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wintered debts

Chapter 4: insult and injury

Summary:

There's no going back, and frankly, Miles is glad. Once you've reached the point of no return, it can't get any worse.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Miles can’t shake the feeling that something’s constantly leering over his shoulder, watching his every move. He glances back every now and then, expecting to see that Billy kid trailing after him, but never sees him. Maybe it really was all just an elaborate hallucination. He makes his way down the hall and nods his head in greeting at Waylon and Simon.

“Sorry I’m late to the party. I slept like a log."

“No worries, mate,” Simon says, rising from his seat and offering it to Miles as they pass one another. "It's only half-past nine. I'm going to make coffee. Either of you want some?"

The two nod, and are left alone in the living room together.

Miles immediately chides Waylon on tending to his wounds. “Come on, let me take a look at your side again. It’ll be quick, alright?”

“It’s not that deep,” Waylon murmurs, but he bashfully raises his shirt just enough for Miles to check. His skin burns like hell. Should it really hurt that much? Is it the wound itself, or is it the feeling of being touched?

“He only got me a little – on the surface. It's not bleeding anymore. Surely it should be alright…?"

“Yeah, I know, but it needs a clean. Don’t want it to get infected." Waylon looks like he might keep arguing with him, so Miles adds: “Infection could spread and kill you. We need you to be able to see your family again, Park."

Miles says we like they’re in this together – they are, though, aren't they? Waylon sighs and relents, closing his eyes tight and thinking hard of something else when he has to lift his shirt for easy access. Miles is the only one who can understand him like this… Except, Waylon was still battling the thought of being understood.

“We’re going to have to go through our documents today,” Miles states as he fusses over Waylon’s wound, wetting it in Neosporin and re-bandaging it. “Look through the footage before we release it. Simon will help us in covering our tracks.”

Speak of the devil – he comes waltzing into the living room with a tray of steaming coffee, offering it to the pair. “I’ll remove any identifiable details in the footage – your voice, your face. Any names or personal information found in your notes and documents, too.”

Waylon nods, accepting the cup of coffee from him, and sipping away. He understands the process, but… something is hanging off of his tongue. His stomach turns at the thought of having to review his footage. The notes and documents are easier to endure. He can dissociate himself from words easily enough. It’s all phonemes making up morphemes making up lexemes making up –

But the footage itself. Actualizing his memories, showing that they’re concrete, that they have a placement in reality. That they’re not just figments of his imagination. His throat tightens with anxiety, heart clamoring in his chest.

Besides, how does he know Simon won't backstab? What if he does something sinister with this information? It's going to be the end of the world – it has been from the start, anyway. He stares down into his cup, watches the coffee ripple as his hands tremble. They haven't stopped trembling on and off in weeks. Call it a nervous tic. He wonders what it'd be like to go into the bathroom and kill himself.

Stop overthinking, Waylon. This is your weakest quality. You self-catastrophize everything. He hears Lisa say to him, in her firm and sweet voice. You can't sabotage this now. You've come too far.

He looks up, feeling unsteady. Looks over at Miles, who is looking at him, whose expression reads are you good, man? – but he doesn’t say that, thank God, because Waylon would be horribly embarrassed and crawl into himself like a catabolic seed and never, ever leave.

Waylon thinks he owes it to Miles to trust him about Simon, though. So he tries. He really does. He clears his throat and begins to speak, trying to maintain as steady of a voice as possible.

"Thank you again for your hospitality, sir. I'm not sure what we would've done without your help."

Miles huffs, grinning at Waylon’s courtesy from behind his coffee cup. Subtle relief shines in his eyes.

"No problem. Anything to help with shutting those sick bastards down," Simon replies, waving a hand in dismissal, "Besides, Miles is good people. I owe the guy."

Owe, owe, owe. Everybody owes each other something. That's the game.



After finishing their coffees and exchanging small talk, they get to work. Waylon and Miles go to the spare room to retrieve their evidence, while Simon busies himself setting up his computer. It’s painstaking.

Waylon is visibly shaking, more so than usual, fighting back tears as he picks up his camera and flicks through his notes. They're riddled with accounts of cannibalism and suicidal ideation. Messages left to Lisa should he have died. Will she even ever see them? He hardly recognizes his own frantic handwriting. It’s gut-wrenching.

