ashintuku

He had first heard about the war when his father told him he was enlisted.

Staring at the green uniform with a bland expression, Allen Townsend reached out with hands that twitched to run his fingertips over the jacket’s coarse material. A silk-lined hat sat on his desk, along with a belt and a shining silver sword he had only ever held in practice and play battles against his younger brother.

He wanted to be a doctor; now he was a soldier.

“The Cavalry is part of the main offense in England’s military.” The voice was harsh, deep and crisp, rolling over an upper-class tongue and allowing the words to filter through the air like London’s finest smog. Allen did not turn around to face his younger brother, who had gotten out of enlistment because of schooling. Allen wondered why he could not have used the same excuse – he was not a soldier, he hated seeing even the sickest of animals pass in their sleep.

And now he had to cut down living, breathing, healthy human beings?

“I k-know,” he said softly, his voice a whisper compared to Richard’s strong tenor. He turned away from his uniform, hand dropping in the midst of its texture exploration, and instead turned to the papers that held his orders. “I’ll h-have to b-b-buy a horse…”

“Father’s out looking right now; he’ll be sure to find a beast that can handle your gentle nature.” Richard sat himself imperiously on Allen’s bed then, leaning back on his hands and staring at him blankly with his bright grey eyes. Allen turned his darker grey gaze to look upon his brother, taking in the unique bone structure of his face (an inheritance from their mother’s side of the family) to his dark curls that made him appear much younger than he was.

He thought for a moment that he might write to his brother, but then pushed the thought away; Richard was not one for such sentimentalities.

“You’ll be back soon enough, I’m sure. Father says war never lasts very long.”

It sounded like such a flippant thing to say, but Allen had grown up around Richard Townsend and he knew his concerned voice when he heard it. Smiling, he reached out and squeezed his younger brother’s shoulder, nodding once barely.

“Yes, of c-course.”

Richard gave him a smile-that-wasn’t and left him without another word.

~+~

He found riding his horse to be a stress relief.

Going through practice runs on his chestnut brown thoroughbred, whom he had been told was named Phillip, Allen could forget that he was practicing for war. He would ride through the expansive field of the training compound, pushing Phillip further and further to reach the goal – a ring hanging from a pole on a ribbon – faster and faster each day.

Soon enough, he was the fastest horse of the company, and Allen felt a little bit of pride for the both of them because of that fact.

And then they were shipped over to the mainland and into war.

They walked through endless forests, stopping to allow the horses to rest and feed themselves every few hours and catching a bit of half-hearted sleep themselves. Allen stayed with Phillip, rubbing him down and taking good care of him so as to distract his wandering thoughts. Far off in the distance, echoing off of hills and mountains alike, the company could hear gunfire. Sometimes it was the familiar popping of Allied guns; other times it was the off-beat tempo of enemy weaponry.

All-in-all it was unpleasant.

And then one day they had come across their first battle. Being told to quickly mount their horses, Allen hoisted himself onto Phillip’s back, drew his sword when ordered to, and charged when their commanding officer screamed for it.

It had been terrifying, exhilarating, and Allen never wanted to experience battle ever again. He had cleaned his sword three times before deeming it clean enough, cared for Phillip much too slowly for his training, and fell asleep in the stable, plagued by nightmares and soothed by the smell of horses.

He fought three more battles before they met the machine guns of the enemy.

Allen lost Phillip in the skirmish, and he had run, cutting down anyone who came across his path and diving into the woods for his escape. It was just short of terrifying in the never-ending maze of branches, leaves, and uneven ground; the only thing that scared him more had been the guns and the faceless enemy firing at him, the sounds of his horse’s screams, and the sight of his commanding officer dropping with a hole in his throat the size of his fist.

The woods and all its shadowed mysterious was nothing compared to that.

He slept wherever he could and rarely, keeping his sword out and ignoring his pistol for when he thought he would really need it. Every sound made him twitch, and after two weeks Allen lost count of the days and the time, judging time by the position of the sun and by his ever-increasing hunger. He fed off of berries and what he could eat raw; he didn’t dare make a campfire and show potential enemies where he was.

He was found when he had closed his eyes for a quick rest.

~+~

“What’s this, then?”

Twitching, Allen woke up to the sound of unfamiliar voices. He was groggy and exhausted, feeling slower than he had when he had pressed his face into the warm neck of a thoroughbred with a chestnut coat, and so it took him a few minutes to realize that he should have been alone and he was very much not.

