Lex Parsimoniae (2/6)

[myths_by_kynx]

Previous

Jared about jumps out of his skin when his phone vibrates a second before playing My Darling Murder's Evil Things and he laughs shakily as he answers it, "Tim?

It doesn't need to be a question, there's only one person he's assigned that ringtone to, and Tim's voice is clear though the phone, "Hey, you ok?"

"Er...kinda. Maybe? Did I wake you?" He can feel his face heating up as Tim's tone registers, sort of slow and sleepy, completely at odds and out of place in Jared's current reality.

"Not really. What'd you mean maybe?"

Jared hesitates, and when he speaks, the words are strained, forced, barely more than a whisper, "There's someone outside."

Silence at first, for longer than is comfortable or normal and Jared wonders if Tim hasn't heard him, but then, "Doing what?"

It's the last thing he expects to be asked; 'who' or 'where' or 'how'd you know' are the norm, things he's used to but never has answers for. "I don't know. I can't see them."

"Then how'd you know they're there?" Tim asks with a chuckle, and that is the normal question, Shannon's usual one in fact, more and more often. Grates on Jared's nerves more and more purely because he's being asked it yet again and still doesn't have an answer.

"Cause I do," he snaps and doesn't lighten his tone at all as he continues, "I'm not making this shit up, no matter what the fuck you all think."

"Hey, I'm just asking. I'm not Shannon, ok?"

"Yeah, I―" He ignores the urge to apologize, suppresses it and buries it deep. Tim deserves it, Jared knows that but he's too wound-up-on-edge to get into it. If he starts apologizing for that little outburst, he's not sure he'll stop there and fuck it, he's not good at apologies at the best of times, and certainly not the kinds he probably owes Tim. "I'm just a bit shaken up. Went out to look and there was...someone out there. Didn't get a decent look, but fuck it, I saw someone move. Know they're out there."

He stops for breath, close to hyper-fucking-ventilating too, can feel it in the tightness of his chest, and fuck, he still has no idea what's going on. "Stay on the phone with me?" he pleads between breaths, before Tim can reply with any more fucking questions. He's not going to have a goddamn panic attack, he is not. And maybe if he repeats it enough in his head, he'll make it true.

Tim's anger, heat lacing every word, is a surprise. Whatever reaction he's expecting, this definitely isn't it, "And what, call the fucking cops if you start screaming?"

Doesn't help his temper, nerves, or fucking sanity either, "Pretty much, yeah."

"Christ, Jared. Fuck that, I'm on my way over."

"No," snaps, snarls out because Tim won't, he can't and he definitely fucking shouldn't.

"Why the hell not?"

Still angry, and fuck, Tim's never angry. It makes him pause, makes him actually think about the whys behind his knee-jerk response. "I don't think it's a good idea." As much as he likes the sound of it.

That doesn't calm Tim down at all, "So...there's a creep outside scaring the bejesus out of you―"

"There is, and that's why I don't want you coming over. Getting out of the car and―"

He's cut off by a rumbled sound of disgust, "Fine. I'm driving by though."

Jared's torn between wanting Tim to drive over and not. It'll help...well, it'll help him, make him feel safer, less isolated, maybe even scare them off but it's out of Tim's way, too much to ask from someone who...is whatever Tim should be to him, ever, before Jared gets even more fucked up and needy. "I―"

"No arguments," Tim snaps.

Jared shivers at the tone, unused to Tim getting...well, even halfway angry, let alone like this, telling Jared what he's going to do and leaving no room for discussion. He's not sure how he should be taking it, but he can't deny his body's immediate response to it, misplaced almost definitely. It's so very far removed from the ever-present fear that he doesn't want to hinder the reaction at all. There's a jangle of keys and a door slams from Tim's side of the call, "I'm doing it."

"Ok." No way is he ever telling Tim exactly how relieved he is that the decision has been taken away from him, "Can you put me on speaker phone while you drive?"

"Sure. Hold on a sec." The phone clatters, car door slams shut, keys jangle and then, shit, he holds the phone away from his ear as a tinny bass line blares out when Tim obviously turns the engine on, and then...thankfully mostly silence, compared to a second ago at least, "Jared? You hear me?"

"Yeah. Quiet but yeah."

"It'll do." Tim's talking loudly, not quite shouting, but definitely trying to compensate for the engine and not having the phone's speaker right near his mouth. "So what happened?"

Jared sighs, eyes still riveted outside as he slowly backs further into the kitchen until the center island is digging into his back. "Same as usual. Fucked up, being-watched-feeling. Went and got our old baseball bat and..." He hesitates as his earlier fear seeps back in, as if talking about it is making him re-live it. He hates feeling like this, hates being so fucking scared.

