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A few days. The kid had promised him it would only be for a few days.
Nowhere's as safe as your bunker, Dutch, he'd said with his hang-dog eyes and his big frame hunched awkwardly in the doorway. Just keep an eye on him until we're sure Faith didn't get to him the way she got to the Marshal. Then I'll drive him right back to the jail myself, scout's honor.
And take Dutch for a fool, he'd agreed.
Now he's staring down the barrel of day six with Earl Whitehorse in his bunker and no end in sight. Cultists and what have you tearing up the county outside, but here's the sheriff: sleeping on Dutch's ratty old couch under a heap of spare quilts and doing fuck all.
Dutch is unapologetically sour about it.
A man needs his privacy, dammit.
A man needs his space.
That in mind, he stomps more than necessary down the hall this morning. To warn Earl that he's awake and coming through on his way to the kitchen. Nobody wants to catch an eyeful of anyone in a compromising position like sleep. Even if they are covered ears to toes in blankets.
Lucky for Dutch's peace of mind, Earl is awake before the light switches on.
"Good morning," he says, his eyes soft and sleepy-squinting as he peers over the back of the couch. He's got ridiculous wisps of hair floating around his head.
Dutch just grunts, headed for the coffeemaker. He's never been much of a 'good morning' person. And he don't care much for folks that are.
Don't care for most folks period. That's Dutch. He's an ornery son of a bitch and he's proud of it.
But Dep isn't a good judge of character and, unable to refuse the kid's sad act, Dutch somehow found himself roped into babysitting. Just in case the sheriff flips his lid and goes on a brainwashed rampage. Good old Dutch will take care of it.
Good old Dutch.
Dumping a mug's worth of water into the electric coffeemaker, he contemplates the grumpy prospect of yet another day with unwanted company. Worse: polite unwanted company. Earl hasn't given him an excuse to kick him out yet.
But politeness isn't why Dutch ends up measuring out a second mug for coffee. He curses himself the whole time. How Earl Whitehorse takes his coffee is too personal a fact to be known. There's no help for it though, and Dutch adds the extra water to the machine with a scowl.
He can hear the creak of old couch springs as Earl stretches, and his faint sigh. Disturbing the peace, that's what this is. Dutch retrieves the coffee grinder with an aggressively loud bang of the cupboards.
It's even worse that Earl respects his morning routine. He stays on the couch and refrains from offering to help grind the beans or any nonsense. Dutch can't stand having people underfoot while he's working. Kitchen's too small not to be tripping over each other and, after the first few times he'd been brusquely turned down, Earl stopped asking.
Dutch scowls so hard that he breaks into an unexpected yawn.
Shaking the fresh coffee grounds into the machine's filter, he hits the button angrier than normal. Glaring at an old stain on the pot as the water begins to hiss and bubble.
He's not properly awake before his first cup. His son used to joke about it all the time.
Dutch scowls and bangs his way into frying up the last of the bacon. Not like he can blame his family for leaving. He'd been no good at it, any of it, not even back then. And having Earl around is just as bad as having Dep pestering him at all hours. Dutch doesn't need the hassle.
But he still makes enough breakfast for two.
The scent of fresh coffee is enough to lift his dark mood a little, and he leaves the eggs sizzling beside the bacon while he gets his first cup.
The burned-bitter taste hits him with a welcome jolt of wakefulness. Fortified, Dutch turns around to confront his houseguest.
If Faith really had twisted Earl up on the insides of his brain, then Dutch is going to be in for a damn sight of trouble one of these days.
But Earl isn't doing anything more sinister than sitting on the end of the couch, cleaning his glasses with a corner of an old handkerchief. Dutch sips his coffee, watching until Earl yawns - the expanding of his ribs visible through the thin cotton of his sleep-shirt.
Burning his mouth on the coffee, Dutch pours a second cup and carries it over. Clearing his throat to announce himself. Earl straightens, shoving the glasses up his nose to blink near-sighted at Dutch.
