Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Jack, it hurts.”

He’s been ignoring drunken chatter, a mediocre live band, and the pouring of drinks for an hour. But it’s her voice, that sentence—Jack, it hurts—that snaps tension into his body. He surveys the room—the exits aren't blocked, no immediate possible threats—as he whirls to face her.

Amy. There are no cuts, bruises, or red blotches on her face, neck, or the exposed skin of her arms and legs. She’s not clutching her stomach or chest. Her feet are set normally on the ground—no injury below the knee. But she rarely complains about pain, meaning the issue is real. Which leaves one other possibility—

“It’s just the sunburn. No one hurt me,” she assures him, hand on his bicep—small, can’t fit all the way around him.

It makes Reacher want to wrap her up and never let go. Until Amy, he's never met someone that wants to make him stay in one spot. It's new. He doesn't know how he feels about it. But at least he knows how he feels about Amy, who is rubbing his shoulder now.

He grits his jaw, her assuaging attempts aside. He splays one big hand over her hip and guides her to the exit.

“We should get you back home anyway. I should’ve taken care of it earlier.”

“Jack, it’s fine; I said to stay out like we planned.” Her big brown-almost-black eyes gaze up at him, sparkling in the shitty lights that buzz overhead. Hard-working woman, still soft. “It just... hurts more than I thought it would.”

Amy’s the only one who calls him that: Jack. No fear, no ulterior motive. He’s her Jack.

“We’ll get aloe on the way,” is all he answers with. He falls quiet as she climbs into the car’s shotgun seat, and he walks around. He taps on the breaks—there’s pressure behind them—and checks the fuel gauge before he fires up the engine and heads off.

Amy doesn’t have Parkinson’s, vitiligo, diabetes, or hypertension. There's not much illness in her family history that he knows about. Of everything she’s told him, this is the second major burn in her life. Her risk of skin cancer should be below average.

It’s a small relief, he supposes.

He drives to the local convenience store, parks out of more muscle memory than focus, and in one fluid motion is out of the car and making his way across the blacktop. Amy keeps up with him—two steps for every one of his.

“Cute,” he says in a dry voice.

“I’m adorable,” she agrees, tilting her chin up. Haughtiness—even her jokingly acting so—looks ridiculous on her. She’s got a rural PA accent, a farmer’s tan, and more often than not grease stains on her forearms.

Actually, he met her while her face was smeared with chicken shit.

Reacher slips an arm around her waist once they enter the store. She guides him to the medical aisle. Picks out some aloe. He grabs it and takes her straight back to the counter. Pays for it before she can protest.

Then it’s back to Amy's car, and driving out into the country to her little home. He hums blues to himself as they go; she squirms around in obvious discomfort. He needs to soothe the burn soon.

Reacher’s been with Amy for a year now. He caught wind of a brutal child murder two counties over, and the lead dragged him to the one Amy lives in—to a local animal showing. She was the most talkative one there, he approached—rumors travel fast in small towns—and asked some questions. He tried to be polite about the fact that her face was covered in shit and that her hands were, too. Speaking of, Amy talks with her hands—he was half expecting her to fling feces all over him.

She didn’t, though.

One thing led to another, and by the time he took care of the murderer, he and Amy were companionable. He was ready to leave her be—to pack up what little he has and hit the road again. Find another job to do. But she had moseyed her way to his rental car at the time, set her arms on the windowsill of the driver’s side door, and flashed him a Hollywood smile.

“Jack—” Amy starts softly.

He holds a finger up. “One moment. This is my favorite part.”

And she had said, “Well, mister, unless you gotta go, I was hopin’ to snag you for a date.”

And that was that.

Now she’s all he is. He doesn’t stray more than three states away from Pennsylvania, and he makes a point of seeing her at least once every two weeks. Settling down in a town where he won't do much with himself but toil in the dirt is something he’s not ready to do, and for reasons unknown to him, Amy has no complaints. All she does is give. Gives him everything from time to love to a mere passing glance.

Reacher smiles faintly at the memory, at what he has now. He spares a glance at her. Then focuses back on the road. “Yeah?”

“I normally don’t condone speedin’ but the seatbelt burns, and I’d like to get home.” Her face is pained. “And I really want you to take care of me.”

That’s all the say he needs before he’s doing 15 over on the back roads. She never asks to be taken care of. Not when period cramps cripple her, or when she gets nasty gashes from torn fencing. Amy’s tough. And there must be an underlying issue now that she’s finally given in and asked to be tended to.

“I’ll keep an eye out for eye shine,” she adds. “Deer run thick right up on this road.”

It’s quite the thing to be around a person that knows her home so well. Between MP operations, that business down in Georgia with Joe, and the rambling life he’s taken up, he figures he’s never known what it is to know a place as well as you know yourself.

Most days he doesn’t know himself, either. A no one that lives nowhere.

He’s pulling up to her driveway and helping her out of her car. Her old beater pickup sits proudly in front of the garage. Between now and his last visit, it appears she did a rust job on it—thing looks better. And the exhaust is now at the tail of the bed, instead of sticking out the side.

“Looks good,” he says, nodding to the truck.

“Thanks.” Amy’s tugging the back of her shirt away from her skin—it must be chafing terribly.

“I got you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, at what he hopes comes across as tenderness. He holds the shirt off her back for her. She shuffles up the steps of her covered porch, then unlocks the door. Beelines it for the master bathroom. She goes up the stairs one step at a time; he goes two.

Amy’s shrugging the shirt off as Reacher peels off the safety plastic over the bottle cap on the aloe. She brushes her teeth quickly, rakes a comb through her hair, then grabs some Lidocaine from the medicine cabinet. She makes her way past him and to the bedroom, where she sits on the edge of the mattress.

He pulls his concealed carry weapon—9 mm, not his preferred size of ammunition, but it’ll do—and sets it on the nightstand, barrel towards the wall. Just in case.

Reacher sits crisscross behind her. The bed groans under his weight. He frowns as he looks at her back—the skin is bright, angry red and her shoulders sport a few blisters.

“And you wanted to tough this out,” he says dryly.

She must take it for a prod, because she answers, “I didn’t wanna go home at three in the afternoon over a burn from the pool. I figured your shirts are soft enough that it’d be fine.”

At least he got to take her out while she was in his t-shirt.

“Let’s argue over your poor self-preservation habits later,” he sighs. He brushes a knuckle on her skin. She winces. “Easy. Can I take your bra off?”

“Flirt,” she teases. There’s not much that seems to be able to take away her good humor. “But yeah, you can. S’fine.”

Reacher likes the drawl of her voice.

Large fingers nimbly undo her clasp, and when he takes the garment off to toss it aside, she sags forward as if she let down a huge bag of feed. Then he pours a generous amount of aloe on his palm, and splays it over her back, rubbing it in as soft as he can.

Amy still stiffens, her back arching and muscles jumping. Every time he asks about it, she says simply that she had a bad upbringing.

Reacher can fill in the details.

“God, that feels better,” she says, despite the way she squirms when his hand goes for the small of her back. “Might as well empty the whole fuckin’ bottle. That shit’s cold.”

“I’m not going to do that. You’ll need a few more applications before we can get additional treatments tomorrow.”

“Such a stick in the mud,” she grumbles, but it’s good-natured. He can appreciate that.

Reacher puts a bit of aloe on both hands, then rests them on her back and rubs it in—careful to make sure it doesn’t hurt any more than necessary. She jerks to the left as his right hand comes to her right shoulder blade. Like she’s evading harm’s way.

“Hurts?”

“No, no, it feels good. Nice and cold. I just tense up like that, ignore it.”

Reacher wants to sit her down until she tells him who hurt her—who he has to go find next—but he knows this is something that has to come in time.

He’s good at waiting.

“Turn around, I need to get your front.”

Amy does, and his eyes go for the angry burns on her collarbone and halfway down her sternum. At least her breasts aren’t terribly injured; only women can know what that feels like. Must be hell.

Reacher’s a third the way through the bottle after the last portion is put onto his hand—he’s careful as he kneads the lotion into her chest.

She’s never told him she’s been assaulted. But that doesn’t mean he can’t fill in the details. She jumps when someone comes in her blind spot. She hid herself in him after the first time they had sex—please don’t just use me for this. She has to take sleeping medicine every night.

Lately Reacher’s counted the dose out for her, for fear that one night she’ll take a pill too many.

“So chaste,” Amy jokes as his hand passes idly above her breast.

Reacher grunts. He’s never going to touch her unless she explicitly says she wants it. He’s never going to make a move on her while he’s tending to her or when she comes to him for simple affection. Because he’s never been a guy that needs to get off; he’s got enough self-control to stop halfway through if it’s asked of him. And he would certainly rather keep Amy happy than have a quick fuck and make her feel as if it’s all she’s good for.

The cap’s screwed back onto the bottle; he rubs a bit of Lidocaine over the burn blisters. Then both are tucked away into the med cabinet.

When he returns, she’s tucked herself under the covers and is letting out soft whimpers and hisses as the blanket touches her back.

“That sensitive?” Reacher commiserates. He lays down next to her, and slips a hand under the blanketing and holds it up. He hopes it will provide momentary relief.

“It’s sticky, actually. The aloe cooled it down pretty well.”

“Well. You’ll just have to deal with it,” Reacher says. Drops the blanket down on her; the burns will get uncomfortably hot again, but she needs to keep warm at night. And he’s crashed here often enough to know that she feels safest when under the covers.