It doesn't take much prompting from Tim to make him to relay everything else; going outside, the noises but no answer, nothing but something creeping closer. He hesitates even more, gets stuck trying to explain what he thinks he saw, if he saw it at all and with the way he's feeling, he's not entirely sure on that last. He's been silent too long, lost in his thoughts, picking at the memory and trying to figure out how much is real and how much isn't.

"Describe it to me, everything," Tim says, soft concern in every word.

"I...fuck, I'm not even sure anymore." He recognizes the defeat in his voice. Rubs his hand over his face but jerks back when it sinks in that he's not looking outside anymore. Not that it's humanly possible to see all of the kitchen or out of all of the windows at once with his eyes open, but he's doing his damnedest to try.

There's a dull, muffled sound and then Tim's voice is louder, clearer in his ear even though it's twice as soft, "Pretend you are. Tell me everything."

"I...he moved too fast, only got movement and an impression of size."

"Yeah, well, that's something. Big guy? Skinny? What?"

"I'm..." Not sure. Not human. Don't know. Terrifying. Just wrong. Did he even see a guy? Maybe just shadows, the wind, his own mind. He shakes his head, "I don't know...looked fucking huge. Shadows were playing tricks on my eyes, I guess."

"But definitely a guy?"

"Fuck, I don't even know. What the fuck else would be out there and about six foot, y'know, I'm...maybe I really am jumping at shadows," he finishes lamely. He's sure he's not jumping at shadows, but it's so damn fucking difficult to justify it outside of his head.

"Mmm, maybe." Tim doesn't sound convinced and it's not as reassuring as he thinks it should be to have someone who half believes him. The low rumble of the engine from Tim's side of the phone changes, making him aware that it's been there all this time, just...not like this.

"I'm out the front."

Jared puts the bat on the side counter before he boosts himself clumsily up onto it so he can look out of the window and cranes his neck so he can see over the wall outside. Can't see much more than the top of what looks suspiciously like Tim's truck, parked though which...Tim said drive by. Drive by implies driving which..."What the fuck are you doing?" sounds a hell of a lot less pathetic in his head than when he says it out loud.

There's a whur of sound in the background that can only be a window being lowered, "Can't see shit if I'm driving along. Truck's still going."

He tilts his head, trying to see more but it's next to useless which puts him on edge even more. Tim's being fucking stupid, there could be anyone out there, and who the fuck knows what they'll do with the opportunity Tim's giving them.

"Nothing here, see anything your side of the wall?"

Doesn't take him long to re-check the front yard, such as it is, not much in the way of anything and at least better kept than the back, "N―no, don't think so," breathes the words out, not quite believing it.

"Sure?"

"No, but...can't see anyone."

The truck starts moving, slowly, curb crawling and swinging a right down the road that runs parallel to his yard. Jared shuffles his way along the counter to watch until the truck's out of sight, and he presses the handset almost painfully close to his ear as he listens. His own breathing, heavy to the point of embarrassment rebounds on the phone and startles him out of the almost trance-like searching-listening-waiting.

It's too quiet, too quiet by far, and he can feel it pressing in on him, "See anything?"

The truck engine is barely audible, and combined with the lack of response, it's making him nervous, not quite panicky but dammit, it's so close to that he can't ignore it, "Tim?"

Closes his eyes for a split second and breathes out in relief when Tim answers him, "There's nothing out here. Gone as far 'round as I can and...I can't see anyone, or anything that makes me think there's anyone there."

"Are you sure?"

"Completely." There's...nothing in Tim's voice, no inflection, simple fact as he sees it. "Ain't no one in the trees this side, and if you can't see anyone that side..."

"Oh. Ok." Jared can't quite make himself believe it, though, not while he's feeling like this. It's...disappointing Tim hasn't seen anything because then he won't be wound up crazy. Then he can be wound up but definitely not crazy.

"I'm gonna circle around again, ok?"

"No, it's―"

"Shut up, Jared." Tim guns his engine and Jared slumps a little in relief.

Tim's doing exactly what Jared needs him to, but he hates him having to. Hates that he's so fucking sure of this, jumping at his own shadow, scared and that there's nothing, no proof except for a half-seen shadow that he's questioning even now.

The near-silence drags out as Tim drives and Jared bites down on his bottom lip to keep from speaking, fuck, saying anything, doesn't matter so long as there's noise, sound, something to distract him from his own thoughts about who's out there, why and what they want. Seems like forever before Tim speaks again, and it's so abrupt that he flinches from how close Tim sounds, "Nothing. There's nothing out here."

Yeah, and nothing in Tim's voice either, no room for argument or emotion, or if there is, Jared can't read it. He doesn't feel safe, doesn't feel like he's alone any more than he did earlier, and he wants to argue with Tim, tell him he's wrong because there's still someone outside, back or front or side, Jared doesn't know, but they're there. He doesn't, though, he's far too aware of how crazy he'll sound trying to convince Tim, and right now, with Tim's voice in his ear, the embarrassment and guilt for dragging Tim out is outweighing the fear.

