Chapter Text
There’s a look people have when they get out of the hot springs. Salt-scrubbed and sleepy. And she has it in spades; the smoky, slightly turned smell of the sulfur waters following her into the coffee shop, wafting like steam off the pools. He can tell she’s a tourist by the way her skin is an almost scalded pink. People tend to get like that after their first dip. His own skin turned the same embarrassing shade of fuchsia his first dip in the mineral springs back in early March. It’s a dead giveaway. And besides, he’s never seen her before. Which doesn’t necessarily mean all that much in a ski town like this but she’s got too slight a build to be hiking this late in the season and all the slopes have been shut down over the weekend on account of the blizzard. Most of the skiers headed home at the first sign of weather. But she might be staying for a while – more than the average tourist at least – because The Hanged Man isn’t the kind of place most tourists accidentally stumble onto.
It’s across the river from the springs, so close you can sit outside in the summer and watch the bathers, but it’s tucked down a steep little drive, hidden in the alleyway back behind the town’s sad, brutalist DMV. Not exactly the friendliest looking spot, especially with the tall snowdrifts littering the narrow little parking lot that afternoon. Cullen takes a sip of his coffee and pages through the book he borrowed from Rylen. Some kind of crime procedural he hasn’t really managed to get into. He’s read the last few lines at least a dozen times now and finally admits defeat, closing it and turning his attention, as covertly as he can, back to the woman. She’s been standing in the middle of the café for a little too long, looking a little lost, before she finally straightens up, shivering a little and heads to the counter. Some of her hair is tangled up in her scarf, the ends curling from where she’d gotten them wet in the springs. It looks just a touch red in the light. He watches her lean down, watches her read the menu once, twice, before she looks up at the barista.
The owner keeps Jim working the midday shifts because that’s when the shop is the slowest. He’s a nice guy, just a little weird. Cullen sees him at NA meetings every so often, he mostly keeps to the back, hasn’t once shared. They, obviously, don’t talk about that in the café. But today Jim’s awkwardness is bumping up hard against this woman’s obvious nerves and Cullen tries not to eavesdrop on their halting conversation. But he can’t help himself.
“Just some coffee,” she says in a voice almost too quiet for him to hear, nails drumming nervously on the counter. Cullen takes a sip of his own coffee and tries to pretend he isn’t interested. And he’s not, not really. He’s had a hell of a night and any distraction is welcome. And she’s cute and she’s new and even if dating is so far off his table that he can barely imagine it, he can’t really take his eyes off her. She looks wildly out of place here. Like he must have when he first showed up.
He doesn’t catch her name when Jim takes it for the reward’s program – another surefire indication that she’s more than just passing through – but Cullen watches as she fusses with the creamer, fingers trembling a little, spilling it over the side of her mug. She curses, brushing her hair back from her face, dragging a little foam from the mug through it.
Cullen’s own hands are always shaking these days, just the slightest tremor. His shrink thinks it’s psychosomatic because it’s never a problem at work. He doesn’t much care what it is as long as it doesn’t interfere with his job. Besides, he’s tired of thinking about it, tucks his narrow paperback into the pocket of his coat and stands, rolling his sore shoulders. The woman glances up at him, apparently noticing him for the first time, but quickly turns her attention back to her coffee.
Cullen nods to Jim behind the counter and heads out into town, pulling his coat a little higher around his neck. He’s still in his tactical snow boots and what was barely a consideration earlier in the day now feels almost unbearably heavy as he starts up the steep alleyway toward Main Street. The weather, at least, is improving. There’d been soft flurries all morning, the gentle remnants of last night’s whiteout conditions. The sky’s a dull feather grey, obscuring the sun, and the sidewalks thick with slush, the temperature hovering just above freezing. Miserable, actually. Cullen thinks he might prefer the blizzard.
Cullen ducks around the ski shop, notes that they’ve closed a little early today, same as the bakery though he catches a whiff of that distinct scent of rising bread through a barely cracked window. He passes a long row of touristy shops. The kind where you can buy little bottles of gold leaf and cheap knockoffs of Native American beadwork. One has an embossed wood sign in the window. The Mountains are Calling and I Must Go. He tries not to roll his eyes. He’s pulled too many young tech types from Denver out of snowdrifts this ski season to not feel just a little bitter about a sign like that.
There’s fewer tourists than usual out on the streets. The blizzard saw to that, but it’s still a quiet relief when he turns onto his street, heading just a couple blocks up off the little row of shops. A sharp wind rolls in off the peaks and Cullen tucks his hands into the pockets of his coat, keeps his head down. A headache’s been working its way into his temples all afternoon. He’d tried to keep it at bay with the coffee, but, in all honesty, he’d expected this. He’s been up all night. The powers that be opened the pass yesterday afternoon even with a blizzard forecasted and the snow getting heavier with each passing minute. It left emergency response scrambling to prepare for the worst. Avalanche mitigation left the cliff faces mostly stable, but Cullen had his team ready to go in case some out of towner without snow tires skidded off the narrow mountain pass and took to wandering to forested gulches looking for help. There hadn’t been any incidents and thank the Maker for that, but Cullen’s still stiff as a board, feeling brittle and sore. But he can’t blame how shitty he feels all on work. He knows, even if he can’t really admit it to himself, that the headache is mostly his own doing. His doctor has him on a strict naltrexone regimen and he’s been skipping doses. He knows it’s probably that macho bullshit he picked up on deployment, but hell, he really is convinced he can muscle this one out on his own. Hopes that, at the very least, a little self-awareness is worth something. Doesn’t seem to be the way his body has been rioting the past couple weeks. There’s an itch behind his eyes that feels sometimes almost feral. The pounding in his head sometimes so intense he’s not sure he’s gonna be able to take the pain another minute. But his headache today isn’t of that variety, as far as he can tell. Thank the Maker. Cullen hunkers down as another icy wind comes rolling down the road, the sun just slipping under the horizon, spreading blue darkness out across the streets. He’ll make himself another stiff cup of coffee when he gets home, he’ll take a long, hot shower to work the kinks out. Warm thoughts to keep the wind at bay.