“Such a stick in the mud!” But Amy’s smiling softly at him. She looks even smaller curled up under the covers.

He reaches one bear-paw of a hand to cup her face, rubbing a thumb over her cheekbone. “I'm telling you how it is. I’m going to get undressed and brush my teeth, lock the house, then I’ll be back.”

Amy’s eyes hold no small amount of worry. “How long d’you reckon?”

“10 minutes tops. I’ll be back, I promise.”

With that, he gets up and checks the windows and doors in the bedroom—locked. Then he systematically ensures every other entry point in the house is secure. The property camera is functional when he glances at the monitor in Amy's office room.

His girlfriend describes herself to him as like a clingy dog—when someone leaves the room, all she does is wait for them to come back. She keeps tabs on Reacher whenever he slips out of sight. It’s sad.

But it isn't controlling. She has no qualm with him going where he pleases. She only insists she know when he’ll come back and nothing more.

Reacher wants to know who left her, so he knows who he’s going to drag back to her and force an apology from their mouth.

He makes a quick stop in the kitchen, grabbing a juice glass and filling it with cold water.

When he comes back upstairs, cup in hand, Amy is still curled up in the bed. She watches him as he enters the bathroom. He gives her the water—"Sip it slowly”—and heads off to brush his teeth, take a piss, and come back to where Amy is. He shucks his clothes off next to the bed. Piles up on the floor.

The part of Amy that isn’t covered is her head, and he can feel her gaze as he undresses, as he slides into bed next to her. The cup is empty and on the nightstand.

She slings a leg over his thighs, tucking her face into his neck. Automatically his hand comes up underneath her rear to hold her in place. He can feel her smile as her lips graze over his pulse point, under his jaw—his breath hitches when she laps at the hollow behind his ear.

“Looks like only one of us is chaste,” Reacher jokes, voice dry as always.

Amy nuzzles into the juncture between his neck and shoulder; one hand scratches idly at his tawny chest hair, the other coming up to play with the hair at the base of his skull.

“And the other one is pretty needy,” he adds. "A man can appreciate that." He likes her all the time—when she’s working hard and without complaint, when she curls into him for the protection she can’t seem to verbally ask for.

What really does it is the needy sound Amy makes as she presses herself to him tighter. If the burns weren’t there, he’d be rubbing her back.

“You okay?”

“Make love to me?” Amy asks instead of answering.

Reacher works his jaw as he thinks. She’s in a state of distress, but he can’t tell what it is—meaning he there's no way to know if it inhibits her ability to consent, or if sex will assuage the issue. Not to mention the sunburn on her back; she likes to be under him because it feels safer, but laid down on her back or her belly will chafe.

“You need rest,” he settles on.

Amy makes another whining noise, nosing under his jaw, her leg pulling up such that it’s over his thighs and belly. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I won’t make y’do something that you don’t wanna. But I wanna.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to have sex with you. It’s that I don’t want to hurt you.”

She kisses over his cheeks and forehead, propping herself up on her arms—hands on the mattress by either side of his head. It gives him a good look at her breasts, which he knows will fit perfectly into his palms.

He stops that line of thinking there.

“You won’t. You’ve never hurt me,” she says, and the sincerity in her eyes stirs his heart. She’s looking at him like he’s the first she can say that about.

“But your sunburn—”

“Jack.”

Reacher goes quiet, then. Gazes up in wonder at the woman that keeps choosing him. She moves a hand to rub over a scar on his left pectoral. He thinks of shrapnel, but not for long—not with her hair curtaining around her head, her smell, her warm soft skin.

“Please,” Amy says, and he can only watch the walls around her crumble—the jokes, the sly looks—as her face contorts into vulnerable want. “I’ve missed you.”

That’s all it takes before his lips are slotted against hers, without words telling her I love you; with care he flips her onto her back. She hisses.

“Want to stop?” he asks, eyebrows drawn together.

Amy shakes her head. “Want you.”

Lips at her neck, now. The heat of the burn is slowly ebbing back. He makes a note of getting her more water after this. His hands run up and down her sides, stopping at her panty line.

“Please,” she mumbles into his cheek, where she's kissing him.

She doesn’t need to ask him again. He takes the last of her clothes off, then marvels at the woman beneath him. Kind, smart, beautiful inside and out, who wants him and only him to touch the most intimate parts of her—all his. And he’s all hers.

“I miss this while I’m on the road,” he pants into her ear. “Miss you.”

Reacher dips a hand between her legs, and from thereon out soaks in her breathy sighs, her whimpers, the moan she lets out when he can finally push in and roll his hips into hers, how it always makes his eyes flutter. How good it feels to be with her. The way she curls into him for love, for protection. The little arch of her back when he helps her find release.

When it’s done, his forehead dips to her shoulder, panting as he closes his eyes. Reacher has stamina in excess—always has—and judging by the sleepy way she nuzzles his neck, it’s not changed that he’ll be the one to take care of her afterwards.

“I love you,” he mumbles into her hair.

“I love you too.”

Four simple words. Each monosyllabic. And somehow, across the years, of all the things he’s ever been told, it’s only those four that could convince him to stay. Perhaps because he knows she asks nothing of him. In the past he’s hooked up with women he likes, but who don’t require him to stay. He’s cared for them; they’ve cared for him.

It’s only Amy who he can truly say he loves and is loved by.

Reacher knows they’ll have to move from their spot. Usually he’s on the move before anyone else is. Always the practical one. But Amy always breaks down his usuals. Because he does the impractical thing and pretends, just a bit longer, that he’ll never have to let go of her. It’s bliss to stay inside her, now more comfort for the both of them than anything else.

Reacher tenderly brushes his nose against hers. He admires the glassy look in her eyes, the dewy sheen of sweat layered over blush that blooms from her cheeks down to her breasts. Her left hand comes up to his back; she splays it over his shoulder blades and rubs it across the expanse of sinew and muscle and scar tissue.

They spend several long minutes like this—soaking in each other’s presence. Reacher plants kisses all over her, has kisses planted all over him in return. Nothing but comfort and love.

He does, eventually, break the stillness. He breaks all things. “I’m going to clean you up, get you some water.”

Her assent is a nod buried in his neck. He pulls out slowly, eyes fluttering once again at how good she feels. Then he helps her out of the bed, and hoists her into his arms easily; her legs wind around his hips, arms crossed over his back. He’s got one hand under her rear, the other cupping the nape of her neck.

Amy whimpers again, and there’s wetness on his skin. His heart starts to hammer.

“Shh, I’m right here,” Reacher coos, carrying her to the bathroom. Beneath his calm tone he’s panicking. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, no—I just—I just love you so much,” she says, hardly audible, and it settles him down.

He’ll never allow himself a moment of happiness ever again if he hurts her, accident or otherwise.

Reacher sets Amy on the edge of the bathtub; he runs the faucet to wet a washcloth, then wipes it between her legs. He gets another one to wipe himself up. Then he washes his hands, and gives her a fresh glass of water. While she drinks he grabs the Lidocaine, and applies one last thin layer over all her sunburns before he lifts her back up and puts her into bed.

Amy’s stopped crying now, at the very least. She curls right into him; so small next to his body. He knows he’s a beast of a man. He pets her hair, tutting affectionate shushes at her. Her hands bunch up the blanketing, then let go, a few times over. Her eyes are sleepy as she regards him. Pleasant tiredness washes over his own body. They spend several more minutes like this, until she grabs his forearm, rubbing her cheek against the inside of his wrist. He stills so she can do as she pleases.

“You okay?” He asks again.

Amy hums, scooting closer to bury her face in his chest. He tangles his legs with hers. “I’m just glad you’re back in town.”

“Did something happen while I was away?”

“No,” she mumbles. Her breath is a soft puff over his pectorals. “Just missed you. Bad.”

“It’s normal to miss people you love,” he offers, slipping into what Amy likes to call “information mode.” He thinks he’s just being reasonable. He’s capable of using his interpersonal skills. “I missed you too. There’s nothing to be ashamed about.”

“I ain’t ashamed, boy. I missed you.”

Reacher chuckles lightly, eyes half-closed. His laughs rumble up from his chest. Amy loves to press her ear over his chest and listen. It’s warm under the covers with her; her hands are rough from work, arms and legs shaped by oft used muscle, but her stomach is soft and so is her skin. Pleasant. “Love you.”

“I love you too.”

He sits with her for a bit more, letting her fall into easy, companionable quiet, until he says, “Tell me why you seemed more needy than usual today.”

“You like it when I’m needy, don’t complain.” Her tone’s back to lighthearted. He sees through it.

“I do. But I’m not a moron. Something was wrong. I want you to tell me.”

“I just... saw someone that reminded me of things I’d rather forget. You know how I am when I get like that, need to be told I’m wanted and all else,” Amy explains, non-committal to the details.

“Do you trust me?” Reacher asks.

She lifts her head to give him a funny look: you have to ask? “Course.”

“Then how come you never tell me exactly who and what hurt you?”

Amy falls quiet for a bit, one of her hands back to rubbing over his shrapnel scar. “You’d kill them.”

“And you don’t want them dead?”

“I ain’t no stranger to violence. Grown up around it. Just never learnt a taste for it—certainly not the senseless kind.”

“You’re a better person than me,” Reacher says. He can’t find it in himself to care that some might think he’s evil. “But you know that I don’t go after people unless they deserve it. And the way you hide what they did, the trauma responses you have—it sounds like they deserve it.”

