Chapter Text
With waking, comes pain, a weirdly strong hunger, and the need to piss.
"I'm going to kill you" Shane says, untangling himself as good as he can from the blessed covers.
"Oh shut up, been there, done that." Grouses the farmer, trying to stretch out the ache of their back from sleeping atop of their idiot friend- who's trying to hop on one leg to the door, a foot still stuck in sheets, the other, still sprained. "Shit, wait up, I'll help you, I gotta go too anyways."
They catch up quick enough, but their excuse to help falls flat as he untangles himself. But the stare he gives them is just as flat, lacking its usual sharp edge. That might just be the grogginess, though, so they don't think about it too much.
They hobbles to the living room, heckling at each other about who elbow-jabbed the other first, when another presence have slow them down to a halt.
At the table, sitting in front of steaming pancakes and hashbrowns, and jugs of apple and hot pepper juice, Emily is giggling at their antics. Faded but sharp red eyes peers at them over a bowl of milk coffee held in carefully manicured fingers.
Her electric blue hair bobs up and down with laughter at their befuddled expressions.
"Uhhh-"
"Bathroom break-" Shane provides, and hurries them both there.
He grumbles to himself once inside, properly embarrassed.
"Nice. Waking up to your friend's wife half naked with a- actually I don't have a hangover? But damn if I don't have the face to go with it." He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he flushes the chain and works his way to the sink, half a mind to just stay locked up in here till he makes himself more presentable. If possible-
No okay, positive reinforcement, sure, but he looks like he fought and lost to a salt lamp- it would have jammed him in both eyes and taken him in a throw-down, it'd have been grandiose. Totally beats having cried himself out to bed yesterday night. Alcohol really doesn't suit him as much as he'd liked to think, uh. Or maybe it's something else.
Now that he splashes some water onto his face and looks closer, though, he notices he's much more well rested than he'd seemed for the past week. Uh. Wonders what a good night of sleep can do.
"Oh please, it's nothing she hasn't seen before, now." The farmer's voice comes from through the door, taunting. They heard him?? He nearly slips off his perch on the sink counter and sputters-
"Sh- shut up??" He checks in the mirror, and yuup, he could excuse the redness of his cheeks to the prior crying, but nah, not really. "Why aren't you the one who's shy about it, anyways? I f- slept with your wife before you married her, how's that??"
"And it was really good sex!" Emily supplies from across the house- cutting off the farmer's retort, who guffaws in surprise equal to his own.
He buries his head in his hands, wishing to be buried now and then, on the spot. "Stupid flimsy ass thin walls, work of a carpenter-" A chill runs through him and he can swear he can hear an axe ripping off the bark and wood of a tree echoing in the distance. He shuts up.
"I for one-" "Oh please no, Garcia, shut up-" "-can absolutely understand that my Em, being the heartful little one she is, and so pretty, can and must be shared with more than a few mortals off this earth, lest we miss out on how delightful she is-" They're so sappy. Someone please, silence them. "-that is to say, I do envy you for having known her when she still had her tattoos, yeah!"
"And pink long hair too." He chimes in, passing them down the corridor.
"And pink long hair, too…" They lament, disappearing in the WC.
"I grew out of that pink phase, but I would have kept them tats! But the looks didn't help at the rehab center!" Emily calls to them.
The casual reference to her own past shackles makes him flinch when he enters the kitchen, grabbing himself a few peppers from the fridge.
"The staff here were real butts, and Mama and Papa too." She pouts, and the affectionate names for her parents sound sarcastic. She moves aside to make space for him at the table, without him having to push his foot too much. She pushes a stack of pain medication his way, and he knows it's his cue to take proper care of his pain, because taking a shot out of a flask is no longer an option.
He flashes back to the night before, or the ones before that one? And shivers, the memory of his dark thoughts a sour taste in the back of his throat.
"Do we all hate our parents in this house, or what?" He jokes before he can think about it.
"Oh, I don't hate my parents." Emily's response is calm and declarative, but he can still feel the urge to shrill up and- not-die, but something like that, about how tactless he is and-
"I simply… Do not have the best of relationship with them due to our… their negligent nature and how stuck-up they are." She pursues matter-of-factly.
"Your parents are kind of shitstains and the worst, blue bean." Enters the farmer, leaving him wonder how they can just say things like that confidently, and not dying of anxiety over having an opinion??
Instead of solving his inner existential crisis, they just lean over and pecks their spouse on the corner of her lips, before sliding in next to Shane. Which means, in front of Emily, and not beside her; him in the middle.
It's true that the simple PDA just now had started to make him feel third-wheeled, so he appreciates that. He says nothing of it, though, and keeps sipping at his drink, refusing to take a chance at putting his foot in his mouth again.