Rolling away from the tree he had taken shelter under, he brandished his sword and stared at the three men in front of him unsurely. One was a young man whose hat tilted forward, too big for his head, and dark, curly hair that touched the tips of his ears; the man who stood beside him was a little bit older, much taller, with dark blue eyes that glared down at Allen suspiciously, his hands resting on his firearm as if prepared to shoot the once-Cavalry officer.

It was the third man who stepped forward, catching his attention.

He was taller than the man with the hat, yet shorter than the soldier with the gun. Holding a pistol in one hand and a rifle slung on a strap onto his back, he was stocky and freckled and had the brightest hazel-green eyes Allen had ever seen. They were almost completely green except for flecks of hazel and a ring of it around his pupils, as if it refused to allow the green to have the spotlight.

He also had a very easy smile that promised either companionship or a bullet to the brain.

“’e don’ look like a Fritz,” the shortest of the three spoke up, dark eyes moving from Allen to look at his companion who stepped forward. He sounded like he was from England, but definitely not upper class; his accent was practically Geordie. Perhaps more mumbled than a Geordie.

“He’s not German, Aiden, y’can calm down,” the soldier with the eyes spoke up, and his accent was so fully American that Allen was momentarily confused. “Look at what’s left of his uniform – he’s English Cavalry.”

“He must have been part of that attack a couple of weeks ago that ended badly.”

That was the tall one, his voice deep and promising threats should Allen prove to be anything other than an ally. Green-eyes looked back at him, frowning momentarily as if disapproving of his tone, before turning back to Allen.

“What’s your name, sir?”

Looking away from the other soldiers who continued to stare at him uneasily, Allen set his gaze on freckles and hazel-green eyes.

“A-Allen…C-Captain Allen Townsend.”

Smiling, the American offered him a hand; after a moment, Allen took it, stumbling when he was dragged onto his feet and almost falling into the soldier’s chest.

“My name’s Zebediah Walker. Let’s get you back with friends, huh?”

~+~

They were apparently British infantry, even the American.

When they had arrived at the camp, Allen had immediately been taken to the commanding officer’s tent and asked to tell him what had happened to him since his escape from the fabulous failure that had been his last battle. Allen told it as best as he could, struggling to remember a few things such as the date and length of time he was missing, before he was handed over to the infirmary and given a thorough check-up. Outside of some weight loss and a few minor scrapes that had gotten a bit infected, he was fine – however, it was suggested that he stay away from any conflict until he was in perfect health.

He spent the majority of his time with the commanding officer, a man who called himself Andrew Rodgers. He seemed to know what he was doing, creating battle strategies and back-up plans and back-up plans to his back-up plans. He drank scotch more than water, only ate if the food was hot and in front of him, and sometimes completely forgot about Allen’s presence unless he needed a quick opinion on something.

During the times Rodgers forgot about his existence, Allen wrote a letter to his family to tell them he was alright and explored the camp.

The camp was pretty basic. It even had quickly-made stalls for horses, though the magnificent creatures were used more as beasts of labour than assistance to soldiers in the field. When he had asked about that, one of the soldiers given stable duty had told him that the machine guns were too much for the creatures, and therefore useless in the battle. They were better used to cart around the injured and the artillery; apparently the Germans had begun to use them to carry their larger guns, dragging them uphill and using them until they died.

Then again, the English did very similar.

Allen took to spending his time around the horses at night, sitting on the man-made stalls and talking to the gentle creatures because he had no one else to talk to. The stable boys didn’t seem to mind, especially when he began to take care of the horses along with them, making sure they were well-groomed and in good condition for whenever they were needed.

He had seen the soldiers who had found him only a few times, but during those times he had learned their names.

The short one with the Geordie-like accent was Aiden Wolfe, a man from the bellies of England’s north. Good-humoured and bad-tempered, he was clumsier than anything but had a good shot, and that was the only reason he was allowed to carry a gun as he did. Constantly with him was Tegan Hobbes, who came from London itself and was terribly protective of Aiden in a manner that reminded Allen of a loyal hunting dog to its master.

When he had spotted them behind one of the tents on his way to the horses, however, he had learned that the loyalty ran deeper than that. He never brought it up, though; Tegan still unnerved him.