“I know you kill folk what need killing, Jack. I just... don’t want to dig them out from the mental hole I put them in.” Amy kisses the tip of his nose. “Let’s just go to bed. All I need is to be loved on for a bit.”

Some progress, at least. “Alright,” Reacher agrees, and he does his level best to keep disappointment from his face. He wrestles with himself for how to word the next part. “And... thank you, for coming to me.”

Amy settles back into his arms, and he draws her close as best he can, all the burns considered. “Sure.” She pauses, too, no doubt working out in her own head what to say next. “You know, I act like a tough redneck to keep myself safe. I act the way I do, ‘cause it’s all I know. Kept me alive in my childhood. I carry a knife everywhere I go, I got a good, confident walk, and I look like someone who can handle herself. Truth is, Jack, that deep down I’m just a scared little girl. Pretending to protect herself because she knows no one else will.”

A kiss is placed over his sternum, then a few more as she trails down a handful of inches. “Reckon the only one who will protect me is you, at no small inconvenience.”

“It’s not a problem,” Reacher says, straight away. “I know you can handle yourself. I don’t care. When Joe died, everything felt bad. Then while working that case, I met a different girl, and that felt good. Until she got fed up with the fact that I’d always protected her. She wanted something I couldn’t give.”

“Which was? What, for you to not care ‘bout her?”

“No. She wanted me to leave her to her own devices, save myself before her.” Reacher shakes his head. He’s got a lot of respect for Roscoe, and he still thinks of her as a good friend—even if he was never tied down to her and never speaks to her now—but she asked him the one thing he could never give.

To be left well enough alone. Not to be fretted over.

“When we split split ways when I skipped town, everything felt bad again. We weren’t officially a thing, and I didn’t love her, so I kept drifting. But it still felt bad. You, though, Amy—you’re an impressive woman. And a woman I can still protect. It’s all I know. Things feel better than they ever have.”

That must knock the wind right out of Amy’s sails, because she’s quiet for a while, tracing a finger over a hickey on his neck. Her breath is shaky. “You really like protecting me.”

“I’m not a good man. Hell, I’m no giver.” He’s a killer, and she knows that. “But I’m tired of pushing away people that I love. I’m not going to do that to you. I want to protect you. I want to know that I’m the reason you’re safe. You could be a better fighter than me, and I’d still put myself between you and danger.”

Amy’s lips meet his in response—slow, languid. His eyes drift shut as he leans into it. She parts her lips for him easily, and he laves over the roof of her mouth. He runs his fingers through her long hair, which she only ever lets down for him.

“Love you too,” she whispers onto his lips.

This is the home he comes back to. Without fail.

Reacher’s up at 0600 hours. The sun’s peeking through the windows, painting warmth on Amy’s sleeping face. He brushes a knuckle over her cheek. To feel her. The sight of Amy comfortable and settled in the mornings is a work of art. And if art is from the soul, this is the closest he’ll ever get to touching her soul.

The longing to be that close to someone is new to him.

He buries it in self-appointed missions. He gets dressed and stows his gun in his jeans. He turns her morning alarm off and tends to the animals for her. Cleans the house, minus the laundry. He checks the oil in her vehicles. He pulls weeds from the garden beds, waters her indoor flowers. Lastly he cooks sausages for breakfast.

It’s 0800 hours when he brings the food and water up. Hears a distressed shriek from upstairs. He slams the contents down on a little table she has at the top of the steps, and nearly takes out the hinges as he enters the bedroom. Pulling his gun to the ready is a fluid, natural motion—like breathing. His weapon is pointed down as he surveys the room.

Amy’s alone, by the dresser. She has his shirt halfway on and is whimpering. Her eyes catch his, and there’s gentle sympathy there, not pity. A small mercy. He puts the gun away.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m safe. I didn’t mean to trigger you.”

“It’s fine,” Reacher says, voice gruff. Finds himself hoping that the cold resoluteness to eliminate the threat didn’t scare her. “Let me help.”

The burns are angry still. He guides her back to the bed so he can reapply the aloe, then he eases his shirt onto her. She lifts her hips for him as he slides on a pair of fresh panties and shorts.

“Could do this myself,” she says.

“Could, but I won’t let you. You need to rest.” He gets up, grabs her food and drink, and presents it to her. “Sit back.”

“Yessir,” she says, giving him a mock salute. And tucks into her food.

Reacher slides down next to her—rests one large thigh against one of her smaller ones. Their backs are propped up against the headboard. He snakes an arm around her waist, settling his hand on her hip.

“I took care of all the morning duties,” he tells her. “And yes, I remembered to dip the goats’ teats this time.”

Amy smiles into her breakfast. “I had a right conniption fit when I found out about that last time.”

Reacher grunts by way of agreement. “We’ll be free to do whatever we like until 1800 hours when we need to do the evening milk.”

“That sounds nice,” Amy says on a wistful sigh. “How long are you gonna be in town for?”

“At least the next three days. If I don’t get a call about a job by then, I might head out to look for one.”

Her smile wanes a little. “Maybe you could stay longer. But you do what you want. If you love somethin’, set it free, right?”

Reacher nudges her shoulder. “And if it loves you, it’ll come back. I keep coming back. I promise, this time won’t be any different.”

It’s the only promise he willingly gives.

“Oh, I know. I just like your company, that’s all. I won’t cramp ya style.”

Reacher’s convinced he’ll never meet someone as good-natured as Amy. And he’ll certainly never understand how the hell she can stand to choose him.

The doorbell rings—a long buzzzz that reverberates the house. Reacher stills, hand going to his pocket. Gun’s there. Amy looks less concerned, until it rings again. Longer, this time.

She heaves a sigh. “I’ll—”

“Rest,” Reacher finishes for her. “You’ll rest. I’ll handle it.”

Amy, for her part, doesn’t voice the obvious relief. But Reacher can see it—the look on her face, the slump in her shoulders, as he gets up. Her back and chest must be on fire from every movement.

“I might make a run for more aloe, too,” he says, and shuts the door behind him.

Reacher opens the door to a short, stout man who looks a few years older than Amy. He arches an eyebrow.

“You’re... not Amy,” the stranger points out.

“Hadn’t noticed,” Reacher says, voice dry as the Sahara. He squares his shoulders; he’s not above using his size to make a point. “And you’re not someone I know.”

“I’m Todd,” he supplies, and tries to peer around Reacher. He steps in the man’s way. “I knew Amy in high school.”

“Did you.”

Todd shifts from one foot to the other. He exudes impatience, but there’s not a note of nervousness in his eye. “Yeah. I swung by to talk to her. I—well, I didn’t realize she still lived in this town until I was passing through and saw her in a bar last night.”

I just... saw someone that reminded me of things I’d rather forget.

Reacher doesn’t jump to conclusions, but the thought is there, on the back burner. “Why did you want to see her?” he asks, taking a step forward.

“We used to be a thing, is all. Just wanted to check up on her.”

“One moment,” Reacher says, shutting the door behind him and locking it. The click is satisfying.

He makes a quick run upstairs, poking his head into the bedroom. Amy looks up from a book. Empty dishes from breakfast are on the nightstand.

“A man named Todd showed up. Said he’s an ex from high school.”

The look on Amy’s face is decidedly guarded. “And you did what with him?”

“Told him to wait. He wants to speak with you. Up to you what I do with him.”

“Tell him to get lost,” Amy decides, looking away. Her jaw is clenched, tenseness is in the set of her shoulders.

Reacher knows better than to push for more information just yet. He loves Amy far, far more than he likes the thrill of a fight. If Todd deserves retribution, that is for a future conversation to decide.

“Rodger,” Reacher says.

He returns to the front door: “Well, where is she?” Judging by the way the other man takes a step back and no longer has a proud chest, his anticipation is giving way to anxiety.

“You have exactly three seconds to turn and run off of her property before you have to answer to me,” Reacher snarls.

It works. Man makes an about face and hurries off.

The door locks again behind him, and Reacher settles once more into the bed with Amy, drawing her to him. He will protect her.

He’s considering the age. That man looks a handful of years older. If he knew her in high school...

“I hate people who hurt children,” Reacher says, voice low and dangerous. His eyes are narrowed. Putting two and two together.

It’s Amy gently curling her hand over his that has him uncurling his fists. “Thanks for runnin’ him off.”

He does not miss the way that she doesn’t address the issue.

“Any time.”

Amy kisses his cheek. “Let’s go to the festival in town. You arrived just in time for it.”

“You need rest,” Reacher says, but he’s still thinking. She jumps at touch. She avoids older men. She consistently insists he stays after sex and not use her. When she shuts down, it’s because she perceives him to be upset at her.

“I’ll keep your t-shirt on and wear a sun hat. Most of the vendors are shaded. I wanna make the most of your time here.”

“Alright,” he agrees eventually, because he loves her and he wants to make the most of his time, too.

He’s thinking about it on the drive into town. He thinks about it as he holds Amy’s hand and lets her guide him to all the food and trinket vendors there. He thinks about it as he wordlessly, without prompt, pays for whatever it is she wants.

Not to say that he has a bad time—he has a great time. He’s with Amy. He gets to watch her eyes light up at a nice pair of earrings. He gets to hear her low croon as she says hi to all the dogs different people own. He gets to watch her open up and chatter with the vendors. Gets to marvel to himself at her kindness and wit.

But what has been done to her lingers in his head. He knows the shape of the thing, not the details.

The more he thinks about it, the more he’s ready to kill Todd.