"You feel like murderin me in the name of the Father today?" Dutch asks dryly, holding the cup just out of reach.
"No." Earl smiles, eyes crinkling up at the corners. "But I might do it for that cup of joe."
"Ha ha," Dutch says sarcastically. But he hands the coffee over.
Then he catches sight of Earl's bare feet peeking out from underneath the blankets and retreats back into the kitchen. Things are getting a little desperate on the homefront.
He flips the eggs over so hard they break, gold yolk spattering against the cast iron. Cursing, he gives up and scrambles them. Then he has to turn the bacon and keep it from getting mixed into the eggs.
Cooking makes it easier to ignore the noises Earl makes as he stretches over by the couch. Showing off how kind the years have been to his joints.
Dutch rubs at a crick in his own neck, and wonders if he shouldn't swallow his pride and read that yoga book collecting dust in the back of his bookshelf. But it'll be a cold day in hell before he cracks it open with Whitehorse in the bunker. Nobody needs that kind of embarrassment.
Leaving an extra plate warming by the stove, he serves himself up a helping of bacon and eggs and goes to sit at the table.
"Breakfast's ready," he says. "If you want some."
"Be right there," Earl says cheerfully, moving on from stretches to push-ups.
He's likely to crack his head on the end-table, but that ain't Dutch's business. Keeping his eyes on his plate, he takes refuge in grumpiness and a forkful of scrambled eggs.
After an uncomfortably long time, Earl wanders into the kitchen to fetch his food.
"Thanks for breakfast, Dutch, this is mighty kind of you," he says as he dishes up his own serving.
Dutch just grunts.
The wooden spatula raps loud against the side of the pan as Earl cleans it off. Dutch sips his coffee. Lost for a minute in other mornings, with his son and daughter-in-law and grandson around the table. Before he messed that up as bad as his marriage.
Then Earl sits down across from him and the table gets smaller again. But not in a bad way. He smiles, steam fogging up his glasses as he sips his coffee. Dutch hides behind his own cup.
There's only so much accidental intimacy a man should have to handle in the morning.
They eat in silence. Earl working on an old book of crosswords while Dutch gives his to-do list a going over.
He's due to check in with the Wolf's Den. And it's Sunday, so Mary May will be leaving a delivery of supplies down by the docks. There's a host of little things around the bunker as well: laundry, a leaky pipe, some general tidying up. Just because all hell's broken loose outside don't mean that the filter in the fish tank is getting any cleaner.
Dutch finishes his bacon before it goes cold. He's going to need those fish around for company when Earl gives up this 'might be brainwashed' nonsense and goes back to pissing off other people in other parts of the county.
Dutch isn't going to miss him.
Things here are supposed to be quiet. Solitary. just the way he likes them.
Besides, the sheriff should be leaving soon enough. Feeling him accidentally bump Dutch's foot under the table, he can't credit the idea that there's anything sinister at work. Earl's gotta be wrong. The only thing he's in danger of turning into is an even bigger menace to Dutch's peace of mind.
He's so damned nice.
"I got the dishes, Dutch. It's only fair."
He has to object to that one. "You don't know where any of them go."
"I've been here almost a week now, I think I remember where things are," Earl says with that easy drag to his smile. "You really going to turn down the first shower?"
"Alright, have it your way."
Flustered for no good reason, Dutch retreats into the shower. Cussing out the pipes when they sputter cold for the first minute. Nothing like a face full of freezing water to clear things up.
Swearing at the cheap swindler who sold him the water heater, Dutch puts his mind off of how thoroughly Whitehorse has invaded, set up camp, and made himself at home in his morning routine.
Course, that only works up until he runs smack into Earl again outside of the washroom.
"What's your hurry, citizen," Earl asks with a crinkled grin.