Emily turns her bright eyes toward him, smiling. "It's true. They are kinda bad people. So I guess I do hate them a bit, too.
Garcia raises a glass of juice in a toast. "To hating shitty parents surrounded by the coolest stuff they never thought you’d be able to gather." And gulps it down.
Before yell-spitting, swallowing with visible pain, coughing, and wiping a tear.
"That- that was your glass." They push him toward him, and right, that's apple on his tongue, not hot pepper but he likes it, so-
"You can keep it." He's trying to be subtle about his pinched ego, covering it up in playful grouchiness. Because yeah, they had their success story, but he doesn’t so like- “No, really, you can keep it.”
"You- please, all you have to do is down what's left! So I can serve myself another, minus the inferno taste"
"Go get yourself another glass. After all, you have plenty, you have everything-" Ooh, not so playful now, that’s passive aggressive. He stubbornly keeps his glass locked to his lips.
"Why you-" Something seems to click. While not the most thought-out person, Garcia was a quick-thinker about people, to their own dis/pleasure and his. "You hardass. We are your coolest stuff!" They say, as they bump his shoulder.
But he was still going to glare at his apple's juice because if he didn't when they were being corny, he was going to grin, and he had an image to preserve, damnit!
"Coolest stuff, my ass," he replies, the corners of his lips curling against his will, "the most precious thing about you is how big you think of yourself, tourist." They blow him a raspberry and steal his glass, replacing it with their own. Really mature.
"Well, there's us, but Jas too." They add, before downing his apple's.
"Yeah, Jas." He thinks of the fast-thinker, fast-talker girl, with a timid front, and big, huge, the hugest eyes, hidden behind her always neatly kept but fluffy hair, always in frilly bows as she rambles about her lastest favourite show, or game.
He thinks of relatives' words, relatives he hasn’t seen in age but that still occupy his thoughts, staying in the back of his head like stubborn mold.
It's true that none of them ever thought any man of the family, much less a man like him, to ever amount to something of the parental kind, in a kind way.
"I guess you're half-right."
"Uh?"
"About the “coolest stuff” thing, duh." That sounds so corny. Why is everything either super serious or so corny with them?
"Oh yeah!" They uplift their chin, proud as a hen. "Wait, why half?"
"Pfft, you don't count."
"Why you! Fuck off if we don't count! You're stuck with us either way." They reach around his back for good measure, giving him a slight shake. It gives him an excuse to duck his head, shielding from the onslaught of disproportionate emotions at their silly (?) declaration.
Then, Emily, who'd been watching them bicker with an endeared smile, joins in.
"Yes! We're the jewels to your crown!" She jokes as she ruffles his hair.
"Oh come on, I had that styled yesterday!" Still he ducks his head.
She laughs- even if she never seems to stop anyway- and resumes her eating after one more ruffle. "With all near 24 hours of snoozing you got, your brushing is as good as gone, now!"
He chokes on his drink, and spills a good portion on the table. He doesn't even have the mind to be self-conscious about the mess as he tries to quell the new onslaught, of dread this time, washing over him.
Beside him, the farmer is stone-faced with eyes a bit bigger than usual, but also stone-frozen. "Wow." is all they can think of.
"Hmhm!" Emily nods, not unaware of the anxiety radiating in waves off Shane. She paps his back a few times, helping him catch his breath.
"We slept through all of Sunday?"- "What time is it??"- both questions spout at once, slowing Emily in her attempt at cleaning the table. Bartender reflex.
"Yes, like darling doves. And, approximately 10 and three quarters?"
"Welp." Garcia seems disillusioned with that notion, but not too distraught. There's just something dampening about knowing you're on Monday and didn't even see Sunday pass- literally. Even when you technically don't have weekends anymore.
"Holy shit-" Shane's reaction is less well-put together. He tears himself off his chair with how fast he gets up, and with how loudly it clatter on the floor, his shout of pain nearly goes unheard. He forgot about the stupid injury!
Uidelsib frets over him, afraid he'll fall, but Emily remains sitting, chin on her hand as she taps Shane's previous seat.
"Shane, get back to breakfast."
" 'Ly, the hour- you don't understand, my boss's not Gus!"
"I called in for you. Had Sam do it, actually. He'll cover your shift. He said he'd consider splitting the pay, if you split your next batch of eggs for his mom. I think he was half-serious."
"Wh-wh-"
"You're on medical leave, dude. Chill." Garcia tries. Wrong move.
"Chill- chill? No, you- you two slow down! Emily, you can't just call in for me!"
"I didn't, Sam did. He told Morris that you hurt your leg." The woman holds her head high in defiance.
"I didn't even get it checked yet!"
"You will soon enough, I'm scheduled for a visit at Harvey's this week. We can go today, and I'm sure he'll cram you in." The farmer quips.