Reacher doesn’t forget to buy another bottle of aloe on their way home. He’s tender as he slathers it over her. Then they sit out on the back porch, admiring the animals. Amy is tucked into his arms safely as she watches her livestock mill about. Tall sunflowers line the wall of the house.

“Does kissing and sex still mean I love you?” Amy asks, quiet.

She catches him off-guard with that one. He shifts around in his seat. “Of course. That’s all it’ll ever mean.”

“Okay,” Amy says, nods to herself a few times. “That’s what it means to me too.”

And then her legs are straddling his lap, her chest flush to his, and she’s kissing him softly as her arms wind over the back of his neck. His big, broad arms curl around her waist. He sighs, in gentle relief, as her lips part. If ambrosia has a taste, it’s Amy.

His eyes open halfway as he pulls back. He can still feel her breath fan over his face. “Do you want me to have sex with you?”

“Yes please,” Amy pants.

Her mouth goes for his favorite spot on his neck as he stands up, effortless, and takes her inside. AC hits them both; she shivers and tightens her hold on him.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” he says, nuzzling her cheek. “I’ll take care of it.”

It’s as special as any other time. The way she feels around him, her sighs and moans, her blunt nails gentle in the way they grip his back, the bucking of her hips—

Reacher comes undone and lets himself lie on top of her, using his arms to keep most of his weight from harming her. He lays with her, telling her repeatedly that he loves her, until he has to get up and clean her off. He tucks her in for a nap, kissing her forehead as he draws the covers over.

“I’ll go take care of the animals. Rest. I’ll be back.”

“Okay,” Amy agrees, yawning. “Promise?”

“Always.”

Reacher’s out of the room, then, sighing to himself. He hopes one day she’ll see that he means it—he loves her, he’s going to come back every time.

He wakes to the stench of urine.

A tiny, trembling body is against his. The clock reads 01:22.

“Jack—” Amy grits out, voice strained.

“You’re safe,” Reacher says, sitting up with Amy in his arms. There’s an uncomfortable slide of warm wet blankets down his thighs. “It’s okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

She takes in a sharp gasp, legs kicking as she tries to peel herself from him. “Shit, Jack, I—I’m so sorry, I—fuck, I didn’t mean—”

“Easy, you’re okay.” He kisses the crown of her head repeatedly. Then he stands her up, and she’s got to choice but to cling onto him. He’s been covered in far worse than piss and tears. “I’m going to clean you and the bed up. Then we are talking about this. And I mean that.”

Reacher does not like pushing her, but he has to. He wipes up her tear stained face. He draws some hot water, wets a rag, and washes between her legs. It’s necessary. He’s never seen her like this before—it’s usually her talking him down from nightmares—and he knows that something has happened between his last stay and now. He intends on finding out what. And he is going to fix it. The emergency needs to be dealt with now; Amy can cry it out later.

When he finishes washing her up, he helps her out of the bath and—mindful of the burns—towels her off. She raises her arms, wincing. He slides a shirt back on her.

“Where do you want to be while I clean the bed?” he asks.

Amy’s still shivering, gasping for air. “I—I don’t...”

Reacher saves her the trouble of worrying about it. “That’s okay. I’ll sit you down next to me.”

She nods, stumbling out of the bathroom. He hooks his hands under her armpits as he eases her onto the carpet. She grabs one of his discarded shirts and brings it close, inhaling deeply as she hides her face.

Reacher works quickly. Shucks off the ruined sheets and blanketing, carries it down in one load to the laundry room. He comes up with another set of bedding and cleaning supplies. He gets up what he can from the mattress, then redresses the bed, and turns around.

Amy. Curled in a ball on the floor.

He figures that right now being 6’ 5” might not be the most soothing thing. He bends down on his knees, hunching over to get on her level.

“Hey baby.”

The pet name gets her attention. She peeks an eye out at him, drawing back under his no doubt analytical gaze.

“I’m not judging you. It’s a common trauma response. I don’t mind.”

Amy, slowly, uncurls herself and lets him help her into bed. At least she is more receptive to tenderness than he is. But he understands the feeling all the same—they are similar people. Forced to know violence intimately. Being at ease while this vulnerable is not something that comes naturally.

He props his back against the headboard, legs splayed wide. She crawls into his lap, and rests all of her torso and head on his chest. One hand goes to lay over his stomach. She always has said she enjoys his softly defined abs. She curls a finger around his happy trail. One of his large arms runs the length of her back, hand beneath her thighs. His other curls to hold her head close.

“Does that chafe the burn?”

“No. It’s okay.” Her voice is flat.

Reacher remains quiet for a few minutes. He speaks when the tension dissipates from her muscles. Her back is still scorching hot. She’s suffering, and he can hardly do anything to help.

“When I was still in the Military Police,” he starts. She shifts in his arms; getting more comfortable. “I had a tour in Baghdad. I met a handful of boys—ten, eleven or so—playing soccer. Looked like it had been bombed a few days before. I’d wave to them, they’d wave to me. By the time evening rolled around, there’d been more fighting in the area. I wanted them to get home safely. So I returned, and saw all of them being abused by older men.”

Amy stiffens.

“You can fill in the rest. I ripped those men away from the boys, sent the kids home, and told those—monsters, that they can answer to me, or to the law. They chose me. I killed them.” Reacher pauses, letting it hang in the air. He doesn’t regret it for a second. That’s the rub: veterans don’t take pleasure in it.

He did. They deserved it.

“Since then I’ve taken out several more abusers. Money, sick pleasure—those are at the heart of it. After Joe died and that business in Georgia, after cutting ties with the few people I knew, it was the one thing I had left. Hunting down the abusers of kids who thought no one would come to their rescue.”

He looks down at Amy, sees that she’s crying silently, and says, “Does that sound like something that happened to you?”

“Jack.” Her voice breaks. She curls up, burrowing into him as much as possible. “It hurts. What he did to me—it hurts.”

Reacher’s eyes squeeze shut as his heart clenches. He rests his nose and mouth on the top of her head, pressing a long kiss there. “I know it does.”

“He—” Amy falters, choking on a sob, as she squirms against him. “Todd, he—”

“Tell me what he did so I can fix it.”

“I was a freshman in high school. He was a senior, but he’d been held back two years. A female friend of his set me up on a date with him for homecoming. God, I was so stupid...”

Reacher shakes his head. “Not stupid. A victim.”

Amy doesn't acknowledge it; they can work on her guilt later. “Well, he—I mean, we went on a date. My dad was fine with me goin’ with him. And it was fine! Until... until it wasn’t. He started slow, tellin’ me I had to find a way to prove to him that I liked him. Then if I made a joke about him, he’d stop talking to me. I once told him I didn’t wanna have sex yet. He ignored my texts for a week. I invited him to a cookout; he stood me up until I brought food to him. Made fun of me for bein’ uncomfortable watching a rape scene in a movie. Said it was just a movie, I was fine. Don’t be such a prude.

“And one day, ‘bout two months into knowing him, I—figured out what I could do to prove to him that I wanted him.”

Reacher’s jaw is clenched to the point of aching. But he stays silent, giving Amy space to speak more. If she wants. If she doesn't, that's fine too.

“It hurt, Jack. He wasn’t gentle with me. Didn’t—he never got me ready like you do. And I’d sneak out however many times he wanted me to, to—you know. But it weren’t enough. Kept making me come to him more and more. Even if I was busy and couldn’t come over, he’d punish me for it. Said I was lucky he put up with me.”

Amy’s eyes close shut as she adds the last part:

“I was fourteen. He was twenty. No one did anything.”

“I’m going to kill him,” Reacher says flatly. “And then we are going to help you feel better about sex. And I’m going to stay a hell of a lot longer than three days.”

“All I’ve wanted is to feel safe with someone,” she sobs. “But all the men in my life have abused me.”

“I know,” he says, smoothing a hand down her hair, rocking her back and forth. “I’m going to fix this. I’ll be gone for forty-eight hours, maybe seventy-two to hunt him down. I’ll be back before you know it. I’m going to keep you safe. You can relax now, Amy. I’m right here. You won’t have to protect yourself. I’ll do it for you.”

“Jack, I love you,” she says, voice rough, gasping as she jams her face into his neck. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too.”

Reacher is a man who kills people who hurt kids. Todd is going to go missing and never be found. And he’s sure that Amy knows it.

It’s a matter of whether it will scare her or not—for his jobs to become real to her. He’s intentionally left her with only an idea of the wrong he does while he’s gone; for it to be this close to her is a test of how strong their relationship is.

Reacher knows if he loses her, things will feel bad again. He doesn’t want to scare Amy away. But he’s far, far angrier at her abuser. And the law, most likely, will not bring that monster to justice; inaction is the route their government takes when it comes to sexual crimes.

And Jack Reacher has always been a man of pure action.

He takes his time as he puts her back to bed. He untangles her hair with his fingers, shushes her gently when she cries, and eases her down onto the mattress where they can get comfortable. He stays still for a while, petting her hair as she tosses around, trying to find a good spot. She settles on her stomach, cheek pressed to the pillow, arms splayed out and legs stretched down. He is cosied up on his side, facing her, and tucks her head under his chin.

Reacher hums gentle blues to her until she’s asleep, and he stays up the rest of the night, watching over her to ensure she doesn’t have a nightmare. Once again, as dawn creeps up on the quiet PA countryside, he gets up at 0600 hours and starts his day.