Dutch grumbles with embarrassment, flushed hot from the shower and tugging at his shirt to make sure he's decent. But Earl is already past him and closing the door to take a shower of his own. Cagey bastard.
Feeling foolish, Dutch stops staring at the door and gets on with his day.
He starts with checking in to see who survived the night.
"Dutch to Eli, over."
"Hey, Dutch! This is Wheaty and the Whitetails!" a chipper young voice answers him. "Let me go get Eli for you."
While he waits, Dutch checks over his maps. Trying to put together a picture of where today's bad news might strike. With the Henbane liberated, mostly, there might not be so much.
But high hopes don't build houses, so Dutch keeps his expectations low.
"Eli here. Go ahead, Dutch."
"Hey, Eli. Checkin in on the Wold's Den. You seen that niece of mine lately?"
"Saw her a few days ago," Eli says with reassuring certainty. "I'll put the word out for her to get in touch, if you like."
"Nah, don't bother." Dutch rubs his temple. Jess knows how to take care of herself. "Rest of your people holding up okay?"
The two of them go on for a few minutes, comparing notes and updates, then sign off. Dutch calls the Marina next. Then Pastor Jerome, the FANG Center, the Ryes. It goes on like that for well over an hour: a revolving roll call of who's where and how's it going?
Today is a good day. Everyone answers his calls.
A message even comes in for Earl from the Jail, where old Minkler and Tracey are sorting out some disagreement. Dutch jots it down and sets it aside with the other notes for Earl.
He's starting to collect quite a pile. More than a few questions and updates have been left for the sheriff at this point. Dutch doesn't know how he turned into an answering machine for the law. But he doesn't like it.
So, when Whitehorse ambles in from his shower, with his hair drying and staticky in the cold of the bunker, Dutch is already on edge.
"How're we looking?" Earl asks.
Dutch shoves the messages over with an unsociable grunt.
Giving up his seat at the radio, he heads over to the map on his wall. Jacob's making a push in the Whitetails, sweeping down the Moccasin River. But with the Henbane clearing up, and Dep gunning for John's territory, things are looking up. Dutch tags the outposts the kid had mentioned. He'll keep an ear out for reports and pass along whatever's useful.
In the background, Earl gets on with his own work. Dutch scowls at his map.
Folks don't come to him to fix their problems. He's more likely to give them a kick towards solving it themselves, and that's just fine. He don't hold with being bossy. Look at the cult: wanting to be told how to live so bad they couldn't shit except on command.
Call Dutch old fashioned, but there's being neighborly - and then there's sticking your nose into other people's business uninvited.
Earl shuffles through the papers, giving casual instructions to people everywhere from the Jail to Fall's End. The long arm of the law reaching right out from Dutch's bunker. He jabs a set of pins into outposts with unnecessary force.
He would like Earl a lot better if he wasn't sheriff.
"That's it for me," Earl says, stretching and straightening from the radio. "Thanks for letting me borrow your set-up, Dutch, it's pretty nice."
"Ahuh," Dutch grunts, stabbing another pin into the map.
He doesn't see Earl leave, just notices a while later that he's gone.
The room feels emptier without him.
Dutch thinks he's done a pretty good job of shoring up his defenses by lunchtime.
Earl, of course, sees right through him.
"You and Rook seem to be planning to do quite a number in the valley," he remarks, carrying a bowl of carrot sticks over to the table. "You sure it's wise to rile things up so soon after taking down Faith?"
"If you're worried, you try talking him out of it," Dutch grumbles as his cheese sandwich and reheated coffee. "Kid's stubborn as they come. Not to mention reckless. He would still be wearing that target-shaped badge if I hadn't talk him out of it."
Smiling, wearing a sheriff's star of his own, Earl nudges the bowl of carrots in his direction.
But all he says is, "Like you were never young and stupid. You think I don't know who was behind those Clutch Nixon stunts? After all the idiots I had to arrest for reckless endangerment trying to beat those records, I outta haul you in for being a bad influence."