He can't do this, he really can't. It's eating him up inside. He could lose everything. He's going to lose everything. His boys, his wife, his normalcy. He can't do this.

“Waylon… Something’s not right. Do you want to talk about it?”

Slowly, he opens his eyes and glances over in Miles’ general direction.

“When has anything been right…” He says, more to himself than anything. It could be a joke if he gave the right energy, but instead, he's on the verge of passing out and Miles' aura of concern makes him want to puke.

“You can tell me anything. We’re in this together, yeah?”

A hand rested on Waylon's shoulder in support has him shattering like glass.

"I don't want to watch my footage back," Waylon's confession spills out quickly, unable to keep it in any longer. No wonder Miles struck it big as a journalist – he reaches into people's minds like a, a, a…

"It's a whole world of hurt. I don't know if I'll be able to cope with... reliving it."

Like he's been doing. Over and over and over again.

Waylon continues – his voice is serious, pained, eyes wet and downturned, "... And, I don't want you to watch it. Not now, not while I'm here. I don't know if I can handle that either."

He's burning with shame at the thought of it. Of Miles looking at him differently after seeing what happened. He'd think Waylon was pathetic, disgusting, that he couldn't defend himself. Maybe he'd even think it was Waylon's fault. He deserved it. He's disgusting. His skin crawls with disgust. He'll never be clean of what happened to him.

But Miles gives him a look.

"It's alright, Park," He says softly. It pierces Waylon right through the core like a knife. "I don't know what happened, nor do I need to. Not until you're ready to talk about it."

Everyone responds differently to these kinds of things. Miles doesn't know what Waylon went through, but with his reactions, he gets... an inkling. A clue. The sort of vibe of what may have happened. It’s the way he doesn’t want to shower, to change his clothes. The way he doesn’t dare look Miles in the eyes. These are the kinds of cues you look for in interviews, when talking to survivors. People after natural disasters, after war, after rape. Miles has talked to all kinds of people. So he gets it. It feels dirty profiling his friend (yeah, he can consider them pretty good friends at this point) this way, but he gets it.

"If it makes you feel better, I won't ever watch it. Not even when it's public. I'll only ever know when you tell me."

Waylon looks like he's about to faint, like he doesn't believe a word coming out of Miles' mouth.

"Oh."

“... You don’t have to upload your footage if you genuinely don’t want to. What I’ve captured may be sufficient enough, but a different point of –”

“I’ll do it,” Waylon says without further hesitation, “I’ll do it.”

For Miles, he’ll do it. Waylon's not the only victim here, not by a long shot. Even if he can’t, he has to, he owes it to him. To everyone.

They gather what’s needed and Miles helps him back to the living room.



Going through five hours of footage was the most difficult – Waylon is in and out of the workspace, having to take breaks, even if this was Miles' account and not his. A slurry of guilt, shame, and post-traumatic stress has him unable to sit and watch for longer than ten minutes at a time. But, his partner's nonchalance is somewhat grounding at the very least.

They pause here and there, Miles making commentary and Simon making adjustments.

"You're good with this part staying in?" Simon asks.

"Sure," Miles replies without a second thought (if there's even a first one.) He doesn't even know what Simon's referencing, not paying attention, too busy wondering what the hell is wrong with himself.

Watching himself be emotionally, physically, and mentally tormented should be distressing. It should have Miles on the edge of his seat, cringing at the sight of gutspill and crucified men. He searches for emotion and instead finds an uncomfortable numbness, a hole where terror, disgust, and anger should be. He begins feeling a sense of envy for Waylon's visceral reactions, but stops himself quickly – everyone reacts differently, Miles, you've been over this, you even told the poor guy that. So apply it to yourself too, won't you?

Thankfully, time flies when you're having fun, so after the longest fucking five hours of his life, they're starting to wrap it up. Simon had tentatively agreed with Waylon's wishes to publish his perspective without further review – there was a risk involved, but after Miles expressed his own support, they went through with it.

The sound of the computer's fan fills the room, humming with the effort of uploading a few dozen gigabytes of stomach-churning evidence. The worst experience of their lives being immortalized on the internet. There's no going back, and frankly, Miles is glad. Once you've reached the point of no return, it can't get any worse. It's not the first time he's had to lay low. Although this time around, he might have to lay low for longer than a few months, maybe years, fuck.