Emily is faster than him to answer them. "Oh you better not think of skipping it, young ladsy!"
Garcia throws their hands in the hair, a tad exasperated. "I won't! He's been hounding me to come for a checkup all winter, I'm not about to let him hunt me for sports and force his flashlight down my throat next!"
"I sure hope so, because I would help him!" The farmer gasps in faux-betrayal at that, and Shane just follows the exchange from where he stands precariously, more and more out of the loop.
"Okay I'll just take Shane along and try to schedule him right after me! I'm healthy anyway, I've had my own fix-ups when needed."
"You're healthy now, but falling of exhaustion all across the land and in your own home at 2 past midnight more than once a week isn't healthy."
Uidelsib begrudgingly cross their arms, and nods their head, knowing their wife is right and that their competence doesn't make up for their carelessness.
Their small not-argument stops at that, and Shane thinks on it a bit- anything to distract himself from the growing cold sweat.
He had to carry Garcia to their house, once, it's true. It's happened not so long after they splashed him with their goddamn sprinkler, and as over-it as he'd been after work, he hadn't had the heart of leaving them there, face down in the sand at the beach. Lucky for them he'd been looking to cross paths with a certain someone late at night that summer- and, okay, he'd still been feeling a bit grateful from the sprinkler thing.
Less lucky for them was how, when he mentioned that event to Morris the next day, as a cheap excuse for how late he was- a half truth, the other half burning in his throat- his boss had the great idea to apply a forgotten policy on emergency health-something, and sent a bill of a whole grand in express for the farmer to wake up to.
That had been a fun discussion to have a week and a half later, when they understood what was going on:
He'd been reluctant to help them when he found them out cold outside the next time- and that had happened a worrisome lot, now that he thought about it- so he'd often get that cashier girl- Claudia? To have them home, and cash in some extra for herself. The poor girl had been extasic for an excuse to just get out of her night shift's boredom.
One time she got Garcia home, though, they'd woken up enough to ask who was saving their ass, and Claudia babbled.
After that, they'd told him that they didn't mind, as much as they hated bringing any benefits to Joja- that if it brought him a little extra pay, they didn't mind the stupid policy.
Now, standing aside from the table, where the other two sit in silence as they watch him, he just tries to stay upright. He doesn't know how long he zoned out, and he doesn't care, because right now caring about anything sounds like a pain. And so he just sits.
Or tries to, before he remembers that his chair is sideway on the ground, and it's nearly too late as he starts to fall over. The only reason why he doesn’t go kissing the floor is because two pair of arms rush to catch his as he flails around.
He gets his seat back and grab a pancake in silence. He feels the gaze of both his friends on him, and sighs, resolute.
"Okay. Sick day, and we'll see what Dr. Harvey says." And he bites in the pancake. Fuck. She still does them just fluffy and heavy enough. With blueberries on this one.
Emily beams at that, clapping approvingly. She cleans her spot and twirls to the kitchen to put down dishes, and then starts watering the grapes they have here.
The farmer goes to ask, but she cuts them off with a wave of her hand. "I watered them the day before, and also swept in to feed the animals. Fixed a few fences near the barn, too. It was easy work, I'm starting to get the hang of it!"
The farmer pauses.
"An angel." They sigh, eyes on the dancing reds of her dress. "I'll be taking care of the harvesting first thing, then go spread feed at the barn, milk a few cows and shear the sheeps. Shane, you feel like handling the chickens for me?"
His head snaps at his name and the mention of chickens. He's not against it, but…
"Isn't he supposed to be on sick leave?" Emily chides.
"Yeah, that."
"He can rest! With the chickens. He doesn't even have to pick up all the eggs, just making sure they have their food and none is looking sick."
A common understanding passes between them three. The farmer is the workaholic, but he has a habit of burying himself in labour to stop brooding. Left to his own devices around busy people, he's… not good,
"After that we have lunch, and we zip to Harvey's."
"That's going to happen fast." Shane laments, looking at the ticking hand of the clock.
"Hey, it's fine, we don't eat at the white hour here."
Emily pretends to be offended, while Shane chuckles. "Please, you're as gringo as any here, Garcia."
They put their hand on their heart, actually offended. "Shane! You know I'm not one of the Spaniards, I'll never be with my gypsy roots!" Okay, some of that is just hispanic dramatism. Because why not feed the clichés when feeding yourself.
Their back-and-forth carries on till they're done with brunch, take a minute to change and on their way to their respective work stations, and Emily's on her way to the Saloon, after passing by the doctor to let him know they'll be here in a few hours.
Garcia hands him a walking stick, but he keeps it at his side, unsure he should use it.
Shane is halfway to the coop when the farmer has armfuls of crops and checking their auto-sprinkler as they walk back to their wheelbarrow.