"Get a warrant, sheriff," Dutch says, leaning back in his seat. "Whoever Clutch Nixon was, he retired years ago. You can't prove nothin."
Earl points a carrot stick at him, laughing, "Whoever he was, I've got a junior deputy giving him a run for his money. You know he beat the record for the Mooseknuckle Run last week. With flying colors, I hear."
"Getting a little smug around the mustache for something you didn't do," Dutch taunts him.
"Mm, maybe not but I like to fancy myself a good influence."
The man goddam winks at him.
Dutch takes a long sip of coffee. He's too old to fluster. The warmth on his face is just curling steam from the mug. He's not hiding behind it.
But Earl always did get him hot under the collar.
When they first met, Dutch had been at a low point. Feeling abandoned and bitter, drowning his loneliness in booze and bar-fights. More than ready to take it out on the new, out-of-town sheriff who was just a little too eager to flash the gun on his belt.
They'd started out butting heads over everything from politics to prepping, and would've kept right on that way if Joseph Seed hadn't plopped his fuck-ton of family issues down in the middle of their stomping grounds.
Swirling the dregs in the bottom of his mug, Dutch reflects on how times have changed.
Earl has better things to do than keep up with an old grouch like him. And Dutch has learned the wisdom of lying low and digging in hard. They haven't seen each other much in the past year. Not since the Project started fucking things up in earnest.
Dutch downs the last of his coffee, grimacing at the grainy taste.
Now look at them: two worn-down old men with joint pain and regrets, forced to leave the future in the hands of younger idiots.
But, as Earl slides a couple of carrots onto his plate with a teasing grin, Dutch can't find it in himself to do more than grumble.
There are worse people to share a bunker with.
"You sure about this?" Dutch asks as Earl leans against the table in the radio room.
"I know how to work a radio, I'll be fine," Earl waves him away. "What I don't know is where this secret dead-drop supply box of yours is hidden. So let me hold down the fort here, and you go see what Mary May's got on tap this week."
Dutch peels himself away from his station reluctantly.
"And anyway," Earl says, following him out, "I think I know my way around your system well enough by now. Though I wouldn't say no to getting to know it a little better."
There's enough mischief in his eye that Dutch thinks maybe ... but he's too old to kid himself.
So he puts it out of his mind and lets Earl herd him down the hall to the hatch.
"Call me if you hear from anybody. And don't go openin the door unless it's me. Not a lot of people know about this place. I aim to keep it that way."
Earl looks a little surprised, passing him the shotgun and helping him open up the door.
"I thought everyone knew where you holed up."
"Most folks know I'm on the island, but I try not to lead them right to the door." Dutch shrugs and squints in the bright sun coming through the door. "There's a reason I gave you my address in person."
"I thought that reason was the rain water complaint," Earl grins at him over the rim of his glasses. "You know, the one where you kept tearing up the forms at the station."
Dutch snorts, still bitter. "Got a right to collect my own damn water on my own goddam property."
"Well, I can't exactly argue with what I've been drinking the last few days."
"You bet your ass you can't."
Dutch heaves the hatch shut before Earl can come up with a smart remark.
Shotgun at the ready, he heads down the dirt trail to the docks. He used to go into town once a week for his groceries. But when the trouble started, he worked out a deal with Mary May to get them delivered down to the old boathouse. Took a bit of talking and a bit of fixing up the old lockbox hidden out there, but it was worth it.
Dutch frowns at the lake, visible between the trees. The air is fresher out here, but it won't be a comfort if he gets shot by peggies. He don't strictly need fresh fruit and eggs or whatnot - got more than enough supplies laid in at home - but he appreciates it enough to take a risk now and again.
Unlocking the lockbox, he finds a backpack stuffed with too many fresh vegetables and not enough meat. Earl will be happy. He keeps trying to fix Dutch's diet on the sly.
