Chapter Text
There’s… a man…
On the floor of his bedroom…
He’s soaked from the rain, the rain currently pelting Rhys’ open window, that was only partially open a moment before.
And he’s bleeding.
Rhys can see it melding into the puddles of rainwater and staining his wooden floorboards, like swirls of heavy red ink.
“Rhys! Are you all right?!”
His mother’s voice shakes him back into the present, his brown eyes meeting the piercing green and blue of the stranger’s. He looks wary, his nails digging into the ground as if he’s going to zombie-crawl his way to Rhys to tear his tongue out.
He can hear his mother begin to climb the stairs, and for some reason he’s not entirely sure of himself, he calls out to her before she gets too far.
“I-I’m fine…! Just… slipped off my bed!”
The man’s brow furrows in confusion, and Rhys almost gives him a shrug in response, a: ‘Hey I don’t know why I did that either!’
It’s quiet for a moment before his mom giggles, “Okay then, you better clean up your mess!” and Rhys’ eyes snap to the ceramic bowl with the remnants of his icecream. He looks back to the other man, both of them tensely silent as her footsteps fade back into the kitchen.
They awkwardly stare at each other for a long time, before the man huffs and rolls over with a pained grunt to face the ceiling. Rhys stays silent until he can’t stand it anymore.
“You’re… hurt.” He says unconfidently, as if it’s not obvious the man’s white shirt is blotched with red.
“No shit, Princess.” Is growled back.
Rhys falls back into silence, before he finally decides to stand up and stumble to his doorway. He glances back only once to see if the man has moved, before leaving his room to dash to the bathroom.
He scrambles as quietly as he can for the first aid kit, glancing at the hydrogen peroxide before doubling back to grab it. Arms now full like a late-night nurse, he tiptoes his way back down the hallway and to his cracked open door, pushing it open softly with his foot before freeing up an arm to lock it behind him.
The man still hasn’t moved. Is he even breathing?
Oh god. Is he dead?
“Are you having fun staring at me bleeding out or what, kid?”
Oh thank the sirens.
He shuts his open window before moving back to the man, setting down the first aid kit and peroxide next to one of the bathroom towels he brought in. The stranger peeks a wary eye open at the noise, trying to push himself up onto his elbows before hissing in pain.
“Don’t…” Rhys starts, moving a hand forward to push the man back down onto the floor. A sharp yelp is pulled from him when a large, calloused hand encompases his wrist and squeezes.
The man’s expression is murderous, untrusting and cold. The storm seems to add to the darkness of it, and Rhys’ skin prickles with goosebumps as his wrist screams in pain.
They sit like that for another long moment, as if challenging each other to move, before Rhys decides he’s had enough of it.
He grits his teeth and scowls back, hopefully just as threatening.
“I’m trying to help you.”
The man doesn’t look surprised, doesn’t even flinch, and Rhys worries for just a moment he’s going to get stabbed himself before the grip relaxes.
The man lets his already-bruising wrist go to lay back down onto the floor, breathing heavily through his nose and clenching his eyes shut tight. He must be in a lot of pain.
Rhys lets out a shaking sigh before assessing the body before him. The blood stain is larger since he last saw it, the lack of running water making it grow on his lower abdomen, otherwise he can’t tell if there are any further injuries.
He accompanied his mother during some surgeries but… he’s never performed one until now.
“I’m going to lift your shirt.” He says pointedly, but still moves at a careful pace. He’s not interested in getting his wrist broken, or catching this man by surprise.
He gently peels the shirt upwards from the damp skin, wincing at the gore before grabbing the bath towel to gently dab at the oozing wound. He can tell it’s a deep stab wound, and with that knowledge he quickly goes to work.
“How’s it look, doc?” The man says with a dry chuckle, eyes still closed with the pained smile on his cracked lips.
“Painful.” Rhys responds easily, and he can’t tell if the man scoffs at him or laughs. Probably both.