Whatever. Whatever. He'll hit rock bottom and only go up from there. The hole can't get any deeper.

… But what about Waylon? He's got more to lose than Miles does. A wife, kids, probably two doting parents. They couldn't be more different. Miles understands the reluctance from earlier – in fact, part of him was hoping Waylon would live and not tell the tale, make himself less of a target than he already is just for surviving. Miles doesn't have much to leave behind if he gets sniped in the broad daylight, no family would mourn him. He's glad that Waylon does.

And Miles wants Waylon to see his family, terribly so. So that's why when they're prepping to take off, their next destination is Leadville, as per Waylon's request.

“Leadville, we’ve got to go to Leadville… If nothing's happened to them yet, they'll be at home. I need to see them, I need–"

“You’ll see them Park. I promise you. We’ll get there, okay? You’ve got to trust me.”

Shit, Miles doesn't even know if he can guarantee Waylon's family will be alive, but he gladly forgoes bluntness in favor of comfort. Ignorance is sweet and blissful.

He suppresses the thought of a horrific scene that could await them, the thought of Waylon killing himself in front of Miles, leaving him the sole survivor. Maybe Miles would give up too, making that ninety-nine percent fatality rate a solid one-hundred. Wouldn't that be satisfying? Murkoff could have one last win to tickle themselves to, knowing that –

– fuck, what the fuck, stop thinking of this stupid shit. His skin prickles with sweat, feeling like his head is vibrating, like it's packed to the brim with angry wasps, and something's rustling around in his hindbrain, clearly upset. But the feeling is so distant from his own that he officially declares it "not his problem", and thrusts himself back into reality in time for Waylon to let him know he's done refreshing and will be ready to head out soon.



Simon sees them out, holding the door open for them as Miles half-carries Waylon to the jeep. He's got socks now, keeping his sore feet clean and dry – Simon didn't have any extra shoes to spare, but Waylon was ecstatic to have something to cover up with. Their bags go into the back, and Miles makes sure to properly bid his friend farewell before embarking.

“Take care, Upshur. Look after yourself, and keep your eyes peeled. I’ll be watching your six.”

“Yeah, yeah, you go ahead and do that, buddy. Try not to fall off the back of the car while you’re at it too. You know I like to speed."

Miles grins at him, but Simon seems serious. They exchange a firm handshake, Miles hops into his car, and Simon observes as they exit through the shroud of trees and greenery.

Waylon's sat in the passenger seat this time, shifting around in search of a comfortable position, one that wouldn't be too harsh on his bruised body. Miles fidgets with the dials on his dashboard in an attempt to get the music working but to no avail. All that plays is static, harsh and grating in his ears, and if he hears any more static he might actually kill somebody – it’s all he can hear in the underbelly of his mind, discordant and agitating.

“I had the radio working the other night, so I don’t know what the hell is wrong with her right now,” He mutters, running a hand through his hair. Waylon intently watches each anxious tell, a worried expression on his face. “I can’t get it to work anymore, damn it.”

He sighs. Better to leave it till later, they’ve got to get on the move.

“Hey, stay awake this time, will you?” Miles asks, “Keep me company? It’s gonna be a couple hours more of silence, and after yesterday’s drive, I don’t know if I can take it again.”

Waylon doesn’t think he’ll be able to let himself sleep anyway, as exhausted as he is, so he nods. “I’ll try not to let you down.”

On the road, they talk back and forth. A few laughs here and there – tired, but genuine. They’re the only ones on the highway, but Miles still checks the mirrors religiously. It’s good to maintain the habit. He swears he sees something like smoke pursuing the car. Rubs his eyes and it's gone. It feels familiar.

Something's itching the back of his brain. He needs to get it off his mind quickly before he gets too aggravated.

"Alright, Park. Twenty questions, let's go."

"Wait, what?"

"Twenty questions. You know, a little road trip game. Get to know each other a little bit better, now that we're officially partners in crime."

Waylon can't help but grin a little. It’s immature, but in a way he’s fond of. "Okay, okay, but I have to think of a good question first, alright?"

"Don't hurt yourself, just start with the basics. Like – what's your favorite colour?"

"Green, but I like blue too,” Waylon answers.

"Huh. I can appreciate a good green, yeah. I personally like red."