Slinging the bag over his shoulder, Dutch keeps his shotgun handy as he heads back up the trail.
Today's trick with the carrots was just the latest in their on-going standoff.
Why Earl cares about his health is a question he don't understand. if the sheriff is a health nut, why's he going out of his way to bother Dutch with it? A man could read into that sort of thing.
Grumbling, trying to manage the weight on his back and the gun in his hands and the distracting sheriff on his mind, Dutch forgets about the old stump blocking this part of the path.
He slams his hip right into it, curling up with a grunt.
Figures. Earl has a way of making him stupid even when he's not around.
Swearing, he limps his way back to the bunker as fast as he can.
"Let me help you with that." Earl pops up before he's even halfway inside.
"Fuck." Dutch shoves the backpack into his arms with a groan of relief. "Not as young as I used to be."
"None of us are," Earl says dryly. "Thank God."
Breathless, Dutch rubs at his hip.
"You alright?"
"Yeah." He straightens, ruffled by how they're jammed together in the hall. "Got hung up on a tree coming back. Goddam thing came out of nowhere."
"Sure it did," Earl grins. "Clutch."
He laughs when Dutch flips him the bird.
"Here," Dutch says, unzipping the bag and ignoring how close he has to get to Earl to do it. "Got you something."
He pulls the thin booklet out and hands it to Earl.
"What's this?" Earl asks, juggling the backpack around so he can accept it.
"Mary May scrounged it up. Figured you'd want crosswords that weren't half filled-in," Dutch explains, feeling a bit embarrassed now that he has to own up to it,
Whitehorse smiles, eyes crinkling up with affection, "Thanks, Dutch."
"Don't mention it," Dutch says gruffly, and limps down the hall to find something for his hip before Earl can volunteer to do it for him and he has to confront anything he's not ready to.
Dutch spends the rest of the day elbow deep in the bowels of the water heated, swearing at a pilot light that won't stay lit.
"Damn thing keeps going out," he tells Earl when he comes to announce dinner is ready. "I'd sue the bastard who sold it to me, but the peggies got him first."
"Maybe he sold them faulty equipment too," Earl suggests, leaning up against the wall in a way that does that has no right to look so good on him.
Dutch wipes his hands off on a rag and pretends to be busy putting away his toolbox.
"Nothing to do but make the best of it," he says, giving the water heater a slight kick. "I'll have it fixed by morning, though, don't you worry."
"Oh good," Earl falls into step with him as he heads for the living room. "There are much better things to do than start the day with a cold shower."
And Dutch really doesn't know if that means what he thinks it means. So he doesn't say anything.
His hip twinges a bit as he sits down at the table and he can't help wincing.
"You sure you're alright?" Earl asks.
"Fine." Snappish, Dutch doesn't want to be embarrassed. "Leave off."
Earl draws back a little, shooting him a shrewd look over the tops of his glasses.
But all he says is, "Alright then," in a horribly mild tone.
Dutch glowers down at a perfect plate of steak and green beans and feels like a heel.
"Thanks for cooking," he says gruffly. Because he never could apologize for shit. Then he thinks about his family and tacks on an uncomfortable, "Sorry."
"Don't mention it, Dutch," says Earl, nice and easy. Before his smile turns teasing. "Nice to see you practicing good manners for a change."
"Shove it up your ass, sheriff."
Earl's eyes brighten, laughing at him. "You always were a sweet-talker."
Dutch doesn't know where to look after that remark. So he pulls up his plate with a grumpy hrmph and glares at the green beans. Either he's imagining things, or Earl is playing with him.
That thought doesn't sit too well. Dutch doesn't like feeling vulnerable. He eats mostly in silence. Earl does too, comfortable and unbothered across from him. After a bit, he pulls up the new crossword book and gets to work on it.
It makes Dutch feel a couple of ways.
But he hasn't forgotten why Earl is here. Or that he's going to leave.