He turns around and heads on. When he opens the little gate, he's greeted with familiar noises and pecking that plunge him in an instant serenity. He resists the wish to just let himself drop down and caressing the feathers of the nearest hen, a beautiful white, and wades through the birds to check their hay. There's some leftovers from the day before, but he can still pour more. Then, he sees the basket used to pick their eggs up. But as he bends to catch it, his foot sends a ripple of pain from the pressure, and he collapses.
It's a small flurry of panicked wings and clucks, but his back doesn't hurt that much and some spilled feed cushioned his fall. He thinks of standing up but stays just there. He pulls at the basket with his good leg, and grips the handle enough to make the dry material crinkle. A small tickle grabs his drifting attention. A soft blue ball of feathers peeps in his peripheral vision.
He turns on his belly, nursing his bad foot with the other.
"Hey there." A little chirp welcomes his cupped hand, and the small creature lowers its beck to it, gauging him. It seems satisfied, as it decides to nestle there, puffing up its baby plumage. "I didn't know they had blue chickens…" That leaves him a bit put off, weirdly. It was kind of… his thing. But they had a lot of the regular ones hatching, and it was just a matter of time before they ended up with an azure bird, really. Especially after he'd shared his "secret" with them.
He thinks of his own at home. Charlie must be nervous. They always start picking at themselves when he drops off the earth, and he's been away for two days now.
He heaves himself up putting the chicklet in the basket. It tries to climb to his hand, and he lets it, just mindful of not letting it fall.
Trying to hold basket and stick in the same hand, he first thinks of walking from one egg to the other, but has to decide against it. He couldn't have worked after all, his ankle is seriously starting to smart. And that's with painkillers. So he sighs and grabs what's closest, and considers his stick, before thinking better of it.
He turns to the small blue baby chick. "Couldn't you, like, learn to play fetch?" It chirps in answer, probably very enthusiast over the proposition.
In the end, he resolves himself to get the ones close enough to not need much movement, and lets himself take some time to inspect his injury near the door, before he goes outside to spend some leisuring time with the birds, within their pen.
The blue chick had climbed on his sleeve, and he'd chosen to let it, immobile as he watched its ascent closely. It is now perched on his shoulder, sliding closer to the crook of his neck every now and then, and trying to burrow itself in a nook of his hood while it keeps singing in his ear. Shane wholeheartedly admits this is by far the most endearing little trooper- of Garcia's troops, as Charlie's still the at top in his own.
He's getting to know another very curious brown bird, when he sees the barn's doors slide open, letting out the farmer, who pushes heaps of cheese in their wheelbarrow ahead. They slow as they approach the coop.
They go to ask him how he's doing, but their eyes catch on the small bundle of feathers next to his head, and they smile. He shuffles, making the chick peck him in retaliation, self-conscious.
"I see you've met Shanie."
He frowns, pink-faced "Yeah we made acquaintances." He pats the brown bird for emphasis. "What's with the new nickname, though? We crossed two leagues in one or something?" He still called them by their last name, after all. They'd only ever called him Shane, but that was because he hated his last name.
"That's the baby chick's name, Shane." Their eyes crinkle in mirth.
"Uh." He processes that. "Uh? The- You named a chicken after me??" His voice nears a squeal at the end, and a genuine grin crosses his face. He takes little Shanie in his hands, looking at them again, closer this time, though. They look back at him and jump, batting their small useless fuzzy wings, and let out a cry.
"Ahah, yeah! When he was born, I just had to! I mean, just look at him, boy is BLUE."
As if that explains everything.
It kind of does, really.
He holds Shanie up in a sort of wonder. Wonders if he'll outlive this mini namesaked. They peck at his nose, and he nuzzles it slightly, brushing the depressing thought out of his mind.
He wonders if it will ever be gone.
"Lemme just put all this in the cellar, and I'll get back to you.” They gesture to the cheeses.
He hums, without really acknowledging them.
When he lowers the blue bird to the ground, the brown one starts to fluff up, like a challenger. He bats at it lightly. "Hey, none of that, no." Eventually, the adult animal sobers up, and starts grooming the birdling. He softens up more, witnessing it.
He's calmly poised, chin on his knee, his good leg folded back as he hugs it, the other laying forgotten in the dirt. He half-mindedly remarks the lack of sensation there.
He raises his head again at the farmer coming back.
"If His Sire would humor me, his ride is here."
"You can't be serious."
"Let's not pretend I'm not. Haven't I just told you to humor me, after all? Hop on."
"I am not going to Dr.Harvey in that."
But the farmer is stubborn, pushing the now vacant wheelbarrow right up next to the pen, grinning wide and knowingly. They actually seriously want him to sit in that.