0800 hours, he feeds her. Lathers her with more aloe. 30 minutes later, washes up after breakfast. Then packs his bag. He never kept a bag until he met Amy—he listens to her insistence he keep at least a few essentials.

Amy’s watching him, from the entrance into the dining room. He has his duffel bag open. Worry has her little face scrunched up; her tiny body shifting around.

Most of the clothes he hasn’t dirtied yet; he stuffs those away. The shirts that are dirty don’t get thrown out because he knows Amy will want to wash and wear them. He packs his ditty bag and first aid kit. With care he puts some Polaroids they took at the festival away. He reiterates, “At the longest, seventy-two hours. Then I’ll be back.”

“I know,” she mumbles.

“I cleaned your revolver for you. It’s back in the gun case, but keep it handy while I’m out. I sharpened your hunting and pocket knives. Put toothpick wedges in your bedroom door, like I showed you. I’ll call you an hour before I get home.”

Reacher always gives her this speech before he goes, and he’ll give it a thousand times over, if it means she might be intact when he returns to her.

“And the goats are milked,” he adds. “Cleaned out their water trough.”

“Thank you.”

“Anything for you, Amy,” he says, and slings his bag over his shoulders. He comes up by Amy’s side and rests a hand on her hip. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she says, getting up on her tip-toes to kiss him.

He returns it. Then, as she pulls away: “I won’t burden you with any more questions. I know a guy in the area. I’ll be able to find Todd.”

“Sure you don’t need help?”

“I’m sure.”

Reacher gazes down at Amy, quiet for a moment as he regards her. His Amy. He heaves a sigh, and glances to the front door. Opens it, steps out, and calls over his shoulder, “I love you,” one last time. He changes out her legal license plate for a fake, then climbs in the car and pulls out of the driveway.

Amy watches him from the window as he goes.

The drive into town is thirty minutes long. He’s fuming the entire way. Neck and jaw tense. How anyone could look at a child and want to hurt them, to use them is beyond him.

Reacher knows he’s a monster. But there is always a bigger, uglier, meaner fish. And he intends to kill it. He also knows he is no gentle man for anyone save Amy. And he has no remorse for it.

He parks on the street a few blocks from a real estate agency’s office. Moore’s Realty. A bell on the door chimes as he walks in. He’s big, broad—a little old lady makes way for him, but he puts a hand up.

“You first, ma’am. I can wait.”

He stands behind her for almost an hour as she has a long, stumbling conversation with a receptionist about a misplaced schedule. He gets through the most of a Blues Brother’s album in his head by the time she’s done.

“I need to speak with Moore. Now,” he tells the receptionist—a tall, lean, well-groomed man.

“Appointment?”

“I’m a friend,” Reacher says.

“You can jump in line after Miss Jackson’s consultation.” He glances at the elderly woman as she makes her way down the hall.

“Of course,” Reacher says, and settles into a waiting chair, no problem. 1100 hours, currently.

It’s 1145 hours by the time Miss Jackson’s done speaking, and Reacher takes a few long strides, before entering Moore’s office. He sits down on a chair with arm rests too small for his forearms.

“Reach,” Moore says.

He is, in most respects, an actual friend of Reacher’s. His mother was a poor white woman from the south, his father a black business owner from the north. He speaks with colloquialisms from both ends of the USA. He’s sensitive to social issues, but not sensitive to the law. He has information.

And he owes Reacher a favor.

“Moore,” Reacher echoes the greeting. “I need to know where Todd—T-o-d-d—moved to. He’s around 36 years old, white, green eyes. Short and bulky. He grew up here, but recently said he was passing through. I suspect he moved. Most likely used your agency to help sell his old home in this town.”

“Todd, Todd...” Moore taps his temple, as he stands up from his swivel chair and heads for a filing cabinet. His records are all physical; private to him, away from hackers, and no one will know when he accesses them. “Todd Kennett is the only one I’ve worked with who has that spelling.” He turns around, giving Reacher a quizzical look. “I’m happy to look at his details, but a man wonders why those need to be dredged up...”

“He abuses children.”

“Ah.”

“And he tracked down his victim,” Reacher adds.

Moore spends a few minutes looking through all the Ks in his filing cabinet, before he pulls out a handful of papers and presents them to Reacher. “I have his old address here, as well as his new one. It’s in Ohio. Lucky for you, disastrous for him—he had yours truly help make the deal for the buying and selling of both properties. Memorize it, then I’m going to put it away, and neither of us ever touched it.”

Reacher scans the information, commits it to memory, then stacks the papers back up and hands them to Moore. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” the man answers, sliding the files back into their resting place.

He’s out of the office and into the sunlight of noon; the street side trees cast dappled light over the sidewalk, spilling out onto the road. He climbs into Amy's car, scans a map of the east coast, checks it against one of the Midwest, and picks his route.

The engine turns over. Street signs fall behind him. A destination lies before him.

Reacher has found his next job.

Reacher is not fond of anything but blues. Amy is, but for him, she’s burned half a dozen discs with blues mix tapes. He likes playing them so he can feel closer to her while he’s gone. To keep her in mind.

He’s on the interstate when the mood finds him, and he slides one into the player. Cranks it up to high volume.

“Oh, yeah, well, gold digger took my money,” a male voice croons. “Dipped my heart and hands in honey...”

Late July. Fitting.

It’s a nine-hour drive to Todd’s place in Ohio, and he’s committed. The song fades to the back of his mind as he takes in his surroundings; lyrics jump out at him in fits and starts. The car rumbles over highway strips; horns beep at the few sections where he hits traffic.

“Oh, I married her fast, murdered her young...”

Exit signs fade away in his rearview. Cars flit in and out of his side view mirrors. Big rigs and gas guzzler pick-ups belch exhaust into the air.

“Well, Mama should be proud of me/Oh, I lived like a man, I’ll die like a king...”

His hand grips his steering wheel like a vice. He is a vice. Unrelenting. Unforgiving.

“Cause I’m eager, young, and qualified...”

Reacher hums the next line:

“Got a date with that chair, oh, in late July.”

Songs and miles are put behind him. Hours tick by. Halfway through, he pulls off at a truck stop, locks the car as he heads in and beelines it for a McDonald’s.

“Two large black coffees,” he says, gruff. Slaps some money on the counter, and steps aside to wait. He checks his watch: 1800 hours. One and one half hours behind schedule. Traffic.

A girl about high school age hands him his order. “Need a double shot of caffeine to work on a big guy, huh?” she says in good nature.

Reacher musters up the closest he can get to an equally good-natured smile, which must look more like a grimace. He’s not in the mood. But he’s not going take it out on minimum-wage workers—a kid, no less.

“You’d probably need a double dose of rat poison to do much, too,” he jokes back.

It earns a smile and a nod. He raises his cup in her direction, says his thanks, and downs them in a few gulps as he walks out of the truck stop. By the time he’s left the doors, the cups are empty and tossed into an outdoor trashcan. The scalding in his mouth is nothing compared to the scalding in his soul.

If he ever appears as a work of art to Amy, he hopes she doesn’t touch him when he does, for an unreasonable and superstitious fear it is what will finally burn her.

Reacher gets back in the car, and drives on. His bones ache. He’ll have to roam Ohio in search of an available motel room—he can’t risk using a cell phone, even his burner, to call ahead and have anything traced back to him.

More music, more miles, more hours, more cars. This is what he knows best.

It’s 2300 hours by the time he finally arrives in that little Ohio town—Maple Ridge—and decides to enter the cheapest, sleaziest motel he can find. Small chance of thorough identification requirements here.

He parks the car, locks it, and grabs his bag as he heads inside. There’s one flickering streetlight over the single door entrance. The waiting room is small and there are four cheap plastic chairs, and one fake wood desk with a handful of papers on it. A man in his forties is nodding off behind it. On the wall, prices for the stay.

Reacher slaps down a wad of cash needed for one night. The man jumps, then counts the money.

“Room 29,” he grumbles, shoving a physical key into Reacher’s hand. Hardly looks at him. “Name?”

“Joe Gordon,” Reacher lies. He hasn’t used that one in a while.

The man makes a note, then shoos him off.

Reacher gives him a nod. “Thank you.” And heads off into his room.

He puts the Do Not Disturb sign up, wedges toothpicks in the door, locks it, and jams a chair under it. Closes the cheap blinds. Moves the bed across the room. He lays his handgun next to the nightstand. His shower takes five minutes. Then he crawls into bed and settles in for the night.

Reacher badly wants to call Amy. He wants to tell her he made a safe trip, the job’s going smoothly, and that he loves her. But he can’t have anything to trace him back to here.

That wish is what follows him as his world goes dark.

He wakes at 0600 hours.

He shits, showers, shaves. Restores the room back into order as if he’d never been there. He puts on a ball cap he’s been waiting to put on, and pulls the brim low over his eyes. Checks out by way of placing the key on the desk without drawing attention to his face, then heads to a local diner. Shovels down three cups of black coffee, two pancakes, and a pile of bacon. He pulls out more cash and hands it to the register. There’s a 20 dollar tip under his used mug.

“A man on a mission,” the worker comments idly, counting the bills and checking it against the waitress tab.

“On business,” Reacher says. It comes out as a grunt.

“Serious business,” he says, nodding more to himself than anyone else.

Settling a score, he thinks.

Reacher shakes his head and looks away, walking out of the diner in a handful of long strides. He loads himself into his car, and drives politely around the neighborhood nearest to Todd’s home, before turning the path and taking one pass. He hardly slows lest he look conspicuous.