That's the thing that sticks in his chest. Because he was minding his own business just fine before Earl got here. But when Earl leaves - well, going back to his routine might not be so comfortable after all.
No sense in getting attached, though.
"You hear from my niece while I was out?" he asks, chewing on the last of his steak.
Earl shakes his head.
"No. Were you expecting her to call in?"
"She's supposed to every day," Dutch grumbles to his empty plate. "She usually doesn't."
Earl tactfully falls silent again, going back to the gentle scratch of his pencil on the crosswords. While Dutch broods over the failings of the younger generation.
But Earl keeps shooting little looks over, and that makes Dutch feel all kinds of transparent.
He pushes his plate back, and gets himself up.
"Don't worry about the dishes," he clears his throat. "I'll get to them as soon as I find out where that bloodthirsty niece of mine has gone."
He doesn't wait for a reply, stumping off to the radio room with a sore feeling that spreads beyond his bruises.
No sense getting attached. Not to Earl's company or his concern. It won't last, and Dutch don't appreciate the idea of pining uselessly for something that weren't his to begin with.
He's got his own to worry about.
"This is Dutch, callin for Jess. Respond."
It only takes about half an hour of repeating that on four different frequencies for her to pick up.
"Hey, Uncle Dutch."
"How ya doing out there, Jess?"
"Happy as a clam," she replies. "Got me a heap of peggies today. Went with Dep to clear out the old Grain Elevator."
She goes on a bit, recounting the highlights with glee.
"You missed the check-in again," Dutch reminds her when she winds down. With Dep or not, someone's gonna shoot the bright-eyed little terror one of these days. Won't even be a funeral for him to mourn. "Had me worried. Over."
"What is this, fuckin preschool? I got things to do. Peggies to kill. You know, fun stuff."
"You still with the deputy?"
"Nah, he called it quits for the night. Thought I might stakeout a bridge or something. Get me a few more kills."
Christ. Dutch shuffles through the notes that Earl left him from the afternoon. Looking for something that might keep her out of harm's way for the night.
Casual, so as not to spook her, he picks the easiest lead.
"If you're looking for trouble, I got word about some peggies congregating out near the Rye place. Nick and Kim wouldn't object to someone lendin a hand."
Actually, all they'd done was report a couple of reaping trucks on the road. But if it keeps Jess a little safer tonight, Dutch is willing to exaggerate. Nick might be a chucklehead, but Kim has a solid handshake and smarts enough for two. He trusts her to keep an eye on his hellion niece for him.
"Congregatin peggies?" Jess repeats thoughtfully. "Sounds like my kind of thing. Tell the Ryes I'll wander over."
"Will do, Jess. You keep safe now, ya hear?"
"No promises, Uncle Dutch. Over'n'out."
"Over an out."
And she's gone.
Dutch rubs at the corner of one eye, feeling old and irrelevent.
Then he gets up to mark the Grain Elevator as having switched hands. He'll call Dep in the morning, or better yet get Earl to do it. That outta cheer the kid up. And if they decide that it's time for Earl to catch that ride back to the Jail - that ain't none of Dutch's business.
Holding on too hard lost him his son, and his grandkids. Jess has a good head on her shoulders, mostly, and she's mean enough to survive in the shit. He needs to be grown up enough to trust her.
Earl finds him a while later, sitting by the radio.
"You ever think about retiring?" Dutch asks him, rubbing at his sore hip.
"Sometimes," Earl says. Offering him a hand up.
Dutch takes it. He's surprised by the answer, and secretly kind of pleased, but he figures it's up to Earl if he wants to say anymore.
He doesn't, so the two of them return quietly to the kitchen. The lights are turned down low for the evening, conserving power. Dutch doesn't have the heart to object when Earl helps him clear the dishes.
But halfway through, up to his arms in sudsy water as Earl dries a plate next to him, Dutch lets out a heavy sigh.