"C'mon. It's not to go to Harvey's, at least not for the moment. But I've seen you walk, you don't pay enough care to your foot." They thankfully don't mention his quite foolish reluctance to use the stick. But the message's clear. If he doesn't make the extra effort for himself, they will. "It's just to get you to the house. Spare yourself the butthurt, asshat."
His scold lightens at the name calling. "Ok." But his answer's still curt, because he's not about to wholeheartedly agree to the handicapped treatment.
Now finally leaning heavily on the stick, he stares at the offending device for a moment, when Garcia gives a not-so-aggravated "Sit in it." With a blank face, and a firm finger pointing down.
The ride back is surprisingly less rocky than he thought, holding the walking stick close to his chest as the farmer smoothly half-sprints them across the land. Super smoothly, safe for the occasional uneven ground. He has the passing thought of joking about how it's probably his overweight mass that gives them a lower center of gravity, hence the stability, but he guesses it wouldn't be as hilarious to this particular audience as it was in, say, late high school.
College sports championships had given him form, at the very least.
Both dropping out of it and in alcohol, plus easy junk food had sort of skewered that.
By the time they're at the door, and well that was quick, he's queasy with the thought of a meal, but can hear the clanks and clunks of Emily's moving around, and if she's the one serving him, he just doesn't have the heart to refuse.
Garcia notices the growing unease in his posture, as he tries to stands, and slides back, not quite there. As they help him up, his nose is scrunched up, and he has this shifty behaviour of when he's not feeling quite right in the head, probably too deep in. Why, though? What happened?
"Isn't it a bit early for lunch, after we just had breakfast?" He tries.
Their head tilt, more like a pooch does when giving you a bone than actual surprise. "Shane, it's around 4pm. We've been at it for hours already. And we've got to catch up an actual day of not eating, so… Unless you want to explain to Harvey why your glucids levels are so low when you're already hurt. Eat up a bit."
Now, the good doctor was not the terrible authority figure these exchanges could make him sound to be. He simply was… A good doctor, friend, crush-to-tone-down, very good at looking "not mad, just disappointed" man.
Having him upset with either of them was always just so… Bad Feel.
So that had Shane sitting down, dazed by the notion of time passing so fast. He was sure it'd been minutes, really.
Emily comes out of the house shortly after, two trays in hands full of cut-up fresh fruits and vegetables, eggs on a plate and beverages, plus some bread.
She puts one tray between herself and her spouse, who starts picking at a bit of each portion, calming energies conflicting with an underlying worry resonating with her little gems necklace.
Turning to Shane and his own tray, she sees how he seems in slow-motion, slightly shaking fingers hovering by the food, but barely touching anything.
She looks back to her spouse, catching the furtive glances they kept throwing at him. When they notice her looking, their first reflex is to dodge their gaze down, avoiding direct eye contact like usual, before they collect their thoughts and look back at her. It took a few seconds only, but the process was always there, patterns like stitches on a complex patchwork. If you weren't patient, this was the kind of things that'd make the whole reflexion fall apart, like pulling on threads to break the sewing.
When she sees them shrugging, and pull a face, she knows something is up, like usual really, but they don't feel like they'd do a great job taking care of it themselves. So they just sit there and eat their egg-yolked bread bits with a contraried look on their face. She turns to Shane. He's still not eating.
A single tomato slice turns in his fingers, juice dripping out of it.
She can't be too sure, but his face seems clear, not dissociative, and he's more troubled than out of it now.
She remembers of meals spent together, the smell of weed troubling her senses enough that she was not hungry at all, but felt obligated to keep chewing, or else he too would skip. Him making crude comments about the weight he kept accumulating, her saying that at least one of them had to, then that she didn't mind more to hug. Him getting in a worse mood because that was what happened no matter what she said. That was close to their falling-out. Even then it hasn't been up to them.
She's brought back to the now by him nibbling- actually nibbling on the small red fruit piece, face still scrunched up.
"You can leave the heavier ingredients aside, we don't need to worry about leftovers."
He startles and look at her, caught, well, red-handed. She notices how he seems to have something to say, but doesn't. He shrugs, and resumes eating.
She remembers the shuddering figure of Haley, bent upon the toilet, hair soiled by the sickness of her insecurities and meal bits. Dreadful nights, these ones.
She hopes that whatever Shane deals with, food-related, it isn't anything as close.
All of this, she has to push away in a corner of her mind, as she pours herself a generous amount of mayo, to go with her eggs. She can guess the look of unnerve he has watching her display of pure carbs diet, but before she can feel guilty about the impromptu craving, her lover theatrically cringes away from her as a whole, emitting a noise best translated as "grimacing".
"Eeeeeew baby doll never put mayo with eggs on a plate! Is that why you think I'm a good kisser? You got a misguided palate??"
The self-targeted jab and mock-negging have her chuckling, temporary dread gone, and even serves as a distraction for Shane, who sneers at the farmer.