"So...since you're here anyway, you want a coffee, or a beer or something?" he asks, halfway pleading because the only other option is Tim driving off and going home.

He doesn't want that, doesn't want to be left on his own again. Tim hasn't even gone yet but the fear's still there, held back for the moment but waiting to creep back in just as soon as Tim drives off, or puts the phone down. He'll feel better with company; not right, and it won't stop anything, but he'll feel a little better. Missing Tim―and god, fuck, yes does he, more than he should, not just the occasional getting off, but missing him―might be motivating the question but it's far from the driving force.

Tim hasn't seen anyone out front, and it's harder to hide there than the back, anyway, so chances of Tim being able to park and slip in the front door are good. He's already playing out the scenario in his head, opening the door just as Tim gets there, and yeah, there's the odd but nice thought that maybe, just maybe, Tim's had a change of heart. Tim got up and drove all the way out here and that has to mean that he likes Jared, on some level at least. Sex would be good, better than, get him so far out of his head that he can forget about who's out there, watching and fucking waiting.

He spends so long in his own thoughts and scenarios that he doesn't notice how Tim isn't answering at first, and when he finally does, something sinks in Jared's chest. "Nah. I'm cool. I've...got some stuff to do anyway."

"Are you s―"

"Yeah, I am." Tim sighs, but it's still telling, Tim cutting him off before he can even finish asking, "Go grab a beer or vodka, or knock yourself out with the sleeping pills you keep pretending you don't need, not like you have to be up tomorrow, yeah? Turn on all the lights downstairs to make it look like you're up, and go to bed. You'll feel better with some sleep."

He won't. Or maybe he will but it's the getting to sleep that's the fucking problem in the first place. Bites back the please, I don't want to be alone.

"I mean it. Go to bed. Lights on'll keep anyone who might be out there, outside. And for fucks sake, don't go running back out there. Can't see anyone, but on the very slim chance that you're right, you don't need to be a fucking hero. Call the cops but don't go outside, ok?"

Jared supposes he should be glad that Tim isn't laughing at him, seems to actually give half a shit, but the brush off hits a nerve he's sure he didn't have last week. What the ever living fuck is Tim going to be doing in the middle of the night except having sex? As much as Tim said he was in the mood for pussy, and as...obvious as it'd been that he was getting it, this is the first time that Jared feels like it's being rubbed in his face, being obvious, and it's a struggle to dampen down the not-wholly-unexpected jealousy.

"Ok." It comes out as a hushed whisper, and he coughs to clear his throat before speaking again, "Thanks for...thanks."

"No problem. Just sleep, ok. I'll see you later."

"Yeah." Jared ends the call without looking at the screen, and whether it's before or after he speaks, he's not sure and doesn't much care either. Tim likely has other things―someone else―to worry about, so who the fuck cares if he's being rude. Feeling worthless and rejected does nothing except add to his emotional turmoil, at least it gives him something else to think about, but he doubts he could ever feel worse on the inside than right now.

He's not sure which he hates more; Tim going to fuck someone who isn't him, or Tim going, period. He bites his thumbnail as he watches Tim's truck go past, least he thinks it's Tim's truck, can't make out anything much over the wall. He half-expects Tim to come back, and when he doesn't, disappointment wars with the nervous sick feeling in his stomach. Every second that ticks by that Tim doesn't return, it only gets worse and he has to get down from the counter, needs to be on his feet, needs to be moving to make sure he still can.

The middle of his shoulder blades itches as soon as he's halfway across the room, sensation prickling higher to his neck as the tension returns full force. On-edge is a familiar feeling now, home or not. This time it feels...different somehow, malevolent almost, which is...new, disturbing and fucking terrifying.

He grips the baseball bat tight and turns, expecting someone behind him. It's a surprise that his kitchen is still empty apart from him, but then again, it's not. He should be used to it by now, fuck, should be used to a lot of things right now that he just isn't.

If he gets to sleep tonight, which isn't fucking likely feeling like this, he's taking the bat with him. Not that holding it is making him feel better, but it's a fuck load heavier than his pillow if he wakes up with someone leaning over and breathing on him. Tim made him feel better, a little anyway, dampened down the panic to a manageable level but now Tim's gone and it's all flooding back in. Doesn't matter how he tries to rationalize it, paranoia, imagination, stress, he doesn't believe it. Tim had looked, while Jared was covering the inside, neither of them saw anything and places to hide from both sides are...there's not many. Which means there can't be anyone out there, or if there was, they've left.

Not working. He can't force himself to believe it, not when the presence of someone watching is this heavy against his back, between his shoulder blades and crawling up his spine.

Jared drags in a deep breath, exhales slowly, breathe and repeat, in hopes that he'll calm the fuck down. He doesn't, and it's all too soon before he realizes that he's sounding more like a boxer gearing up for a fight than the calming zen breathing he's aiming for. Can't seem to stop and he's already caught in the terrified web of emotions, fear fueling anger, bleeding into frustration and drowning out logic and reason.