"We're getting old, aren't we?"
"Mm, I like to think we've got life in us yet," Earl says cheerfully, stacking the plate on the counter. "Plenty of golden years ahead."
"Yeah, fuck, deputize me and let's haul Joseph in ourself," Dutch snorts, sarcastic. "Like the three fucking stooges, chasing him around the church."
"You can be Curly if I can be Moe," suggests Earl, straight-faced.
Dutch chuckles. Then sobers.
It's nice, he realizes, doing the dishes with Earl.
There's barely room for both of them in between the counters of the kitchen. But it feels cozy, not crowded. He doesn't ask if Earl is brushing up against him on purpose.
It's hard to tell with Earl. And Dutch ain't exactly one for having a heart-to-heart either. But he's got to ask sometime.
He finishes the last of the dishes, leans back against the cold stove to get some breathing room.
"Listen, I don't know much about this psychology bullshit, but I'm pretty sure you're not about to turn into an Angel. Whatever hold Faith had on you, it's gone."
Earl finishes drying the last of the forks slowly, looking awful thoughtful.
Finally, he sets them down and turns, leaning against the opposite counter to take a good look at Dutch.
"This your way of telling me to get off your property?" he asks.
Dutch crosses his arms, feeling defensive.
"AIn't it about time?" he retorts.
Earl frowns, pulling further into himself. His voice quiet and mild. "If that's how you feel about it."
And, shit, that wasn't how Dutch meant it. He shakes his head.
"Didn't says I was kicking you out. I'd just like to know how long you're planning to stick around."
Earl squints at him in the lamplight, like he's trying to work things out.
"I was thinking I might stay a while longer," he says slowly. "If that's alright with you."
And there's something about the words that sounds like there might be more to the sentiment, if he decides to let it out.
But Dutch isn't quite ready to speak his own piece yet, much less hear anybody else's, so he shrugs and leaves the kitchen.
"You're welcome to stay," he offers from the doorway, looking back at where Earl's still standing by the stack of clean plates. "Long as you want, anyways."
Then he heads back to his bedroom to barricade himself in before any more unexpected bursts of feelings can happen.
A fine time to be a coward.
He punches his pillow a bit, and tries to settle in to read before going to sleep. But that's another little routine that gets broken by thinking about Earl. Because Dutch knows he could stand to see Earl stay for a good long while, quite comfortably for the both of them. If they both wanted.
Dutch wants to. And that's so unsettling a notion that he skips reading and goes straight to sleep.
He wakes up sometime later to the sound of a muffled thump.
Rolling over, Dutch grabs the shotgun from under his bed and points it at the door. Nothing happens. Cautious, he switches on the bedside lamp and listens hard.
Then he hears what sounds like faint swearing from the living room, and relaxes.
No one's breaking in, it's just Earl stubbing his toe on his way to the bathroom or something.
Reassured, his heart rate goes back down. It leaves him wide awake. Putting the shotgun back, Dutch grumbles at the warm yellow halo of the lamp. Goddam Earl and his goddam everything.
If they ever did sleep in the same room, there'd have to be some ground rules about noise in the middle of the night.
Dutch stares up at the ceiling.
With the midnight honesty of broken sleep, things look a little different than they do by day. Softer, and easier to contemplate by lamplight. He's pretty sure he knows about how Earl feels. He's more than sure he knows how he feels, though it sticks hard to say it.
But Earl is most likely awake too, lying on the couch right now while Dutch hides in his room like a coward.
"Aw, fuck it."
Dutch gets up to make a fool of himself.
Only to run smack into Earl as soon as he opens the bedroom door.
They stare at each other in the dim light. Dutch clears his throat, self-conscious. Earl lowers the hand he was about to knock with.
"I saw the light was on," he says.
"Yeah, I heard a noise."
Earl adjusts his glasses, mustache twitching. "Fell out of bed."
"Yeah."