He begins to douse the towel with hydrogen peroxide, carelessly dropping the lid onto the floor as he narrates his process.
“This is going to sting but we need to keep it from getting infected. After this I’m going to use some gauze and I’ll need to stitch you up.”
The other doesn’t respond, still breathing through the pain with his eyes screwed shut. Rhys takes this as encouragement to continue, and he’s genuinely surprised when the man doesn’t grunt or hiss when he presses the towel back onto the wound.
He’s willing to bet it hurt more receiving it.
He’s silent again as he works, trying to focus with his full attention, and actually startles when the man speaks again after a long moment.
“So you in medical school or something?”
Rhys shakes his head before remembering the stranger isn’t even looking at him.
“No, I’m seventeen. I haven’t even graduated yet.”
The man’s eyes snap open, slowly looking down at the hands he’s probably trusting to save his life, before Rhys quickly goes to reassure him.
“My mom’s a nurse. So I know a bit. My dad gets cut up all the time.”
Rhys can’t help but crack a smile when the man immediately relaxes once more.
He puts aside the now bloodied towel, picking up his curved needle and suture with slightly trembling hands. He played confident, but all he has now is the knowledge of how to hand sew from a class in middle school. He doesn’t let the stranger feel this as he continues to play doctor, adjusting his position to sit more comfortably and closer. He gives a warning before beginning to stitch, wincing at the first couple of pricks and pulls before he finally gets a hang of it. It helps to pretend he’s simply repairing a torn teddy bear aside from a fleshy, human be-- don’t think about it.
For his first patient, the man is thankfully very still, and telling from how his life style is appearing to be Rhys isn’t too surprised.
He can’t help to compare himself though against this man in his tanned glory. He glances to his own bandaged finger… a papercut from his essay a few days ago.
He finishes up the length of the stitch in silence, remembering he forgot to bring scissors after having knotted it off, leaning down to use his teeth and break off the extra thread. He spits out with disgust, mentally noting to use extra mouthwash tonight, before flinching back as the man moves.
He sits up quickly with a grunt, holding up his shirt and looking down his body at the sealed wound, Rhys sticks out his hands and stutters out a fast response.
“Now, don’t move so much or you’ll…”
“I get it, kid.” The man growls, and Rhys huffs in offense at the sharp tone.
The man examines it a bit longer before dropping his shirt back down, groaning in pain as he now struggles to stand.
Rhys is up before him, scrambling backwards to his door with a panicked expression. He grabs the nearest object, a trophy from his softball team, and hides it behind his back. As if the plastic would hold against beating someone upside the head in self defense.
But the man just turns around unimpressed, really takes a look about the room as if for the first time, and then sighs with a partial shrug.
“You got a shower?”
A shower…?
“Uhh…” Rhys starts dumbly, unsure of what to say really.
“…Y-yeah just…” he gestures to his right, “…Down the hall and to your left.”
“Thanks.” Is all the other responds, and he marches forward, leaving Rhys to scramble to the side as he unlocks his door and leaves. Rhys stares at his back in shock as he glances both ways one time, before confidently making his way to the bathroom. Like he lives there.
He pokes his own head out as the bathroom door shuts, the light filtering underneath the doorway. He hears his mom laugh, turns to the other side just in time to see the top of his parents heads ascending the stairs.
The shower turns on as pulls himself back inside quickly, looking for somewhere to hide before jumping behind his door.
Wait… why is he hiding?
He turns to his window, looking at the puddle of blood and water.
Oh shit.
He prays to whatever god will listen, clasping his hands together and begging his parents to not look in his bedroom as they shuffle past, whispering something to each other as they make their way to their room.
Rhys startles when he hears the knocking down the hall. “Goodnight Rhys!” His mom calls out through the bathroom door.
Thankfully, the stranger doesn’t respond and his parents don’t push further, moving off into their own room and shutting the door behind them.