"You eat raw dough with popcorn and marshmallows, I don't want to hear you of all people criticizing someone's palate."
"No Shanie, listen, it's about the texture and sensory satisfaction." Their fingers pinch and their face is solemn. They're probably quoting a meme.
Shane lets the nickname slide, to her surprise, and the rest of the meal is uneventful after he makes a final grimace at Uidel's particular tastes.
When Emily and they are done cleaning up, the farmer goes to sit next to Shane on the porch, who's fiddling with a damaged part of his hoodie.
"That thing is legit falling apart, dude."
"I got used to it." He shrugs.
"... Yeah. You, uh, ever get attached to clothing because of how it feels?"
"Like, what, 'sensory satisfaction'?" He half-mocks, expecting them to bring up that weird jargon they have again. The man was more clever than he gave himself credit for, making connections easily and understanding their patterns better with the more time they spent together.
That was sort of helped by them being such an open book.
"Yeah, that, actually!" They caught his sarcasm, but didn't do anything of it, happy he'd give them any incentive to their point, willing or not.
"Yeah… And so what? People like wearing stuff that's comfortable, that's normal."
"Oh yeah yeah! Normal, hahah. Totally is."
Shane feels an oncoming anxiety at the way they seem to fidget, obviously holding themselves from saying something. "Just- just spit it out, okay? Whatever you've got, I can take it."
"Ok, ok! Sheesh." They make a stick they just picked up twirl between their fingers. Watching the ground. "You ever, uh- d'you think you could be autistic?" They're looking straight into him now, dark brown irises meeting brown-greenish ones with a clarity that has him shifting on his spot.
He could not, in fact, take it.
His tone isn't harsh because he wants to, but the venom is still here. "What?"
The farmer immediately catches onto his- downright hurt, actually, and tries to placate him, raising their hands in surrender. They even wave for emphasis. "I'm just asking! With yesterday's whole thing-"
"What about yesterday?"
"Nothing bad- I mean, I just had suspicions-"
"Suspicions? And what, you're a shrink, now?"
"No! C'mon, Shane, you know better than that- you know that I am autistic!"
"And so what? That gives you the right to hand it like membership cards? It's a club or something?" The discussion had quickly escalated in spite of their best efforts, and that was understandable, but that stung. They put their hand down on the floorboard between them, with a bit more force than needed. But it sends across the point. Things slow down enough that they can gather their thoughts to explain.
"Okay. First off? Fuck you. You know I don't do that." Shane's petty accusations of 'clubs' and 'cultish mentality about this mental crap' in response to their attempts at educating him on the psychological aspect of health had gotten old quick. It used to be one of their main point of tension, and they were not about to take his shit again. Especially not on something so important to themselves.
"Secondly." He was eyeing them as if they might unsheathe their sword on him now, but at least he was paying attention. "I never said that you are, I merely suggested the possibility, because I can tell from some signs- even if I might be wrong, obviously." They anticipated anymore of his misplaced scepticism, more than used to blatant dismissal of their own experiences and knowledge from multiple sources. When they saw he kept on trying to impersonate a disturbed statue, they estimated they could go on without any more bad-faith interruptions.
"Yesterday, while it might just be an anxiety thing, you were having something I believe could be a meltdown. You know what those are since Jas-" they gave a meaningful pause at that, knowing that this was not a subject he took lightly- anything relating to Jas unless it was himself, that is. "-has been suspected to be autistic herself, both by Penny and Harvey, which, like, could mean something for you too."
"She's my- I'm her godfather?" He retorts, although unsure of his own argument.
"She's your step slash half-sister's kid on top of being your best friend's, Shane. She does share the possible genetics for autism, dude. I'm just saying." And they really just are, but the "a" word alone has him flinching.
"L-look!" He's shaking now, flailing his arms wildly when he can't walk away from the conversation, making up for his partial helplessness. "It's not the same!"
"I'm not diagnosing you or anything, dude, I just… thought of it as a possibility, and that telling you might help you. If you want me to drop it, I'll never again-"
"No! No, now you've said it, it's not true, you're going to keep thinking it, and- and it's not true!"
"Dude, Shane, it's no big deal, whatever I think or not-" But they dropped a bomb, and even if they had never expected this amplitude, they'd have to deal with the blowing-up. And the aftermath. Ooh, Harvey was just going to love the fresh awkwardness-to-actual-bad-vibes ambience later on. If they even could get him to go at all, after this debacle.
"She's a child! And- and she's smart! Downright super intelligent, she's- even if she is, and if she is, she's not going to be any less great, she's… Because Jas is m-my little girl and she's just. Good." Talking about her alone gets him to soften up significantly. But that's still not enough. "But. It's not the same. I'm not the same."