Rylen doesn’t greet him when he comes in, but Carroll does. The Saint Bernard comes rushing up to the door, nearly knocking him off his feet. “He’s in a mood.” Rylen calls from his spot on the couch.
Cullen bends down to rub the slobbering pup behind his ears, wincing a little as the movement reignites a pain in his shoulders. “Did you take him out?”
“Let him run around the backyard yeah.” Their backyard is barely big enough for the poor dog to turn around in.
Cullen frowns. “So you didn’t take him for a walk then?” Rylen waves him off and, for once, Cullen lets him. Rylen was up over on the pass when the blizzard hit, one of the crews doing avalanche mitigation. They’ve both had long nights. Cullen can see the bags under his eyes from across the room. His own weariness sitting heavier on him now.
Cullen relinquishes the dog with a soft pat to his head and winds around the couch into the kitchen. The house is dim, just the soft glow from the tv and fridge, a single line of warm light coming in from a lamp in the entryway. He pauses at the side of the couch, glancing at the TV. Rylen’s watching the weather, watching as fresh blizzard warnings tick across the screen. Red Mountain Pass is closed with no reopening date, and their own pass, Wolf Creek, has been closed again too. There’s gonna be a lot of fussy tourists in town tomorrow, angry that they’re either gonna have to hunker down or spend the rest of their long weekend skirting around the mountains toward the New Mexico border just to try and get back onto an open road toward Denver. “Leave work at work.” Rylen just snorts. Cullen checks his phone in his pocket, makes sure the sound’s on. He’s technically got the night off, but they’re a skeleton crew out here and he’s got the most training.
Cullen opens up the fridge, stares at its contents unseeing until he blinks himself back down to earth. It’s pretty bare. Eggs, milk, a few of Rylen’s beers tucked in behind the ketchup. Cullen grabs a leftover container, sniffs the food, then, deciding it doesn’t smell too ripe, plops it into the microwave. He notes a few splotches of whatever frozen dinner Rylen’s eating on the microwave door and calls back over his shoulder. “Anyone ever teach you to cover your damn plate before you nuke it?”
“Nope, you’re the only mom I’ve got, Rutherford.” Cullen scoffs, rummaging around in their pantry for a bag of chips, something salty to fill his stomach. “Met a girl last night.”
He glances over at the couch. “Good for you.”
Rylen laughs. “Not like that. Up on the pass.”
Cullen pops a couple chips into his mouth. They’re a little stale. “We didn’t get any calls.”
“She wasn’t hurt. Just kind of panicked.” Rylen takes a messy mouthful of his tv dinner. “Said she was from LA, actually. First time she’d ever driven in snow.”
Cullen shakes his head. “Andraste’s grace, that’s bad luck.
“I know. Poor thing was shaking like a leaf.”
“I’ll bet.” Cullen sets his bag of chips down by the microwave. The tv blares a winter weather advisory and Rylen reaches for the remote to mute it. “Why didn’t she just hunker down over in Alamosa for the night. Hell of a lot safer than braving the pass.”
Rylen shrugs. “Not sure. Seemed to be in a bit of a hurry.”
“Huh”
“She was cute.”
Cullen frowns. “Not interested. Quit trying to set me up.”
Rylen laughs. “Who said anything about you? Maybe I’m gonna move in on this little damsel in distress.”
“Charming, really charming.” Rylen snorts. They let it drop, filling the silence with loose small talk. Weather this, local gossip that between bites until Cullen’s brain is pounding a hole in his skull. He rinses his dishes in the sink then bids Rylen goodnight.
“Oh,” Rylen says, looking at him from over the back of the couch, “got a letter from your sister today. Left it in the entryway.”
Cullen pauses at the bottom step. His headache doubles down. “Thanks, man.”
“Who even writes letter these days, shit,” he hears Rylen say over the TV.
The cool cloth has helped some, even if a few stray drops have come running down the bridge of his nose into his eyes. His head feels better, but his chest is tight again. That sort of bottomless feeling he’s been getting lately, ever since he stopped using, worse now in the dark cold of the winter. It should be better, he thinks, the winter. It’s so different than Afghanistan’s dry heat. But it isn’t. The darkness must be getting to him and it’s suddenly very hard to breathe. Cullen hears Carroll nudge open his bedroom door, feels his bed dip as the heavy dog settles at his feet. His arrival does nothing to dull the panic. So familiar that it’s more infuriating than frightening but it still pulls him under. He inhales on ten, exhales on ten. It gets harder each time. He kneads his temples, the sudden desire to run warring with the heaviness in his limbs. “Stop.” He says out loud. The word hangs in the quiet stillness of his bedroom. He is in the Springs. He is home, in his own bed. There is nothing dangerous here in his bedroom. There is nothing he needs to fight. Carroll shifts until his back is against Cullen’s leg. Cullen reaches down, lets the dog’s soft fur bury his fingers. They won’t stop trembling.