Rhys collapses right onto his ass, he also almost puts his hands on his face before he remembers they are stained with blood. He needs to clean up before he vomits everywhere.
It feels like hours when the man finally walks back in, one of Rhys’ plush blue towels draped about his shoulders. Rhys scowls at him, sweat dripping down his brow from scrubbing his floorboards so vigorously, and that towel is his favorite.
“Have a nice shower?” He asks, hoping his voice sounds genuine. He also gives the man a once over, wondering if he’s stolen anything while he was in there. Doesn’t seem like it.
The stranger shrugs in response, “Water pressure is a bit low, but sure.” He walks in further, looking about the posters covering Rhys’ wall and his room. He’s thrown back on his clothing, the blood in his white shirt drying to a dark and sickening brown.
Rhys wipes his forehead with his shirt sleeve, dropping his hands onto his lap with a content sigh. Thankfully, the stain on his floor is gone. He looks up suddenly, “Oh… while you were in there I…” The man turns to look at him, mouth full of bread and the bowl of stew in his other hand.
Rhys refrains from scowling.
“…Nevermind. Looks like you found it.” He begins to pile everything on the floor, quiet for a moment before the thought passes his mind. “Sorry if it’s cold, I can take it and reheat it.”
The man doesn’t respond, just chews noisily and stares at one of Rhys’ movie posters. Rhys takes a deep inhale through his nose for peace, and carries the supplies from the room.
He makes sure to throw the bloody towel away outside, buried under several bags of trash. The rain has slowed considerably, and he’s tempted to enjoy it before he remembers there is a possible fugitive in his room.
He jogs back up the stairs, opening his door and looking about the room before his eyes fall onto his bed. The man slurps up the remainder of his soup, legs crossed at the ankles as he drapes himself comfortably against Rhys’ star patterned pillows.
He stands there in his doorway for a moment, unsure if he should be angry or passive about such rude behavior. The man lowers the bowl and looks at him, giving him a half smile and raising it up in the air like he’s giving a toast.
Maybe both are good. Passive anger if you will.
“That’s… my bed.”
“I noticed.” The man replies, and makes no movement to move.
Rhys’ eyebrow twitches.
He makes his way to his large closet before he pulls out the spare mattress. It’s there for the nights Vaughn sleeps over, Rhys’ best friend, and it’s still beside some fresh sheets and pillow cases.
He sets it out on the floor, feeling the eyes of the man watching him as he moves back and forth, pulling out the blankets, setting it up comfortably, before he sits back with a huff.
He looks at the stranger on his bed.
“You can sleep here.” He says firmly, pointing down to the mattress there.
The man raises a surprised eyebrow.
“…You’re going to just talk to me like that?” He responds, and Rhys feels a spike of fear. Probably not the smartest thing to do.
But he holds strong.
“… I don’t need you bleeding on my bedsheets.”
They’re quiet again, staring each other down before the man finally gives a small shrug. Rhys sighs in relief.
They trade spots with no problems, Rhys struggling to not mutter angrily to himself at his damp pillows as he flips them to their other side.
He can feel the stranger staring again, so he looks up and stares back at him. He’s standing there beside the mattress, watching him with a suspicious expression.
“You know I could strangle you in your sleep, right?”
Rhys pauses.
“Yeah.” He replies before he goes on, voice level. “But I hope you don’t.”
The man’s eyes squint, his expression unreadable.
“You’re a freaking weird kid.” And then he lowers himself slowly down to the mattress, holding his side gingerly. He’s quiet for a long moment, almost thoughtful before he speaks again. “Trusting people is what will get you killed.”
“Is that what happened to you?” Rhys asks curiously, and the man doesn’t answer. Perhaps he went too far. He rolls back over to his other side, back facing the stranger.
…
….
He can’t sleep. There’s no way he can sleep.
“So… what’s your name?”
A grumble of annoyance this time before another bout of silence, to the point Rhys expects he won’t get an answer.
“If I tell you will you shut up?”