The house is one-story, on a flood plane. Cheap as dirt. Good place to hide—there are trees in the area, tall bushes, vines creeping along fencing. Beyond it, a private pond. Large enough to fit a handful of cars.

He’ll have to drive back tonight. In the meantime, Reacher goes to a park, and waits as the day goes by. Some Ohioans ask him where he’s from; he says here and there. They take the answer and leave. He runs through a few blues albums.

When dusk arrives, he loads back into his car. Takes the short drive, and pulls up to the Kennett house when no one else is around.

Reacher checks his gun. It charges well. He has a knife in his right and left pockets. He pulls on a pair of latex gloves, thus far unused. Cleaning supplies await him in the shotgun seat. Puts a bandana over his face, tugs the hat down lower over his eyes.

There’s no fear as he makes the walk from his car to the rickety front door.

Reacher is Lucifer. To Amy—his goddess—he brings light. To everyone else, death and pain are in his wake. He is the righteous hand of god; he is divine retribution.

Reacher. Not of love, not of peace, but of death. He reaches, always, for death.

His gun is poised with that of a soldier’s readiness, but for a long time he’s seen himself more as an angry dog.

The house is well-used. He clears it systematically—the living room has old beer cans in it, the kitchen old dirty dishes, and the bathroom has old stains. He clears two stuffy closets. The house has no cellar. He keeps walking along the long hallway, and stops at the final room. No doubt the bedroom.

2200 hours. Decent time to turn it in for the night, Todd.

Reacher creaks the door open; his gun glints in the moonlight. His eyes must flash, too—like predator’s eye shine in the dark. There’s a single, man-sized lump in the bed, covered in several layers of blanketing.

It’s going to be easier to clean up this way.

He tears the blankets down, Todd awakes with a yelp, and it’s cut off halfway through as Reacher’s large hands encircle his fragile throat. Choking him slowly.

“I am the last godforsaken thing you’ll ever see,” Reacher snarls. Wolf staring at coyote. Both terrible animals. “And you’ll never fucking touch another kid again. You’ll never hurt Amy again.”

Recognition flickers in Todd’s eyes, right along with the fear. His face is purpling; hands weakly grabbing at Reacher’s wide wrists.

Reacher’s chest is heaving, head hot and body shaking as he bears down on this monster. Todd can’t get words out, but his look says enough: why would you do this?

“We’re the same, Todd. We kill things. Only difference is, I kill monsters. You kill innocence.”

The man changes tactics, bringing one hand up in a final, futile attempt at saving himself, and scores a deep scratch with dirty fingernails along Reacher’s left shoulder.

He doesn’t even let out a grunt. The sting is nothing compared to the pain his life has made him know. All it does is irritate him; he’ll have to clean that off.

His grip tightens.

It’s done in a matter of minutes. Todd’s body goes limp. His eyes glass over, unseeing. The stench of shit and piss fills the air.

Reacher hauls the body over his shoulder like it’s nothing. He carries it out to driveway; no one is on the property save for them. He stuffs it in the trunk. Then, from his car, the cleaning supplies: he wipes up his blood from Todd’s stiff hand, and carefully stows the rag into a plastic bag. The car groans under the force of his slamming the trunk shut when he’s done.

He opens the driver side door, hot wires it, and steers it towards the pond. Parks it. Steps out. Then throws it in drive, and lets the car take with it the monster, back into the depths where evil things lie.

Reacher wastes no time, then. There’s no other mess left behind. He sits his car, and tears off the gloves. He shoves them into the bag along with the ball cap.

On his way out of town, he sneaks them into a farmer’s overnight burn pile.

Given that it’s nighttime, the drive home has little delay, save for another coffee break halfway through. Well into the drive, he hits the last track on the first disc Amy ever made for him: Smokestack Lightnin’.

His lips quirk, almost as if a half-smile, and he sings along, “Woah, smoke stack lightin’, shinin’ like gold, why don’t you see me cryin’?” And he internally thanks Amy for everything she does for him.

It’s 0700 hours when he’s one hour away from Amy’s. He pulls out his cell phone, and she picks up on the first ring.

“Hey baby,” he says. “I’ll be back from my job interview in an hour.”

Amy understands without him ever saying a word about it. Her voice is tinny through the shitty flip phone speaker. “Okay. I’ll make breakfast. I love you.”

“I love you too.” More than she’ll ever know, he thinks, as he shuts the phone and sets it back down in the center console.

He arrives fifteen of 0800 hours. Otherwise, if he arrived on time, he’d be late. Reacher walks up to the door, rings the doorbell once, and waits. Amy has to remove the toothpick wedges first.

Soon the door opens, and she flings herself into his arms. “Jack!” He catches her—he will always catch her—and draws her in tightly. She’s furiously kissing his cheeks and forehead and eventually dips down to his neck, no doubt in search of maximum body heat absorption.

“I’m right here,” he says. He doesn’t care how obvious the statement is; it always makes Amy feel better.

“Your back!” She whines, when her hand comes across his scratch. It’s half scabbed over, still weeping blood because every movement in the car meant it was agitated against the leather seat.

“It’s nothing,” Reacher says with a shrug.

“Come inside and let me care for you,” she insists, squirming out of his grip. She grabs his hand and tugs him into the home.

She could throw all her weight into it, and it wouldn’t move him. He follows because he wants to.

He strips his shirt off and throws it into the trash can, then sits at the table. She gives him a platter of eggs, sausage, and toast. He wolfs it down.

Amy pulls a chair up behind him, and sets to work with pain-free antiseptic pads. He’s cleaned out wounds with whiskey before, yet she tends to him so carefully. Kisses are repeatedly pressed to his shoulder blades. He feels adhesive against his skin as she lays a large band-aid patch over the scratch.

Her forehead rests against his spine, between his shoulders. “My hero,” she says softly, breath warm and gentle on his bare skin.

“I’m no hero,” he says gruffly.

“You’re mine,” Amy says. “And those folks down in Georgia. And them kids you saved in Baghdad. None of us had to wish someone would care, because someone actually does.”

Reacher does not miss the fact that she doesn’t ask him about the wrong he’s done. She is happy to have him back.

God, what the fuck did he do to deserve her...

“Let’s get you to bed,” she says, as she hands him a shirt.

Reacher gives her a devilish look. “I don’t think I’ll be needing that upstairs.” Despite the eye bags and mussed hair he knows he must have, he can see the joke lands and Amy shakes her head fondly. She tucks herself under his arm as the two walk upstairs together.

“Animals is done,” she says idly. “I called off work at the shop today, since I worked a few extra hours yesterday.”

No doubt worked herself more due to stress over him. He sighs at himself.

“So we can laze about together for a while,” she concludes.

“I’d like that,” Reacher says.

Amy lays him down on the bed, pulls his socks, pants, and boxers off for him, and draws the blanketing over his large body. She kisses his forehead as she slides in with him, snuggling her way under the covers. Through her cleanest work shirt her breasts press up against the swath of his chest, as she lies atop him.

A hand over her hot back.

“Do you need help applying more aloe?”

“Jack, hush,” Amy says, nuzzling into him. She’s warm, soft. So small. “I was able to—mostly—get it while you was gone. You take a nap, and then I’ll consider letting you fret over me.”

“Fair enough.”

Reacher’s eyes flutter shut, soothed to sleep by his girl, in a warm bed, knowing he’s done his damn best for her.

Amy’s back is bent over, neck exposed to the sun, as she scrapes chicken shit out of the coop. Cheap linoleum flooring is slowly revealed.

Reacher watches her for a few minutes from his vantage point on the covered back porch. He’s propped himself comfortably against a wooden pillar. Her arms flex, lean and strong, as she heaves pile of shit into a wheelbarrow. She pauses, grabs a rag from her back pocket, and wipes the sweat and shit from her face. Returns to working.

Amy likes to tell him this is her favorite part of the job.

When she’s done, she takes the shit out to the shed, behind which she has a compost pile. She comes back with an empty wheelbarrow; she turns the spigot on and hoses it out. Then she sprays her face with water; rag scrubbing it away after.

Reacher detaches himself from the support beam, descends the small steps, and makes his way towards his Amy. He slots a hand on her hip and kisses her forehead; none too worried about sweat and grime.

“You look strong when you do that,” he says. He makes a point of complimenting her and tell her he loves her at least once a day. It’s on his daily checklist.

“But you were happier to just watch the work, I see how it is,” Amy says, giggling as she gets up on her tip-toes to kiss his chin. “Hi Jack. That nap feel good?”

Reacher grunts a yes.

Amy separates herself from his touch, making her way to the shed. She drags out a large, empty feed bin and sets to work on scrubbing it out. He kneels on the ground beside her and hoses it down as she talks.

“Had mold in it,” she gripes. He studies her face—eyebrows set in concentration, chewing the inside of her bottom lip. She puts in a lot of elbow grease into scrubbing things out.

When she’s done, she leaves it to sit in the sunlight.

“We need to check the honey supers on our boxes also,” she says, tugging him along with her to the shed where she suits up. “You seen them big thunderheads forming? I don’t want to collect honey when it’s overcast. The bees get grumpy.”

Reacher didn’t know bees could be grumpy until now.

“Guess I’d be grumpy, too, if someone broke my door down and let the rain in,” he deadpans.

“You’d be more than grumpy,” Amy jokes, lighthearted. “If you’re not gonna suit up, stay well back.”

“Rodger.”

“Name’s Amy, actually,” she says, and heads over to the boxes.