Hating his inability to control what's going on in his own body only makes the anger build that much higher. There's a moment, split fucking second of surreal clarity as he stares around his moonlight drenched kitchen; a realization of how far gone he already is, paranoid and crazy, fear fuelled insomnia, terrified to shut his eyes or move around his own damn house. It's insane, and it needs to stop. He latches onto that thought and the clarity's gone even faster than it appeared.

He promised himself it's going to stop tonight, and he needs to see that through. Whoever's out there...if they want him dead, they'd already have done it, right? Maybe. Fuck it. If they want him dead, he's not going down without taking the bastard with him.

He doubts he'll catch them off guard, not now, but it's a damn sight better than waiting around for them to come after him. He chews his bottom lip as he stares out into the yard, waiting for the shadows to move but it's useless, he's too tired and panicky to make sense of them. Dark gray on black, shapes only becoming clear for a second if he doesn't look at them directly by which point he's sure that they've moved, but it can't be true because that'll mean that every shadow in the yard is moving.

Whines low in his throat as something darts behind him in the kitchen, and this time he knows it's his imagination, but his heart still tries to beat its way out of his ribcage in sheer panic, so hard and fast that it's physically painful. Bites clean through his lip as he turns and tastes blood long before he feels the sting of it. The kitchen's empty, of course it is but it's the final straw in a seeming never ending list of final straws. Fuck his fear, fuck getting killed, fuck feeling like this, he's going outside again.

Even with the moonlight, it's too dark outside and he knows he'll feel a little better with a flashlight. Not a lot, but still. Shannon picked up a super bright one a while back, only five dollars with a tank of gas or something and of course he'd had to have it. Shannon'd buy tampons if they were cheap with a tank of gas. Regardless, if he can remember where Shannon stashed it after he'd finished blinding Jared with it, he'll take that with him.

It takes him over fifteen minutes of frantic searching through the whole house, heedless of the mess he's leaving behind, before he finds what he's looking for at the back of the cupboard under the sink in the kitchen. The flashlight is bigger than he remembers, heavier too, but it's a comforting weight, balanced out by the bat that he's still gripping tightly. He switches the flashlight on and then off to test and good, batteries working and light as bright as he remembers. Something's finally going right for him, one out of a fucking gazillion.

The light's bright enough to blind, especially in the darkness and yeah, that's fucking good too. Blind them and knock them out with the bat; as plans go, it's not without flaws but it's the best he has right now.

Flashlight in one hand, baseball bat in the other, Jared's as ready as he's going to get. As he tucks the flashlight under his arm and reaches for the back door, it strikes him as morbidly ironic considering the name of their third album; he's not going to war, though, into battle is maybe more accurate. He just doesn't know who he's facing this time which is unsettling to the point of terrifying. He's been terrified for months, though, and if he thinks about it like that, he doesn't have much of anything to lose right now.

Jared points the flashlight beam at the ground, no sense blinding himself. He's been creeping around the house in the dark long enough that his eyes are half-way used to it and he guesses paranoia is good for something. It's not perfect, shadows and shades of black and gray, but it's ok.

He's not shouting, didn't work last time and he dismisses the crazy thought that he can't damage his voice. He screams louder than he should every night he's on stage, no, no, no, no, runs through his head like a mantra to bolster his confidence and he tries to hold onto that, memories make him feel less alone. The yard seems bigger now, endless; he skirts the edges of the overgrowth, swings the flashlight left to right never leaving it in the same place for too long and keeps his eyes peeled for...anything. His heart catches in his throat on the crack of a twig. Points the light where he thinks the sound came from, but it's hard to match direction or distance and he fucking hates the uncertainty.

Pressure in his chest builds until he has to release a breath, the slow exhale hurts in the good way, the way that he knows it's going to stop hurting when he's done and he's masochistic enough to make it last. He's trying to stay calm, quiet, even though he gave up on subterfuge as soon as he decided to use the flashlight. Turns to the left and takes a step back in the same movement, he's fucking certain the rustling leaves are getting closer and it makes no fucking sense that he can't see anything. He backs away, keeps the flashlight swinging and hopes it's enough to maintain some distance or the fucker'll close him down before he ever sets eyes on him.

Nothing but trees and weeds, doesn't matter how hard he stares. He keeps the flashlight moving constantly as he stumbles back, knows he's holding his breath so the heavy panting has to be someone else. Oh, fucking hell, he can hear breathing.

He tucks the flashlight under his arm and fumbles for his phone, nearly dropping everything but the bat at least three times, and it's a miracle when he doesn't. It's not a conscious decision to call Tim, he's first on the redial list, easiest, quickest. Tim can't have fallen asleep yet, hasn't had time. Maybe Tim will come back, stay with him until the morning, fuck, talk to him for a bit at least.