It's not clever to push when you don't know how far you can before you make them snaps, but the farmer's learned to gamble and bet on things. "How so? You're good too. And clever."
He snorts a derisive and dark sound. "How so?" His head's down and he smirks in a very shitty way, shoulders hunched with the self-disrespect weighing on them. His mirroring of their words only makes his whole behaviour more childlike.
But Shane's not any more of the immature smartass he tries to pass himself as than he is the cynical cold-hearted bastard he believes to be.
They push more. "You're plenty clever, you're people and animal clever, and you keep up in intellectual banter just as well as you admire those who spark it. No, stop shaking your head, you know I'm right, you're just being a hardass-"
"If I were so clever, I wouldn't be here." He doesn't say what 'here' means. "I'm not like you." He adds, distancing himself from them physically as he does in words, and they guess they're the High Functioning Autistic in his mind then.
"Oh c'mon, you think if I'd been so clever, I'd done an internship at Joja's bureaucratic hell?? Like it's the kinda job a super clever person above you would bother with??" They've got to get through him somehow, they feel, or there'll be something broken, something bad that'll last. They're both too tired to have that added on their plate.
"But you were at a desk job at least! You think I'd qualify to something like that?! No! That's why I'm busting my ass at retail!"
"Because- because you're what? Not clev-" They clearly say it with sarcasm, but-
"Exactly! I work at retail because I'm a retard!" He insists on the phonetic repetition, sardonic, and if that isn't the cherry on top. Garcia takes the slur with a breath, refusing to lose their temper. But they let the hurt show on their face, and if Shane recoiling slightly after his outburst has anything to do with it, they refuse to care for it.
They let a beat pass, for the situation to bear its new uncomfortable weight.
"So you're telling me that you're a retard, but you're not autistic?" The word feels like bile in their throat, but seeing him suddenly antsy with them using it is worth it.
He still has the nerve to snap back, calmer this time. "Yeah. Pretty much."
They pause to ponder, now. If he's saying this sober, and softer, then it's really more worrying than it is offensive.
They don't need to ask him to develop, he just goes on.
"With, with Jas. It's different. She's a clever, educated kid. She's got issues with, with, uh, sensitivity in the city, and like, eye contact, but I don't- even if she has autism, she's able of doing things. She learns well and all."
"It's not 'having autism', Shane, it's being, if she is, well, autistic, then that's what she is, it's her, it's a state of being, not something she can take off-"
"That's my whole point, though!" He exclaims, his hands extending toward them. He looks desperate, like he needs them to just get it.
"You, Jas, it's not the same! Y-you function! You can manage to exist and be real, be someone, and- and to be- autistic. I can't! I can't, I just can't! I'm- I- The anxiety! The depression, the bullshit shit brain that I have, it's- it's… supposed to go away." He's looking at the ground between them, awkwardly twisted on himself so that his legs are still stretched out, enough the bad ankle is not damaged anymore. His fingers clench and unclench in the air, stressed. "It's supposed to go away."
"... And if you're autistic, it won't go away."
He ducks his head, finally defeated. That's it. That's all there is to it. Him being rude, and saying a bunch of hurtful things, against his… closer to best friend than ever, and his goddaughter, of all people. Just because there's this… disgusting possibility that he might just be fucked up for real, for good. He feels awful.
"Okay." The farmer taps his shoulder, and with a huff, heaves themselves to their feet. He jumps, and raises his head, tentatively. He's greeted with a hand, a mobile phone in it. He raises it some more, to meet their eyes. They're looking at their house, not at him. "You should call Marnie. Let the girls know where you're at, that you won't be here before a little while still…"
There's an unasked question here, about the day's plans. If they're still okay.
When you're a good ranchboy you know to not look a horse gift in the mouth, and when you're Shane, you take a peace offering when you see one.
He knows he said some fucked up words, just a hot minute ago. Shame curdles in the pits of his stomach and the small of his back.
When they walk inside, he cradles the cell to his chest and focuses on his breathing.
Marnie's face is on the screen, a good photo that really shows off her smile, at the last fair, proud of her display, as Jas came in running and jumping about how she was going to raise the purplest of chickens, in spite of Vincent's insistence on how they did not exist. Screw the little twerp. If she wants purple chicken, she can have them.
Shaking, he presses dial.
"Hello? Mx.Garcia, yes? Ah- I'm sorry to cut you off, have you seen my nephew, maybe? The gent just walked off yesterday and, oh I know you know he's capable, but-" Her saccharine voice flows at the speed of a vodka shot through the veins, a million worries behind the pleasing front of the model townsfolk, letting show through the hard-working, multitasking woman with anxiety issues nearly as bad as her nephew's. "Tía. Es yo." ["It's me."]
"... Shane? Is- is the kind farmer alright- do they need-?"