Rhys nods, his head rustling against his pillow.
Silence.
“… Jack.”
Rhys smiles.
“My name is Rhy—“
“I don’t care. Now shut up.”
He scoffs, rolling to glare in offense but the man doesn’t so much as budge. He pulls the sheets up under his chin, his bed squeaking as he adjusts with an irritated growl underneath his breath. “Asshole.”
***
He doesn’t know when or how, but he must have managed to fall asleep, because next thing he knows his eyes are opening to see an empty bedside mattress, and a room full of light.
He sits up and rubs the fatigue from his eyes, hearing some clattering in the kitchen.
… wait. Clattering in the kitchen?
Another glance to his guest’s bed shows it empty, and his stomach sinks with terror.
He sprawls quickly out of bed, blankets and stuffed animals flying as he races to the door and down the stairs.
His mom is never home in the mornings, always gone for an early shift at the hospital or running errands, and there is no way it’s his father.
So it has to be him.
He grabs the baseball bat by the banister.
What is the other man doing? Grabbing a knife? Stealing their silverware?
He rounds the corner and freezes.
Jack is standing there indeed, newspaper in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.
He looks up at Rhys after a moment before down at the bat.
“… and what’s that supposed to do, cupcake?”
Rhys’ embarrassment flushes all the way to his ears as he sets the bat carefully onto the floor. “I just… I thought you were…”
Jack raises an eyebrow, and Rhys just decides to stop speaking altogether. He lets out a sigh of relief, adrenaline still pumping through him as he trudges his way to the fridge. Grabbing the milk and some cereal, he goes about his usual morning routine.
Which is… odd… considering the stranger there in his kitchen.
He stares at him closely in the sunlight, taking in his chiseled features, the small goatee on his face, a long and arching scar that comes up his forehead and down to his cheek. He wonders how he didn’t really notice it before? Well… he had, but he was more concentrated on the giant stab wound in the man’s gut.
Speaking of.
“How’s your… uh…”
“It’s fine.” The man growls, flipping the newspaper and taking a sip of steaming coffee. Is he really even reading it?
“You should still go to a hospital,” Rhys says, “Just to make sure there’s no internal damage.”
“I know what to look for, I’m fine.”
Rhys pouts. When he opens his mouth to speak again, the mug is slammed down onto the countertop along with the newspaper before Jack is marching past the fridge and to the front door.
Rhys stumbles from his chair, rushing to follow. “Where are you going?”
“What does it look like? I’m leaving.” Jack responds, looking through the jackets hanging by the door before grabbing one of Rhys’ dad’s leather jackets.
And Rhys doesn’t know how to respond to that, because of course the man isn’t going to stay, and if anything he’s thankful he’s leaving.
“Oh.” Is all he says, and Jack pulls open the front door with a grunt, a hand going to his side.
But something makes him pause.
Rhys waits.
Is he going to say thank you… or?
Jack turns, barely looking over his shoulder.
“See you around, kiddo.” And then the door is shut behind him, leaving Rhys to stand there in the silence.
****
The rain reminds him of that day, that day several years ago.
He stares at the shadow lurking under a far tree, the light glow of a cigarette. He doesn’t recognize the stranger, not entirely, just another face attending his parent’s funeral.
A hand gently grabs his shoulder, drawing his attention back to the two black caskets scattered with red roses and funeral lilies. He can smell them even in the pouring rain, it makes him sick.
“… deliver us from evil. For the kingdom, the power and the glory are yours. Now and forever. Amen.”
“Amen.” The crowd repeats, and the hand on his shoulder gives an empathetic squeeze before it pulls away. He doesn’t bother seeing who its owner is, his eyes locked back onto where his parents rest.
Does he even have any tears left?
A mist rolls in as people hug the last remaining Strongfork, words of encouragement and grief as they give their condolences.
Murdered. In cold blood. In a case that was cold before there was even an autopsy.
The whispers.
