Work Text:
Of all the places one could think of, Northport, Alabama was not somewhere people generally knew unless they were from there. Or were into film projects that looked fake, was taken by people as fake. Good. Makes people panic less, not knowing that it was real.
In a suburban neighborhood near the woods sat an unassuming house with a U-Haul out front. The sun was starting to set, casting large shadows over the boxes still sitting on the front porch. A man stood on the porch with a glass, staring down at the boxes.
He sighed heavily, downing what was in his glass and packing it into the box labeled 'kitchen'. He went inside, locking the door behind him. The floor was bare, nails sticking out of the rough plywood from where the carpet had been torn out that morning.
There was still a faint brown smudge on the paneled floor There had been so much blood that it had seeped through the carpet, the mat, and right into the wood. Jay's body had disappeared but the blood had remained.
Fuck.
Tim rubbed at his forehead, tension growing right behind his eyes. He couldn't wait to get the hell out of there. He was done with this little town that had taken too much from him. He was moving, finally getting away. Washington state, as far as he could get from this God forsaken little town at the edge of the Appalachian mountains.
From his pocket, Tim pulled out a crumpled list of rooms to clear out. He still had his bedroom, garage, and office to clean out. He'd be gone by noon tomorrow. As long as he didn't sleep that night, which he wasn't planning on doing anyway.
There was a knock at the side door.
Tim froze, head snapping to look at the locked door. He wasn't expecting anyone until tomorrow morning when the real estate agent was supposed to show with the paperwork for the home.
The knock sounded again. It was quiet but firm, far enough up to know it couldn't be an animal. Someone was out there.
Tim set down his list, trading it for the gun laying on the kitchen counter. He tucked it into his waistband, slowly walking to the door.
Another knock, this time more insistent.
Tim unlocked the door with a careful turn, opening the door as slow as he could. He almost jumped out of his skin, throwing the door open and pulling the gun on the dead man standing there.
Brian barely blinked, not even looking at the gun. He stood idly, dark bags under half-lidded eyes. He was still wearing that damn yellow hoodie. It was stained orange in a few spots around the hood and sleeves. He held that fucking white mask, the fucking mask Tim had thrown away weeks ago, between loose fingers.
"What the fuck. You're fucking dead. I saw your body." Tim hissed.
Brian blinked before giving a faint nod. He moved stiff like he was operating on a different plane of frames per second. Tim stepped back as Brian stepped forward, allowing the man into the house. Brian shut the door behind him, but didn't lock it.
Time didn't stop him from entering, caught between a need for answers and a need to get past all this shit. The need for answers was winning.
The pair stared at each other for the longest moment before Time broke the silence.
"You're dead." He repeated.
Brian nodded again.
"And yet you're standing in my kitchen."
Brian nodded again. He stepped more in, dropping the white mask on the counter.
Tim sneered at it. He'd thrown that thing out, he never wanted to see it again. How long had Brian been alive for? How the he been stalking Tim again for? Had the fucker gone through his trash to get the mask?
"Why are you here? Trying to get that guy to come back?" Tim gestured to the mask.
Brian shook his head this time.
Tim finally lowered his gun. "Then why?"
Brian blinked. He finally spoke, voice low and raspy, just barely audible. "No where else to go."
Tim huffed, dropping his gun on the counter. "Fucking hell." He ran a hand through his hair. This wasn't going to end well for him, was it?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tim woke to Brian standing over him. Just staring. He didn't look like he'd slept, skin pale and face starting to go gaunt.
"What the fuck." Tim groaned, rubbing his face with both hands. He looked to his open bedroom door, the handle on the floor. "I locked that for a reason, dick."
Brian dropped a folded up box of Coco Puffs on him.
"What?"
Brian gestured to it.
Tim frowned, looking between the cereal box and Brian. "Fucking what?"
Brian's nose scrunched up, grabbing the folded box and hitting Tim in the head with it.
"Motherfucker, knock it off." Tim sat up, snatching the cardboard away from him. He heard Brian's stomach grumbled. Could undead people get hungry? Or was Brian never actually dead?
What the fuck is real anymore.
Tim huffed through his nose, eyebrow raised. "Are you hungry?"
Brian nodded, turning away.
"Jesus Christ, you're like a dog." He got up, stretching. He'd fallen asleep in his clothes from yesterday. After attempting to interrogate Brian, getting maybe two answers, and setting up a spot for Brian to sleep on the old couch in the living room, he just went to bed immediately. He didn't even bother changing, Brian already in the hallway, waiting for him to follow.
"I'm coming. Hold your horses."
The kitchen was empty of food, everything thrown out or eaten in preparation to move.
Tim just sighed again. This was too much damn work.
"You want Denny's?"
Brian nodded.
"Good." Tim grabbed his keys off the counter. "I'm not pulling out anything I already packed up."
They were back at the house less than forty-five minutes later. Brian was carrying a take-out container full og eggs he was shoveling into his mouth with a plastic spoon while glaring at Tim.
"Cut it out." Tim huffed. "None of this," He gestured to Brian "Is my fault."
Tim had witnessed Brian eat three orders of pancakes, two orders of bacon and hashbrowns, and then that last order of eggs. He did not have the time or money to keep watching Brian eat, so he made him get a to go box. Brian hadn't been happy about that. He glared at Tim pointedly all the way back.
Brian flipped him off, making himself at home on the couch with his eggs.
Tim shook his head, going to his bedroom to put that damn door handle back on the door before the real estate agent showed.