Earl looks at him steadily, and Dutch feels like a hermit crab that's been pulled reluctantly out of its shell.
"I take it we both had the same idea," Earl says finally.
"Might be we did," Dutch half-way admits.
Unexpectedly, Earl breaks into a grin.
"Dutch, we're too old for this nonsense. Now, do you wanna come back to bed with me, or do you wanna pretend this never happened?"
"Bed," Dutch says, with maybe a bit of smile of his own. "But you come in here. That couch is crap."
"I wasn't gonna insult your choice of furnishings," Earl says as he brushes past into the room. "But it hasn't exactly treated me kindly these last few nights."
Dutch closes the door behind him. And then stops, momentarily forgotten the steps to this dance at the sight of Earl in the middle of his bedroom. Earl doesn't seem to mind though. He just chuckles, and puts his hands on Dutch's shoulders.
"Be nice to me," he says when Dutch pulls him close. "I just fell outta bed."
Dutch, feeling light and a bit reckless, asks, "What were you doing in bed that you fell out of it?"
"Maybe I was thinking about you, Dutch. I might do that a lot these days."
He's too old to turn this red.
Dammit, he's too old to learn how to flirt again.
But for Earl, he could give it a shot.
So he gets an arm around his waist, and kisses him.
It's real nice.
Later, lying on his back with Earl occupying the space at his side, Dutch stares up at the familiar shape of the ceiling. Made strange and new again by the intimacy of another person in bed with him.
"Earl?"
"Mm?"
"What are we doing?"
"Right now, I'd say we're sleeping," Earl mumbles, drawing him closer with an arm around his ribs. "Don't worry about tomorrow. We'll see if we still like each other in the morning."
"Alright."
That sounds pretty fine to Dutch. He switches off the lamp. And dares to curl an arm of his own around Earl.
"Goodnight, Earl."
Earl snores.
Comforted by this evidence of imperfection, Dutch closes his eyes.
He oversleeps a little, stumbling out to find Earl cooking breakfast in the kitchen.
"Good morning," he says cheerfully to Dutch, waving the spatula from where he's frying up eggs.
Bleary with too much sleep, Dutch clears his throat.
"Mornin."
Earl catches him staring, and teases, "Still like me by daylight?
"Not as much as I'd like you for making coffee," Dutch says, fetching up against the counter to lean sleepily over it.
Earl laughs, kisses him, and gets the coffee going.
"I always liked you," he tells Dutch fondly.
"Funny, I always thought you were an asshole," Dutch says, around an unexpected lump in his throat.
"Only to people who piss me off," Earl chuckles. And then starts to ruin his scrambled eggs by adding diced bellpeppers.
"Here I thought you liked me," Dutch says, feeling more wronged at the sight of vegetables going into his breakfast too.
"Liking you was just another thing that pissed me off," Earl informs him. Awfully cheerful for a man with such healthy habits. "You kept dragging me out here every other week, all these complaints filed about you." He taps the spatular against the pan, the sound of a grin in his voice. "And all I could think about was what we could be getting up to under different circumstances." He looks back over his shoulder, and winks. "Not very professional of me."
"Guess it's good you're gonna retire."
"Mm," Earl agrees. "It sounds a lot more exciting than it used to."
Dutch eyes him, lets the complication on his face slide away for the moment. They can hash it out later. Or not. Up to Earl.
But he can't help thinking back, "I didn't notice you felt any particular way about me."
"Yeah," Earl sighs to the frying pan. "You didn't."
The ding of the timer and the scent of fresh coffee calls to Dutch, and he crowds into the kitchen to get it. But he wraps an arm around Earl on the way, leaning one shoulder against him as he reaches into the cupboard with his other hand.
"You wanna complain about missed opportunities, Earl?" He gets down the mugs. "Or do you want to start finding out what they were?"
"Finding out sounds mighty fine to me," Earl laughs, and pours the coffee.