Maybe his father got too cocky, got too deep into… something…
Rhys sniffles, wiping the snot on his sleeve. Apparently he does have more tears left.
****
His concept of time is lost after that, what feels like years is only a couple of weeks. He finds himself in his father’s office. It has been left untouched since his death, papers and files scattered across the desk top, a full trash can, the old worn out sofa just across the room.
The crowd behind him is silent, the only sound is someone clearing their throat. Only twenty years old and in charge of the Atlas Detective Corporation? This never even happened in his worst nightmares.
The silence is broke again by his father’s executive assistant, Marco.
“Take your time, Rhys. If you need anything we will be just outside, okay?”
Rhys doesn’t turn or respond, listening as the crowd files out of the room and closes the door behind them.
The silence is suffocating, the walls seeming to stare down at their new occupant. Rhys looks dejected about the room, the feeling of familiarity being drowned out by the unnatural emptiness. It was as if the ghostly presence of his father still was lingering here.
Rhys can almost see his younger self dashing about the room holding his wooden airplane, his mother chasing him open armed while his father angrily demands she grabs him before he hurts himself.
He remembers his father sitting him on his knee and showing him his hologrammed computer screen, pointing out the key details that were important in case files, what to look for in someone’s expression and background, how to piece together a puzzle that was missing most of its pieces.
His mother, rocking his small sleeping form gently on that worn, old sofa adjoining the left wall. Where she hummed the tune his music box played to him on the nights he struggled to sleep.
The memories dissipate into a thick layer of dust, bringing Rhys back to the empty office that was once previously his father’s. He rounds the desk and pulls out the chair, sitting down calmly and placing his thumb on the small scanner located by the projector. It comes to life, opening the main screen and asking for the secured password.
Rhys unfolds the small note from his pocket, the password scribbled across it in Marco’s handwriting. Rhys swallows the lump in his throat, trying to keep from tearing up again as he enters the password onto the orange projected keyboard:
rhys_strongfork.
While his father rarely told Rhys he loved him, it was in small ways like this it was expressed.
The screen unlocks, immediately pulling up open files and tabs from recent homicides to missing pets. Rhys briefly glances through them before flicking his wrist to close them. He tries to calm the small irritated part of himself at how unorganized his father was, stopping at the small note left at the very back of the cluttered desktop:
“Rhys, I’m afraid we’ve gotten in too deep this time. If you’re reading this, then it means we’re no longer with you.”
The world around him slows as he sits on the edge of the chair, eyes reading and skimming the note at a quickening pace.
“Don’t go looking for them, or they WILL find you. Take care of Atlas for us, your mother and I have done everything we can to prepare you for this.
Stick to your files, don’t go digging deeper than you’re supposed to.
We’re so proud of how you’ve grown, and are so thankful to have you as our son. Keep your head low and your friends close. We love you.
Dad”
Rhys’ ears begin to buzz, his vision clearing and his eyes widening. He leans back in his chair, millions of thoughts and questions running through his head at once. Who? What? Where there was sadness, there was only excitement. Where there was hesitancy, there was determination.
Where there should have been fear, there was only resolve.
Rhys stood suddenly, wiping everything off his father’s desk and onto the ground, arms passing through the holographic screen as pencils and pens clattered to the floor. He grabbed the full trash bin, tossing in the blank and solved files, scraps of torn papers and crumbs falling into the bin and onto the rug beneath his feet.
After a few minutes of frenzied cleaning, he opened his door, ignoring the shocked gasps as the people crowding around quickly backed up to give him room. Without acknowledging them he set the full bin outside the door before slamming it back shut.
He marched back to the desk, his once kempt hair falling into his eyes as he returned to his father’s old chair.
After saving his father’s final note, he went to the computer’s settings. The wallpaper was changed from the grey toned background to lines of flickering faux code, the projected keyboard switching from a bright orange to an electric blue.
He grinned almost maniacally returning to the main settings and changing the computer’s password:
Rhy$_Winz