“It means—” Reacher starts, calling to her as she walks the thirty some feet over to the boxes, but then he gives it up. She’s messing with him.

Amy spends all of five minutes on the beehives before she comes back disgruntled and removing the hive suit. Reacher stands idly by in the shed.

“Ain’t made enough honey to harvest yet, we’ll have to wait for more good weather.”

He nods, taking her into his arms once she’s put all her supplies down. He hunches over a bit to tuck her head under his chin.

“Jack, you okay?”

“Fine,” he says. “Just grateful.”

Amy goes quiet, hugging him back, and when she doesn’t move to do more chores he picks her up and carries her back in the house. The screen door shuts behind him, and he glances over his shoulder—there are clouds gathering. He closes the solid door, too.

“Time is it?” Amy asks, after he lets her go, and she can pad around the house.

“1830 hours.”

“I’ll get the fixin’s for dinner out, then.”

At 1900 hours, two steaks are done, along with a pile of golden mashed potatoes, green beans, and some cornbread. He empties his plate in five minutes, and chases that down with her leftovers.

Amy stretches, arms high above over her head, then pushes the chair back and gets up. She loads the handful of dishes; he watches contentedly. She tracks back through the dining room, running a hand over his shoulder.

“I’m gonna go wash up.”

“I’m coming,” Reacher says, getting up and following along behind her.

In the master bath: Amy brushes her teeth, then strips down in front of him with no shame, and for that he’s glad.

Now he knows more about how she was hurt before, and he’s better informed how to treat her. More information for his mission. He thinks through what he’s going to do as he scrubs up too.

“Baby,” he calls, rinsing out his toothbrush.

Amy stills, naked in front of him, one foot in the shower. “Yeah?”

“I’ll draw you a bath and wash you up.”

She blinks for a moment, then shrugs and waves at the tub. “Have at it.”

Reacher fusses with the temperature of the water, has her check it three times, and eventually finds something to her liking. He lets it fill the tub, and he swirls some lavender soap in with it. Amy says it helps her relax.

“Have at it,” he echoes, when the tub is full.

Amy lets out a moan of relief as she sinks into the water, and he smiles down at her. She smiles right back up at him.

“Your smile’s as bright as you are big,” she says, and flicks a little water at him.

Reacher kisses her forehead. “Only for you. Now close your eyes and let me take care of it.”

“Yessir.”

Amy nestles in the steamy warmth of the bath. Reacher swirls the water. He's admiring the way her wet thighs glisten, the elegant, beautiful curve of her breasts down to her stomach.

Soon it’s time to wash: first, he shampoos her hair. It sudses up underneath his fingers and glides through the tangles; he kneads it into her scalp gently. He pulls his hands back, and tosses the shed hair into the trashcan without a word of complaint. Then he rinses the shampoo out. Second, comes the conditioner. She insists she let it sit in her hair for a minute. Reacher thinks 2-in-1 is a lot more practical, but he does so for her. Third, while the conditioner is setting in, he lathers up a loofah and washes her off. The bathtub water is turning a milky whitish-blue. Last, he rinses off the soap and the hair product, leaving one clean and relaxed Amy behind.

“Sweetheart.” He nudges her temple with his nose, then places a long kiss on her cheekbone. She stirs and reaches one hand up—dripping with water—and pets the side of his face. He leans into the touch. “Get out. I’m going to dry you.”

He stands, and offers Amy a hand as she steps out of the tub. She shakes water from her feet before she stands on the soft, fuzzy floor towel. He kisses the tip of her nose, then pulls the drain plug. Swirling of water in the background.

Reacher opens the master bath closet, pulls out the softest towel he can find, and pats her back, shoulders, and collarbones dry. “I’ll put some aloe on when we’re done here. You’re going to bed early tonight.”

“Someone’s bossy.”

“I’m taking care of you. You’ve been under a lot of stress and pain the past few days.”

Amy has no witty answer for that.

Reacher circles her once, then stops in front of her and gets on his knees. Amy seems stunned as she stares down at him. It’s an unusual sight to watch a man as big as him surrender to a woman as small as her. He doesn’t care about that, though. What he cares about is her.

Reacher plants a kiss on the soft swell of her stomach, then follows it with slow circles of the towel. She shifts to wring out her hair over the tub. More kisses to her belly. He wraps the towel behind her and dries off her rear. “So pretty.”

“Jack...”

“Shhh. You’re going to learn that being naked doesn’t mean you must have sex. You’re going to learn that any time I touch you, it’s because I love you.”

Outside, it begins to rain.

Amy quiets again. Reacher kisses the insides of her thighs—sweet, chaste brushes of his lips on her soft skin. One hand dries her leg, while he brings the other to rub his thumb over her beautiful stretch marks. He feels both of her hands sink into his short hair, and he lets out a low rumble of appreciation. Then he switches to her other leg.

Lastly, the towel dips between her legs as he mouths over the juncture between her thighs and vagina.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers into her skin.

Amy’s sniffling, biting her knuckle as he dotes on her. He will dote on her until his last breath. He switches sides and nuzzles into the other seam between her legs. Never making a move on her; always saying that he’s here.

Reacher doesn't believe in hell. But if he did, he knows he'd go there when he dies. But here—in quiet solitude with the one person he truly, wholly loves, it’s one word out of many, and it means nothing compared to Amy.

He could stay here for hours. But he stands up, and Amy throws her arms around his middle in a fierce hug. He slings one arm around her in return—firm, steadying. With the other he grabs the aloe of the cabinet, removes the cap with his teeth, and pours some over her shoulders. He rubs it in wordlessly; her muscles jump. He frowns as her skin peels off.

“You’re safe,” he promises; her back arches when his hand dips between her shoulder blades, coated in cold aloe. “I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe.”

“Yer damn perfect, too,” she says, voice hoarse, muffled in his chest.

It’s not true, but he doesn’t have it in him to argue with her. He says, “Let’s get you to bed,” and helps her along to the mattress.

“At least kiss me some,” she mumbles as she crawls under the covers. He follows suit—always trying to get back to her—and draws her to him. “I love you,” she pants on his lips.

Reacher’s mouth slots with hers perfectly; his large body engulfs hers as he gently presses on top of her. He pulls back after a few more stolen, sweet kisses.

“Can I stay on top of you?” He asks. He knows what she’s going to say.

“Course. But thanks for asking.”

Reacher doesn’t dip back down to her—he studies her, tiny and safe beneath him. “Don’t thank me.”

“What?”

“You shouldn’t have to thank me for not hurting you.”

Amy’s dead silent. Seems he’s gotten good at stunning her into silence.

Reacher elaborates: “Todd hurt you. Your father hurt you. Men have catcalled you, followed you around in bars. You think it’s abnormal when someone doesn’t hurt you. But it’s the bare minimum for me to ask if this is okay. If you’re gonna thank me, thank me for something impressive.”

Amy’s gaze has fallen from his, unable to make eye contact. He cups her cheek and kisses her forehead.

Outside, thunder rumbles in; the heart of the storm is coming.

“I’m sorry,” she says, voice weak and soft like a cry on a Tulsa wind.

“Don’t be. It’s okay. Tell me what you want.”

Slowly, Amy drags her eyes away from the blankets and meets his. Innocent and soft and deep brown like doe eyes. Smattering of freckles on her skin like spots on a fawn. “I’d wanna be held.”

Reacher can do that. He rolls off of her, and coaxes her to him. She snuggles up to his side, and slings one leg across the span of his thighs. One hand is flattened on his stomach, the other tucked up under her torso.

“You smell nice,” she says, voice hushed, eyes half-closed. Breathing him in. Lightening lights up the room; sound clashes. “Reckon it’ll be a good one?”

“Checked the weather. This is the squall line. There’ll be a break in about—” Reacher checks his watch; 2000 hours, “—30 minutes. Then at 2100 hours until about 0200 hours the main storm will hit. The temperature is about 50 degrees Fahrenheit out, so once the rain cools everything down, there’ll be a cooler front that should clear everything up for a clear, warm day tomorrow.”

“You’re so smart,” she coos, affection and love dripping from her voice. Reacher could lap it up like the cat who got the cream, as Amy likes to say.

Hours pass like this; curled up in each other’s warmth, nestled safely away from the screaming wind and piercing rain. Amy listens for a while, until she falls asleep. He stays up to enjoy the sounds of a thunderstorm, and the feeling of her little chest rising and falling next to his.

He’s slipped into another world entirely: gunfire rains around him, children scream. A bomb whistles in the air. It strikes 30 feet from him and kills a man in his squad. As far out as the Baghdad horizon will let him see, there’s the flashing of fully automatic weapons, the smoke plumes of burning dead and spent artillery.

Reacher watches himself in the third person as he kills every enemy soldier without mercy. Watches himself track down AWOL veterans who need help, not a beating.

Watches men abuse children.

Watches as the scene shifts to those men wearing Todd’s face, purpling as he dies, but still hurting Amy, still putting his filthy hands—

It’s over what might be real-time minutes later, but it feels like hours. He comes-to with a violent start, fists ready to fight. His forehead is pressed into something warm, and as the fight drains out of him, he hears her voice, too.

“It’s okay, Jack. You’re at home.”

Reacher’s eyes fall shut, panting as she cradles his head. “I’m fine,” he grits out, nudging her to lie back down, to stop holding him.

Still, one shaking hand comes up to her arm, closing over her bicep. Amy’s there. Adrenaline amps his tired body up, sending crackles of electricity down his limbs. It feels like panic.

