flush is immediate, and burns so hot it's almost cold. Your vibrator. Mortified that you packed it in retrospect, it's still not enough to prevent you from rummaging deeper to double check that yes, you indeed remembered to bring the charger.
You suck in a breath and release it as a groan.
We cannot be going down this road, this soon, girl. You warn yourself. You have a job to do. He's just... being nice. So nice. Too nice. But you need to focus.
Quitting on the hunt for pj's, you drag yourself back towards the bed and decided, with no small shortage of grace, to flop onto your stomach. Unable to keep your eyes open for long, you don't even try to fight it as the mattress sucks you in. Ordinarily, the thought of sleeping in any sheets other than your own would skeeve you out, but you cannot find it within yourself to care, or budge an inch from where you've collapsed. Nose pressed to the linen, you catch whiffs of fresh eucalyptus, sage, and salt-air.
It just makes you think of him.
From beyond the door, you're able to track his path, muffled as it is. The floor creaking with his weight as he retreats further away. The rattle of the fridge door opening and closing.
Yes, you've only just met. And yes, your faculties are much too scrambled for you to maintain objectivity.
Yet as you lay there in the quiet of your new room, and you hear Travis down the hall, you can't deny the inevitable, as it swirls in your chest, and melts you deeper into the bedding.
You do, genuinely like him.
Travis eases the door behind him, the latch catching with a click. Padding down the hall, he turns the corner into the kitchen, and shuts the light on his way.
It isn't until he's retrieved a bottle of Bell's Two Hearted IPA, and pries the cap off with a hiss, that he releases the hearty exhale he's been holding since you stumbled upon him playing with Scylla. His lungs sear with the relief.
He opts out on the wedge of lime entirely tonight. Much too dire a situation for indulgences.
Don't get cute. He warns what of his better judgment might still be lucid. I'm no spring chicken.
When he agreed to open his home, he didn't think much of who might darken the doorstep. Nor did he factor in all of the logistics about cohabitation. Not since Uni had he lived with someone else, and his plan had been to just sorta wing it. He got on well with pretty much anyone, and he's never been the sort to get in a twist over the theoretical. All the what-ifs, and potential points of friction.
He's adaptable. He's agreeable.
So he can't putz around in the nude anymore - there were greater atrocities. He's still free to sleep that way, of course. It's all a give and take.
He didn't have even the concept of a person in mind before you met. There was no point. They - you - would turn up soon enough, and then the unknown would be put to bed.
He did imagine someone a bit nosy perhaps, a little underfoot, but well meaning. Nothing he couldn't handle. His bedside manner was one of his greatest strengths, after all.
But when he turned around and saw you standing there, wide-eyed and cautious as a newborn foal? Well, he kinda fumbled. He hoped his recovery was smooth.
As his luck would have it, you immediately found your groove. The first spark of connection undeniable and blinding, all built around a single commonality.
Scylla really had been so good to him.
He just wasn't expecting you to be so, y'know, what was the word?
Ah yes. Gorgeous. Stunning. Stone cold. A knock-out. He could've cackled, because surely a creature as lovely as yourself sent his way was a joke. The universe giving him as good as he gave. A tongue-in-cheek twist of things that made him feel like he was actually insane.
Your interest in Scylla was real. Beyond her capacity for destruction, or what was needed to subdue her. You asked questions. Thoughtful, and engaged. You listened when he spoke. Posture receptive, eye-contact steady.
So many people have one sided conversations. They talk at you, instead of with you. They're quiet - but only to bid their time until it's their turn again. Genuine synergy didn't just happen.
But it happened with you.
And now, he's wandering around the place well and truly aimless. Pacing even. He feels a bit in crisis, which is a foreign feeling in and of itself.
Where most experience restless leg, Travis gets it in his hands. Itching with a surplus of vim and vigor and nowhere to stow it, he's of half a mind to go out to the Jeep and replace the compressor clutch coil.
You gotta get your act together, mate.