His own breath huffs through the handset as he presses it tightly to his ear, even before the phone starts ringing. The call connects, first ring and a few seconds after that, Jared hears Tim's ringtone for him, fucking Monster Magnet's Monolithic, tinny but close. Tim's...here?

Jared breathes out, doesn't hang up but lets his hand, and the phone, drop to his side to hear better, "Tim?"

No answer and the phone is still ringing, chorus just starting.

"Where the fuck are you?" he mutters, confusion and concern outweighing self-preservation.

"Tim?" He's near shouting as the phone continues to ring.

Nothing. No answer. Not a goddamn sound. Tim's phone stops, and Jared lifts his own phone to his ear, hoping like hell it's because Tim has answered. It's voicemail. He redials and heads in the direction of the music when it starts again, adrenaline pumping as worry consumes him. "Tim, fucking answer me. Make a sound. Something."

Nothing that sounds like Tim in the slightest, the neighbor's water feature, wind rustling through the trees, crackling sounds and Jesus fuck, the fuck is going on?

He follows the ringing, sweeps the flashlight in front of him but barely looks at the ground. There isn't much space around the side of the house but that's where the ringtone leads him. He presses his back to the wall, trying to look in two directions at once, judging by the volume he must be almost on top of it. A flash of color on the ground, and he focuses on that, but it makes no fucking sense, his eyes and his brain are in complete disagreement.

Black and red material, blue denim, fuck, clothes. Long sleeved shirt and maybe a t-shirt, jeans; given that's where the ringing is coming from they must be Tim's. Jared straightens up, unsure when he bent over but he must have, and glances around, eyes wide as he tries to see more than shadows and endless night. The phone is still ringing, chorus now, and Jared hits cancel on his own phone before searching out Tim's. He's breathing heavily, every movement jerky in effort to stop the worst of his shaking as he paws at the pile of clothes. Back pocket of the jeans is Jared's first choice, sub-conscious memory of Tim tucking it in there countless times, and yeah, this time, too.

Tim's clothes, t-shirts and jeans, all of them...fine, careless pile but fine, and it's only them being outside that raises warning signals. Why? Jared doesn't know what Tim was wearing earlier, but he has a sinking suspicion he's looking at it. He stands up and shoves both phones in his pockets, ears and eyes straining for any hint of Tim being here or where he's gone.

Bent branches, but maybe he did that in his haste to follow the ringing of Tim's phone. He doesn't think he could follow a trail if it was made of M&Ms so why the fuck is he even trying when all he's got is a flashlight and a couple of broken twigs. He double-takes at the pile of clothes for about the fifth time, expecting them to vanish but they're still there, not a figment of his overactive and terrified imagination. He yells Tim's name, hoping for an answer that never comes and his heart sinks with each passing second. Trying to sort through the implications of the clothes leaves him blank, unless Tim is fucking one of his whores in Jared's yard. The thought hurts like fuck, even though it's so ridiculous that it can't be real.

Confusion feeds fear and panic which feeds into anger, he's caught on a never-fucking-ending loop of negative emotion. Seconds and minutes tick by as he stands still, not even trying to rationalize anymore because trying is making him crazier.

It's not a conscious decision. He doesn't think it through. It's nothing more than a deep-rooted need to do something that pushes him well into the trees. He has to stop this somehow, face it head-fucking-on, beat it into the fucking ground and make it bleed. It's darker the further he goes, branches catching and tugging his clothes and hair, scratching his face as he stumbles through the trees and weeds. He stops short when there's a sound to his right, maybe, or maybe further in front of him.

Jared lifts the baseball bat a little higher, "Tim? C'mon dude....gimme an idea where you are..."

Movement a couple of feet in front of him, a shadow too deep to be foliage darts sideways, a step too fast for him to follow with his eyes or the flashlight. Jared's voice cracks over Tim's name, personal safety forgotten as he half-runs, half-stumbles forwards towards it. Where the fuck is Tim? He has to be here, can't not be. Jared needs to find him and then everything will be ok, or as ok as it was when he called Tim the first time.

His heart thuds behind his rib-cage when he stops, the watched feeling threatens to steam-roll all other thoughts. Tim has to be nearby.

Jared tightens his grip on the baseball bat and the flashlight as a huff of warmth wafts on the back of his neck. Holy fuck. The rush of white-noise in his ears deafens him. Maybe he spins around first, or maybe the noise―animalistic growl―makes him, but it doesn't matter which happens first because they both happen.

Something reflects in the beam of the flashlight, utter blackness turning gray―fur―and...Jared's head snaps to the side, pain flares across his right cheekbone, darkness and a lone spotlight blurring, swirling before his eyes, vision tunnelling down. Every bone in his body shakes as he hits the ground, face up and all the breath leaves his lungs. A dull thunk on the back of his head snatches the rest of his consciousness away.

* * *

Here. Another. Trespasser. Shouldn't be. Mustn't. His territory. Not theirs.