When she acquiesces and snuggles back into his side—now he’s holding her—he admits, “I’m glad I’m not there anymore. I was... not well, when I was an MP. It—I knew I could fight, but there were times when I still wanted to hide. So I'm glad I'm not there."

She’s the only person who will ever get to know that confession.

“You’re not,” she says, reaffirming him. “You’re at home. PA. Lots of farms.”

Her rural drawl is his lifeline. It sounds nicer than orders and obscenities barked, from his and others’ mouths.

Reacher shifts his head to nuzzle into her neck, and he paws at Amy’s bare skin. “Mine. At home.”

“Right.”

It takes her a while, but eventually Amy’s presence is able to settle him down enough that he can fall back asleep. He hates letting her see him like that; he is her strong man, her bulwark, her protection, and her giver. But...

Damn, if it isn’t nice to be loved.

Reacher has always known love is a mixture of hormones and positive reinforcement. Everyone has been writing poetry about a re-creatable chemical reaction for thousands of years. People have been killing for it longer than that. Everything in him has always told him love is irrational and honestly is not real in the sense of some magic spark. Even Joe, his big brother, who he knows by all definitions he loves, the rational part of him always reminds him it’s dopamine and good memories.

It’s not by choice he ignores all that for Amy, though. He loves Amy. It crushes his ribs. It gets him up in the mornings. It scares him. It soothes him. It forces him to look into the eyes of his own feelings. It lets him have reprieve from that pain. It settles him down, it makes him kill. His love for Amy is the most solid thing he’s ever known, and yet he can’t touch it.

It feels like discovering that his world revolves around Amy, when his whole life he’s thought he’d never let it revolve around anything but his own rationale.

So too have scientists discovered the earth orbits the sun, not the other way around.

Reacher wakes at 0600 hours. Helps with farm work. Takes care of Amy—the burns on her back, in her soul. Falls asleep at 2200 hours. Rises. Helps. Sleeps.

Stays.

A week turns into two, and Reacher is by Amy without fail. Her honest work, day in and out. Her sweet voice. Her kind demeanor. He wakes with her in his arms, he falls asleep with her in his arms. He spends the days stealing kisses and hugs.

It’s the third Saturday of July that he finds a newspaper column, stacked in some general store tabloids, with a listing for two missing persons in the same area as a column from last month detailing a suspected murderer.

Reacher sighs as he reads it. Amy comes inside from doing some chores, and hugs his entire arm to her torso.

She heaves a sigh when she looks over his shoulder. “It was nice havin’ you here this long.”

“It was.” The words are sour in his mouth.

“Well. I’ll make sure you have plenty of snacks.”

She’ll never ask him about the things he does, never rub it in his face, and he doesn’t know if that’s a divine mercy or the sickness that twists in his gut. She turns in the direction of her pantry, no doubt to take stock.

“Baby,” he says softly, tugging her back to him. “I love you.”

Amy loops her arms around his shoulders, and he slips a hand under her rear to support her. She’s small. It’s endearing. He loves cradling her, and it drives him wild with want.

“I love you too,” she murmurs into his lips.

Reacher closes his eyes, taking in the slow, steady pressure of her mouth. She always tastes sweet, with a faint note of mint from the leaves she chews.

He’s starting to know her like she knows the land she lives on.

He breaks the kiss first. Gets a look at her—flushed cheeks, plump lips, mesmerizing eyes. “I... was thinking to skip that one,” he says eventually.

“That sounds like a good idea.” Amy smiles up at him in tandem with the hand that slides up his shirt.

“Only if you want to,” he says, his head is foggy and hands itching to hold her. “Lots of ways for us to be together.”

“The past two weeks, all the kind things you do for me, sticking around, I—I’m really startin’ to see what you mean about sex. Making love. You touch me ‘cause you love me. You’ll never use me. I feel so safe with you, always have, always will. And I know you’ll be patient with me for however long it takes me to fully work through it.”

Reacher sighs in total relief, forehead dipping to the top of her head. He nuzzles her as he picks her up. “Good.”

It’s not long before they’re both tangled up in each other, in their bed. Reacher uses his right hand to help hold her hips steady, the left to prop himself up on the bed. She’s on her back with her chest pressed to his and now that her sunburn is healed, he can ease her into the mattress, press down into her better.

The way she cries his name—cries out for him.

Amy clenches around him—Jack, please, it feels so good—and his hips snap into hers, his eyes blown wide as he buries his face in her neck, tension in his gut rapidly unspooling. She’s tucked away safely in his chest as she pants, still calling for him.

“Shh, I’m right here,” he coos, petting her hair, falling still. “Your Jack’s right here. I love you. I’m right here.”

Amy’s pressing kisses up and down his sternum, scratching gently at his chest hair, her other hand kneading the nape of his neck. Her movements are weak, languid—she’s content.

“There you are,” he says, achingly fond as Amy peeks her head up at him. She’s beautiful. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she whispers, cupping his jaw, rubbing his stubble. “God, I love you. So fucking much.”

“I’m gonna stay permanently,” he says suddenly. Mouth, for the first time ever, moving before his brain.

Immediately, he fears he's said too much. Silence is his defense in all situations. With Amy, he can let his guard down—even so, speaking isn't as easy as saying nothing. But for her he continues:

“I’m going to take care of you. I’m going to love you. And I’m not leaving. From now on—where you go, I go. Where you stay, I stay. My heart is yours. To break or keep.”

Amy cries, then, mouth at his cheek and hands carding through his hair. “You silly, big man, I love you. This house is as much mine as it is yours. Ain’t my bed we’re in, it’s ours.” He holds her steady as he praises him. He’ll always hold her. “I’m gonna put a sign out front, have it say The Reacher’s Residence or somethin’ cheesy like that.”

“We’re not married,” he says, chest tight at the notion. The idea that Amy wants his last name.

“So marry me!” Amy giggles though her tears. “But really, I don’t care. I’m yours, Jack. So what we don’t have some legal riffraff? Who cares that I ain’t officially given my name up, I—quite frankly—don’t want to keep the same one my daddy has. Above all that, you’re my man.”

His throat feels too thick as he pulls her tighter into his grip. “You’re a smart woman, Amy. I like your thinking.”

Reacher is a selfish man, he knows that. He touches Amy, kind-hearted gentle Amy, with hands soaked in the blood of more people than he cares to count. He leaves Amy for days, weeks at a time without his protection—leaving her with mere faith he will remain loyal. He distances her from what he does, but she is still wrapped up in it all for the fact that she’s his woman. If the wrong person came around...

She’d be much safer if she never met him.

But he can’t help himself. She’s his Amy. He loves her enough that he will kill for her, die for her, live for her. But he does not have it in him to exist without her.

He loves her in every other way he can. He noses under her jaw, kissing up and down her neck, latching onto her pulse point. I love yous on his lips, I love yous in his touches.

“Want more?” He asks softly.

“Yeah,” Amy pants. “I always want my Jack.”

Reacher is selfish. But at least with Amy he can learn some selflessness and give himself up to her.

When Amy’s too tired to do anything more, thoroughly sated and blinking tiredly, Reacher cleans her up, gets her water and fresh strawberries, and tucks her under the covers. “Sleep, Amy. I love you.”

“Hmm, Jack,” she says, wrapping herself around him. “Tell me a bedtime story?”

Reacher chuckles at that, smiles bright as he is big. His eyes are tender as he looks down at her little body, safely tucked away.

“There was this hobo,” he starts, and is overcome with affection as he pulls her in tighter. Pauses to plant kisses on her head. “And there was this redneck. You see, this hobo—he was a lonely man. And he was a bad one, too. He was crossing state lines after getting wrapped up in a murder plot. And this beautiful redneck, well, she’s a hard-worker, very tough. And very pretty.”

“Jack,” Amy pretends to whine, but descends into giggles. He can’t help the hand that slides down her side to tickle her stomach; the muscles there jump and she laughs harder.

“This hobo also didn’t like to be whined at,” Reacher deadpans, in good fun. “Anyway. If the crowd is done heckling—the hobo found the country belle working hard one day, and she offered him a lot of help. He really liked her, but didn’t want to make a move on her. He could be intimidating, and he didn’t want to hurt her. But then one day, right before he was getting ready to cross state lines again, the redneck stopped him and asked him on a date.

“He was lucky. So he put on his best pair of jeans, a new-old shirt from a local thrift store, and took her on a date. He found out that this redneck was very intelligent. And very funny. Did I mention pretty?”

Reacher’s smile hasn’t disappeared from his face as he looks at Amy, who is currently enamored with his chest hair. She pauses her idle scratching when he falls quiet. “Yeah?”

“Good, I did,” he jokes, then pats her head for her to lay all the way back down. “This is a bedtime story. So work on falling asleep for me.”

“Yessir,” she hums. It doesn’t stop her from petting his face.

“At the end of their date, the hobo knew he’d have to leave again, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to stay with his hard-working lady. And this lady surprised him all over again. Because after he drove her home, he was holding her in his arms on her front porch. She promised that she’d always wait for him until he could come and visit again. And when he kissed her, she kissed him back."

Amy’s stilled, her breaths coming in slow and even. Her heartbeat is, too, and he revels the feel of it against his own body. Her eyes are closed and she’s on the brink of sleep.

“Good night, sweetheart. I love you.”

The next morning, Reacher finds Amy fashioning a sign that reads in big, friendly letters The Reacher Residence.