Instead, he gives a cursory glance around what of his domain is most immediate.
He isn't a slob, but when you're beholden to only yourself - there's a lot of slack to give. This morning he was so unbothered. The next thing he knows, you're standing in the middle of it all, and he needs your approval. No warning whatsoever.
Should probably vacuum up a bit more. He palms the back of his neck. Do some dusting while you're at it. S'certainly not gonna hurt.
Continuing to survey, he finds his other sneaker a ways off, laying on its side under the desk in a tangle of laces. His gaze narrows. How the hell d'you end up there?
He takes another swig of IPA like all the answers are at the bottom of the bottle, only to then regard it with distrust. Idly scrutinizing his middle, fingertips prodding into much softer muscle tone than he'd like. His thoughts bang a left.
Maybe I should pick jogging back up. A background musing, one comically ambitious at that. It's only been, what, fourteen years? When he played assistant coach for the girls track team at his former secondary school. His blown out knees are quick to staunch the spread of that lunacy.
Reign it in, bud. His tendency to be too much too soon isn't always taken as endearing. Don't foul your own nest, just… keep her comfortable.
Your first morning rolls in with a hang-over like fog. You hadn't slept, so much as you'd passed out. Devoid of dreams, and the satisfaction of restfulness from slumbering soundly. Your eyes peel open one at a time.
You swear, just moments ago, you laid down to shut them. Now early morning light pours through the gauzy knit of the curtains. Needling your dry, disgruntled sclera.
That isn't to say you received a rude awakening. You stir, pushing yourself upright and into a stretch that gently pops along the line of your spine. The activity from the kitchen continues it's attempt to coax you out of bed, with the scent of buttery sourdough toast, and These Eyes crooning from the sound-system. Muted through the door, at a volume that's considerate of the hour.
You're still in your clothes from yesterday.
With surprising efficiency for only just being conscious, you perform a quick wardrobe change. Something comfortable and casual, that also happens to flatter your figure.
Not intentional, of course. Purely incidental.
The idea of walking out from the shelter of a closed bedroom stalls you with cold-feet. The sort of nervous energy that can only be pushed through, not worked around. So you gather your self-care necessities, and sneak into the bathroom. Holding your breath every time you're forced to open and close each door.
You freshen up in no time at all, washing the grogginess from your face, and corralling your hair into something presentable. Your teeth brushed, and body spray layered, heavy on the toasted coconut and spun sugar. By the time your tooth brush is tucked next to his, you've reached full rejuvenation.
A minty mouth and sweet scent will have that affect.
You exit the bathroom just in time for the bridge.
These eyes are cryin' These eyes have seen a lot of loves, but they're never gonna see another one like I had with you
Tip-toeing down the hall, you peer into the kitchen to see Travis's back. Successful in having avoided detection, you're given the opportunity to freely admire the sight.
His shoulders are the first thing you notice, or more accurately, his garish Hawaiian shirt in lime green and yellow. Patterned in bird of paradise plumage, and vibrant coral blooms in large, broad repetition. Sun bleached jorts with very distressed hems complete the look. Barefoot of course, as he mans the stove.
Funny, how you hardly know him at all, and yet it seems just right for him.
"Good morning," you announce yourself, finding the stack of toast, plated and ready on the counter beside him. A heavy hand in his application of butter, the creamy spread brings an appreciative twinkle to your eye.
A fellow advocate of the healthy fats. You're already swooning.
A french press sits at the ready next to his elbow, with a sizable width of grinds collected at the bottom. Kona blend, if the label of the bag left out is to be believed.
His feathered waves flounce as he looks at you from over his shoulder. The easy grin he flashes you is perceived as a direct threat by your knees.
Oh. You begin to mourn. It's too early for him to be this tempting.
"Mornin', sunshine!" A small sauce pot gurgles from over the flame, and he snuffs the burner with a flourish of his wrist. "How d'you take your coffee?"
Chapter songs & divider credit