Lips pull back from teeth in a silent snarl and he scents the air. They're wary, hiding, watching him, but he'll find them. Tear them to pieces. Bite until blood flows, claw until he rips through fur and skin, rend the flesh from their bones and listen to them scream while he feasts on human-wolf meat.

Heavy-human footsteps break the silence and disrupt his thoughts. His human. Can't be here, mustn't be here, but he is.

* * *

Awareness fights back slowly, achy, cold and damp. The pre-dawn chorus is so loud and shrill that it tears at the inside of his skull and rings in his ears. He turns his face away from the sun, and groans softly. Everything hurts. He can't decide if the pounding in his head is worse than the stabbing pain in his neck, or the blinding daylight. He catalogues every cramp and sudden twinge before he dares to open his eyes. The light is harsh and when the fuck did it get to be morning? He rethinks the eye-opening thing, alternates between screwing them up and blinking rapidly, easier.

Something is wrong. He knows that much. It's not until he opens his eyes that he realizes exactly how wrong. Time stops. His vision swims out of focus and it takes longer than keeping his eyes open before he recognizes what he sees. Unexpected doesn't begin to cover waking up in his back yard.

What. The. Fuck?

He sits up sharply, looking around in surprise. It takes his equilibrium a second or two to join him but when it does it hits hard and fast. Feels like a tribe of monkeys are cleaving his skull open with tableware. His stomach clenches and he swallows the saliva and bile pooling in his mouth. His throat tightens afterwards, or before...doesn't fucking know because goddamn thinking is agony. Can't say where the hurt begins or ends―he's almost certain it doesn't end―and he wills himself not to throw up.

Takes him three shaky breaths before he can contemplate moving, closes his eyes again because now he knows where he is, and it might help keep his brain inside his skull. Still, he can barely think past the sharp pain and rolling nausea. Standing takes more effort than getting up after a few rounds with Shannon at the gym. He manages, he's unsteady as fuck but he manages. A cool breeze makes him shiver, damp clothes becoming even colder as they stick uncomfortably to his skin, and he crosses his arms over his chest in an attempt to retain some warmth but it's useless. His legs are shaking, and it's a surprise they hold his weight after the first, second step. He stumbles, unsure if he's actually swaying, or if the tilting sensation is from his head swimming with pain.

How he gets back to the house without falling on his ass or drowning in the pool is a fucking miracle. Too-cheerful birds are still chirping, feels like they're stabbing his head with their beaks the whole way. Staggers towards the door and leans on it for a few moments in silent relief. His hand is stiff, cramped, and it's painful to curl his fingers around the door handle, if there's part of him that doesn't hurt he hasn't found it yet.

Jared kicks the door shut, using the counters for balance because there's only so long his legs are gonna hold strong. There's a pile of clean laundry in the corner and Jared strips out of his damp clothes before he grabs a clean pair of jeans and t-shirt. One of Shannon's hoodies is at the bottom of the pile and Jared takes that too, because looks warm and his t-shirt is thin at best, realistically, threadbare is a better description.

He's not any warmer, but he's dry which is infinitely better. One problem down and over a dozen more to go. He focuses on the easiest, one at a time, that's the way forward. Makes his way tentatively to the sink, turns the cold tap and cups his hands under it as he bends closer to drink. The water soothes the dryness, chases away the itch he hasn't even begun to feel yet.

Thirst quenched, Jared lets his cupped hands fill up before splashing the water on his face. Feels good, soothing, even though the water's colder than his skin, and he does it twice more before realizing this is as good as he's going to feel without painkillers and a fucking miracle. He braces his hands either side of the sink and lets the water drip from his face as he raises his head. It's definitely moving but the light is dim still, so...early. How early he doesn't know, but that's just something else to add to the list, right under what the fuck happened last night. It hurts to think, more than it hurts to just be. Confusion is easier but that won't help him piece together the answers, or the questions.

Memories return in fits and bursts, and each one makes the nearly dull ache in his head a little worse. Every thought, every remembered event, feels sluggish and he gazes into the back yard without really seeing anything. It takes longer than it should do for him to realize exactly what he's looking at; the yard is...not quite as he left it last night. More overgrown and haphazard than he remembers, patches of grass torn up, weeds flattened and the table and chair set laying on their sides.

Last time the yard looked anything like this...fuck, never. Wasn't like that last night, not when he went outside the first time, or the second time looking for Tim.

Shit, Tim.

The thought―memory really―prompts him to push away from the counter, head swimming as he stumbles on shaky legs towards his discarded jeans before dropping to his knees to fumble in the pockets. His stomach sinks as he pulls out both his own phone and Tim's. Fuck. He didn't imagine it, wasn't a concussed dream or paranoid delusion. Tim's phone means Tim's clothes were outside, which means...Tim has to be somewhere. Naked. Outside. A cold chill twists up his spine, stomach clenching in worry and it's like the breath has been stolen from his lungs. He can't move at first, frozen on his knees.