"Esta bien tía. Es yo. He… He hecho una tontería." ["They're good, it's. It's me. I did… I fucked up."]
"..." There's silence on the other side of the line. His head still resting in his hand, hidden from everything. If he lifted it up, he knows he'd end transfixed on the ranch's mill above the trees in the horizon, and that'd feel too much like he's close and could see her face, not the smiling perfect picture she makes in the phone.
And he can't have that right now.
Her silence is killing him.
At the counter, service phone clutched in her calloused fingers, soft palm, her other hand makes nervous tapping sounds on the planks, faint enough only for her to hear.
In the next room next to the foyer, Jas is reading aloud to her dolls, or maybe the teddy bear chair Shane got her last Spirit Eve when she cried about ghosts in the mines coming under her bed if she didn't have him to protect her anymore.
Marnia Claudia Lacruz Hernandez is a sentimental woman. But she knows that when her nephew speaks Spanish to her, he doesn't out of tender memories from abuelas next to the fire who knit woolen sweater for her to play in the snow with, frolicking with the cows and the vaqueros' boys from the neighbouring ranch, or to catch up with relatives that stayed back in the country.
No, he only does in hushed tones and the accent of someone who speaks but isn't spoken to much, and only in private moments of need with only the two of them to murmur in the violence-twisted tongue does he use it. Away from the people who spat it like a weapon, their 'j' harsher than their 'r' were rumbling.
So when she hears him begin with 'Tía', an affectionate title that survived the clutch of adulthood on him, she gives pause. There's a gravity to the situation, but she's not confident she can grasp it, and she's afraid that she'll spark a fuse that doesn't need to be, with her fears, cries and reproaches hiding care she doesn't know how to give.
She had no child her whole life till mid-fourties came knocking on her door with a roughed up kid-grown-man, hand tightly gripping the thin arm of a toddler with shallow eyes like empty dark waters, that looked nothing like her lively niece. Probably because the lovely woman died, or so she'd heard.
Horses and cattle and hens were always much easier to communicate with, they had no mannerisms that had her fall back into toxic patterns and maladaptive projections- but she's read up her fair share of family counseling literature now, when Shane's attempt cemented the fact that her fretting did nothing to keep him from falling.
But even then, when he tells her he's done something bad, she's insecure.
What could she say that'd set off the bomb? What could appease him? And why can she only envision her brother's son's pain only through the need to contain outbursts?
Oh, she knows it's got to do with her brother, for sure. But the guilt doesn't lessen.
She breathes in deeply.
Sitting on the porch and curling on himself, Shane can only barely contain a grunt masking a sniffle at her sigh. He's the first to be aggravated by his own relapse, but he is not ready to heed the lecture that comes with it.
"Lo siento Tía, lo siento, sé que esperabas mejor de- pero- Intenta hacer mejor, pero- [I know you hoped better- but- I try, but-]
"Shane?"
"Si, Tía?
"Are you okay?"
"... Si."
"Good. Did you stay at the Dow's yesterday?"
"Si."
"Do you plan on staying any longer?" She says it like it's about a pajama party.
"No- bueno, tengo que pasar a ver al Dr. Harvey- pero después vuelve a la casa directamente, y- voy a hacer mejor, le promete-" [No- Well, I gotta go to Dr. Harvey- but I’ll come back home immediately, and- and I'll do better, I promise-"
"Shane."
"Y-yeah?"
"I'm glad that you are okay."
"... Okay."
"¿Y Shane?"
"¿Si Tía?" He half-sobs, weirdly eager to listen to whatever she'd have to say.
"Me da igual si no puedes dejar de beber, en realidad. Quiero que vives. Quiero que vives bien, que vives feliz, con Jas, ti amiges y conmigo. No me gusta la copa, pero te quiero, come lo quiero Jas y mi pequeña familia peluda y emplumada, y sé que el alcohol te duele también, que no es un tontón. Lo sé que no eres un imbécil."
[I don’t care whether or not you can stop drinking, really. I care, I want you to live. I want you to live well, to live happy, with Jas, your friends, and me. I don’t like booze, but I love you, just like I love Jas, and my little fluffy, feathered family, and I know that the alcohol hurts you too, that you don’t drink because you’re a fool. I know that you’re not an imbecile.]
She heaves with the emotional effort, but proudly remarks her eyes are dry, mostly.
She pauses to collect herself, pretending not to hear soft sniffles on her nephew's side. Absently, she notes that she only ever gets to see this side of him when she, well, can't actually see him.
"Say, Shane. What do you think about inviting the Garcias at the ranch, sometimes? As a thank-you. I'll even try to hold back on the spices for the farmer's serving."
There's a wet laugh, followed by some humming. "Sure. I. I'd like that."
"Hasta luego niño."
" 'Sta luego Tía."
And then she hangs up.