"Okay, then… How about your favourite music genre?"

"Now that’s the good stuff," Miles diverts his gaze from the road for a second to shoot Waylon a toothy grin. "I like rock, punk. Metal too. I’m talkin’ AC/DC, Ozzy Osbourne, Joy Division."

Waylon nods along, "I’ve listened to them. I listen to pretty much anything… but I like classic rock the most. You know, like Queen and The Smiths."

"Maybe things aren't gonna work out between us, Park, because I'm more of a Cure guy myself."

This makes Waylon laugh, like, really laugh, his head rolling back against the headrest. It surprises both of them. Miles smiles too, then glances at the rearview window. Something's coming up the horizon – a black vehicle. It's too small and far back for him to tell what its make is, and the harsh, golden hour sun's hitting the mirror just wrong enough to screw with his vision.

"Shit, hey, do you see that?"

His partner barely makes out a what? before Miles floors the gas, appearing just as spooked by the action as Waylon does. His gut instinct is going batshit crazy, hackles raised and heart pounding. Checking the mirror, he sees that the car pursuing them has picked up the pace too.

He hears that boyish voice from this morning again, but instead of sounding meek and gentle, it’s frenzied.

It’s them! I don’t want to go back! Speed up! We have to go faster, they’re going to get us, kill us, they’re –

“I’m going as fast as I fucking can, okay?!” Miles involuntarily shouts in response, eyes wild. He glances over at Waylon to see that the man has shrunk against the seat, like he’s trying to make himself look as tiny as possible, and he’s squinting back at Miles in bewilderment, too terrified to even make a noise.

“Fuck, Park, sorry, I wasn’t talking to you. I think it’s Murkoff. Fuck!”

His vision has blurred around the perimeter with disembodied shapes, the sound of humming bursting in his ears like it’s on the radio full-blast. That car’s gaining on them. Somebody’s going to die here. It’s not going to be him. His body feels raging hot, and this weird, fucked-up feeling of something leaving his fucking body overcomes him, like there’s a huge gaping hole in his soul now. He’s in the backseat of himself now, jaw dropped and head spinning.

Hands too large to be his own start ripping metal apart. Bullets spray into the rear window, and his jeep swerves around the road, he’s not in control of it anymore. Waylon throws himself over the console to clutch onto the wheel for dear life, trying to steady the car.

Miles hears a tearful mantra of I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I don't want to do this, not again, play on repeat in his mind. He’s not alone in his own mind (probably hasn’t been for the past few days) and finds himself taking the metaphorical backseat, watching himself from a distance.

There's an error. Static meeting static, warping around one another like repelling magnets, white noise roaring in his ears.

Next thing he knows, the Murkoff van hurdles straight at him, both cars careening off the road, everything so fast. It seems like they're whirling, tumbling, clattering around endlessly, metal and glass crumpling together from impact, until they're not. It's all gone still.

He opens his eyes after a few seconds, or maybe minutes, or God-knows-how-long, vision half-black, staring blankly at the fissures spread all over the windshield. Everything fucking hurts. His head is spinning, he looks around, the world spiraling around him, feeling sick. He tries to move his arms but they’re trapped, glass shards embedded in his skin.

He looks around, disoriented. Hears the sound of the door being pried open. “Waylon…?”

“Upshur. I got you. Don’t worry, I got you.”

The voice doesn’t belong to the techie. But it’s familiar. His eyes twitch and flutter, watering with the effort taken to keep them open. He's starting to lose himself more and more each time he blinks, the milky darkness behind his eyelids so tempting.

“Stay awake. Do you hear me? I need you to stay awake. Fuck.”

Everything goes fully black.

Notes:

"it can't get any worse" can it, miles? can it really not get any worse?

annyyyyyways .... that's a wrap for wintered debts! part 2 of wolf murder will be out Some Time In The Near Future! i start a part-time job soon so i may not be able to pump out chapters too quickly, however the next arc is fairly well-developed already and i have a lot written!

i really hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, it was fun to write, if a little difficult. please let me know what you think!!! feedback is immensely important to me and so helpful. i can't believe this has amounted to almost 9k, with each chapter getting longer and longer... tell me, do you guys prefer a nice long chapter, or shorter ones?

thanks for reading! hit me up on tumblr if you want!

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