He has to do something, kneeling on the kitchen floor isn't doing anyone any good. Has to move. Has to get outside. Has to look for Tim. The list of things he 'has to do' goes on and on, spirals through his head and gradually pushes back the fug slowing him down.

His knees creak when he stands, followed by a wave of dizziness, and it's only by holding onto the kitchen counter that he gets upright and manages to stay there. It's three paces to the door, a couple more into the yard, and Jared's legs shake the whole way. The cold breeze does little to lessen the dizziness or nausea. He puts a hand on the wall to steady himself as his stomach rebels, clenches again and again, doubles him over and forces up watery acid and bile.

It might've been better if he'd eaten or drunk more, would've had something in his stomach to bring up, but the result would've been the same either way; wet eyes, snotty nose and a foul taste on his tongue. Jared twists around, leaning more than standing with his hack against the wall, and drags in a couple of deep breaths. Wipes his eyes then mouth on the sleeve of Shannon's hoodie. Fuck it, he'll wash it later. Stomach empty, his head is...better; thrumming rather than spinning and he's seeing straight for the first time since waking up.

He gets to the far side of the pool before he starts assessing the fucking mess of the yard, if there were tire tracks he could well believe someone drove a Monster truck through it. The bushes near the back are half-flat, trunks of some of the younger trees snapped completely. The grass was overgrown and patchy to start with past the decking, but it didn't look anywhere near as bad as it does now; big chunks scored through down to the earth, no sense of order, just chaotic patches fucking destroyed. Some marks visible, slices or cuts, so maybe a Monster truck with swords sticking out of the wheels and he covers his mouth with his hand, but the laugh he thinks he's holding back never comes.

Tim, he's looking for Tim. He pushes the hair back from his face with both hands and holds it there, as if that will somehow help as he scans the yard slowly. No sign of Tim, nothing that looks like Tim or gives any clue Tim was ever here, not on first glance. He supposes the lack of Tim's dead body is something to feel good about and the longer he looks without finding a dead Tim, the more chance there is of Tim not being dead. It makes sense in his pounding head, and it's pretty much the only thing that does. No disembodied limbs, or pools of blood that might, once upon a time, have been Tim. His sneakers scuff on the ground as he walks slowly into the yard and...it's getting easier, being upright and walking.

He makes a decent circuit of the yard, good enough that he's close to certain nothing, no one, is here, hiding or otherwise, but there's still no explanation for the mess. It's not quite as bad as he initially thought, no damage that won't fix itself in time, his first reaction probably more shock than anything else.

It's definitely not intentional midnight gardening that's for damn sure; squashed, bent and flattened rather than dug up or chopped down, the mess looks like a by-product of whatever happened but it's real, concrete, physical evidence something happened. He's not wrong, there was someone in the yard last night and he can prove it. He takes a few pictures on his phone, 'just in case' although he doesn't know 'just in case' what, seems like a good idea, maybe it'll magically disappear as swiftly as it happened. He heads back to the house, ignoring the baseball bat and flashlight lying in the middle of the wreckage, he'll get them later, maybe.

Clothes. Tim's clothes where he found Tim's phone, and he backtracks his hazy steps from last night, rounds the corner of the house and in daylight there's more space than he remembers. Jared walks the width of the house without seeing a pile of clothes, maybe it's just a little further, has to be here, but there's nothing.

Crouching and poking under the bushes leaves him with new stinging scratches on his arms to match the old, and a wave of dizziness when he stands up. There's no sign of Tim's clothes, not even a...fucking button or something. He loops around the entire house in case he'd been so disorientated when he found them that he had everything upside down and inside out in his head, but even as he does it, he knows it's wrong. He found the clothes first and then...what the hell happened after he passed out, got knocked out, whatever the fuck...only thing he knows for sure is that he was unconscious.

His heart's beating so fast it almost hurts, adrenaline and worry about all that's keeping him upright. Jared makes his way back through the yard, straight into the thick of the bushes, searching the ground for any sign of Tim. Branches scrape his arms and legs, swing back in his face and nearly hit him in the eye. Doesn't matter now anymore than it did last night, nothing matters except finding Tim or some clue what happened to him. The stinging scratches on his arms, the throbbing pain in his head and cheek, the way his legs are threatening to collapse under him, are just annoyances, things he needs to ignore as he searches.

Calling Tim's name is a last resort but he does it anyway. His voice sounds croaky, worn out and used up to his own ears, sounds about as bad as it hurts, Tim's name scratching up his throat and past the bile taste on his tongue. Another full lap of the yard, stumbling and struggling through undergrowth and overgrown bushes turns up nothing and Jared stands in the middle of the wrecked yard, eyes wide, confused, helpless, frustrated, aching, and dizzy.

He's losing his mind. Or something so close to it that it makes little difference. If he's not already crazy, he's going to be by the time it finally sinks in that everything he thought he knew doesn't match up with the physical evidence around him. Yard mangled, and Shannon's going to flip his shit whether Tim is dead or not. Realistically he'll be worse if Tim's dead because then they'll need a landscape gardener and a touring bassist. Tim's disappearing clothes is what throws him most, he's so fucking certain he remembers where they were. Either he's already crazy, or Tim came back for his clothes, or someone else took them. He's not sure which option is preferable, he doesn't want any of them to be true but one of them has to be. Crazy would be better. Crazy and deluded and stuck inside his own hallucination sounds a damn sight safer in the long run.

Despite everything, Jared feels saner than he has in years. There's something too real about the state of the yard for him to be imagining, hallucinating it and it's kind of terrifying. The sun isn't quite up, the shadows a little too long and the birds a little too loud for it to be anything but before seven AM. Jared knows he's looked everywhere, fuck, he squeezed between the larger trees and the fence in desperation and...nothing. Fucking bullshit, nothing.

His tries to think of 'normal' scenarios and possible reasons for the yard to be torn up, but Tim's clothes sans Tim doesn't fit into any of them, they keep throwing the proverbial monkey wrench in the works of his justifications to the point that he can't even half believe the lies he's spinning. Tim's phone that he's still got gives him physical proof in the sober light of day and he sort of wishes he hadn't found it. It would be easier to believe it's a vivid as fuck dream or hallucination, but he doesn't have that luxury.

It's almost a shock to be back in the kitchen, with little recollection of the last five minutes, but yeah, in he is. He stares at Tim's phone on the counter next to his own for a second or five, hits redial on his without picking it up. He dares Tim's phone not to ring, and it takes long enough he thinks it might not, but no, the screen lights up with Jared's name as the ringtone plays.

With a hand steadier than he feels, Jared cancels the call and picks his phone up to scroll through his contacts until he gets to 'Tim home'. He lets it ring as long as he can stand to hear it, just one more, so many times that if there's anyone at Tim's they can't fail to hear it. Of course yard-wrecking, kidnapping, stalker-murderers might not be inclined to answer the phone he supposes. He covers his eyes with one hand and tries to reign in his thoughts. He's starting to feel sick again. Tim wouldn't have been here if Jared hadn't called him, whatever happened it's Jared's fault for bringing Tim into it.

He hesitates over calling the police to report Tim missing, giving them a description...it's not been twenty-four hours so it's probably useless, regardless of the fact that it's what he should do. The neighbors can't have heard anything unusual and called the cops, or they'd be here and Jared wouldn't have spent most of the night lying in the fucking yard.

Hospital...he could call, ask if anyone fitting Tim's description has been admitted. He clings to the belief that Tim's not dead. He...he doesn't have enough space in his head for that as well. If none of it's real, then Tim can't be dead. Calling the hospitals makes it too real. Fuck, he wants to call Shannon because someone needs to tell him what to do, tell him it's all in his head and it'll be ok.

He's way beyond tired, the piercing ache in his head has faded to a throbbing back-beat, there but he can use his brain for other things. He has a lump that feels about the size of his fist, although it's probably a lot smaller, behind his ear. Throbs when he rubs the back of his neck, flinches away from his hand when he accidentally puts too much pressure on it. He's not ruling out concussion, but either way, he's in no shape to drive. Tim's not...anywhere, and Jared has to find him, so staying home isn't an option, doesn't even make it onto his mental list. He'll call a cab, it's not far to Tim's apartment and if there's no answer, he'll have to break in, seems to be the way his morning's going, shit not being answered.

With a sigh, Jared picks up both phones and put them in his back pockets, he doesn't know what to do and he doesn't dare leave Tim's phone anywhere, worry that his only proof will disappear into thin air. The weight of it, not that it's much, is more noticeable than it should be, implication and everything else on his mind maybe more than the physical. He wanders into the front room in a daze, walking for the sake of it, for something to do rather than any need or desire to be out of the kitchen.

There's a faint metallic click when he's halfway across the room and he turns towards it in confusion, what the hell is going on now? He recognizes the sound as a key turning in the lock after a few seconds. Cold fear spreads through his stomach like oil across water. Shannon's not due home until tomorrow and there's all of three other people who have a spare key. He doesn't have any real idea of time, but it can't even be seven, way too early for visitors, so who the fuck is outside? Coming inside. Breaking in, even if they do have a key.

Tim is the last of the three he expects to see opening the door slowly, and Jared is so still that he thinks for a second his heart stops, doesn't dare breath as he watches Tim look around before stepping inside. Jared doesn't remember moving, or deciding to, but he must have because his arms are around Tim, and he's clinging, face against the crook of his neck and breathing in his scent. "Fuck, thought you were dead," comes out as a sandpaper rough whisper and he clings tighter.

Next