The soldier whose name he had already known, Zebediah Walker, was a bit of a mystery. Hailing from Michigan in the United States of America, he had moved to England with his mother when he was still a lad and lived in the dirty corners of London. For the longest time he had worked in a factory, while his mother had worked as a seamstress, and they made due that way. When the war came around, Zebediah had dropped his job soon as he could and joined the military.

Zebediah never spoke of his mother, however, and whenever anyone asked about why they had moved from Michigan, Zebediah would go very quiet before he left whatever circle of friends and comrades he had been talking to, disappearing into some corner of the camp.

It worried Allen, but seeing as the only contact he ever had with Zebediah outside of that first day was the American nodding to him politely, he tried not to concern himself too much.

This was pretty much futile. But he tried.

~+~

“I’ve received orders for you, Captain.”

Allen looked up from the book he had acquired from one of the soldiers, slipping off of the stall that held Ares – a pretty black Baroque that liked to rest his head on Allen’s shoulder and snuffle at him whenever Allen came by, looking for the apples the ex-Cavalry officer usually carried with him.

Rodgers stood in front of him, holding an envelope that had already been opened and not even looking apologetic about it. Deciding to refrain from comment, the officer took hold of the envelope and slipped out a sheet of paper, reading over it quickly and frowning.

“I-I’m to stay here?”

“It’s been decided, since you’re the best one out of any of us here with horses that you’ll take care of the beasties and make sure they don’t drop dead on us too early. You won’t have to fight unless the bastards come to us – but that’s not really all that likely, so think of this as a bit of a holiday, Townsend. You’ll also probably be called on for your input in battle tactics, since you’re still an officer and not just a soldier.”

Allen thought he could sense a bit of condescension in the other man’s voice, but he decided not to comment on it. Nodding and folding the orders into his pocket, he watched as Rodgers turned on his heel and marched away. He flinched when someone suddenly appeared by his side.

“So you’ll be with us for a while, huh?”

Blinking at the familiar voice, Allen turned to see Zebediah standing next to him, back to the horses and shoulders stiffer than he had ever seen them. He had his rifle strapped to his back, like usual, and what looked to be Aiden’s hat tilting back on his head. He wondered briefly if he had stolen it or won it in a card game.

“I-It would appear so, yes,” Allen said, turning away from him before realizing what Zebediah had just said. Raising an eyebrow, the officer turned back to the infantry soldier and stared at him with an expression that spoke of being unimpressed. “Eavesdropping, W-Walker?”

Zebediah gave him a shit-eating grin that told him he wasn’t even sorry.

~+~

Allen learned rather quickly that Zebediah was terrified of horses.

He realized this when he saw that Zebediah usually avoided the stables as much as he could. Even when the camp eventually moved, as they had to go closer to the actual battlefield and sticking around the edges wasn’t cutting it anymore, Zebediah chose to walk instead of climbing into the cart pulled by Ares and Sophia, a white beauty with grey spots and a trickster’s personality.

No one else seemed to realize it, making Allen wonder briefly how he was able to and not Zebediah’s constant comrades. The answer that he came up with made his stomach twist uncomfortably, however, and so he stopped thinking about the reasons as to how, and focused more on the why.

Camp set up for the night, the distant sounds of gunfire and canon fire in the distance, Allen left the horses and went to where the mess had been unofficially set up, grabbing a bowl of what the cook that night called stew and searching for Zebediah’s familiar face. He usually sat with Zebediah or Aiden when he wasn’t made to sit with Rodgers and talk battle strategies; though he was good at battle strategies, he didn’t like thinking about the fact that he was sending out people he considered good friends by now into dangerous situations while he stayed behind.

It didn’t sit well in his stomach.

He spotted Zebediah at the far edge of the mess area, poking at his stew with an expression that told Allen that his meal would be less-than-savoury that night. Then again, he hadn’t had a decent meal since before he’d been shipped off to the mainland.

“M-mind if I join you?”

“Huh?” Zebediah looked up from trying to decipher what meat was used for his stew, blinking up at Allen before smiling and offering him a seat. “Go right ahead, Cap.”

Allen smiled, somehow appreciating Zebediah’s lack of proper respect towards his rank in the military. It made him feel a little closer to someone outside of the horses, and that was a pleasant feeling. “I-is the stew s-s-safe to eat?”

“Not at all, which means you might want to plug your nose and chase it down with whiskey.”

Allen snorted, shaking his head. “I’m afraid I h-have no whiskey,” he said softly, stabbing at a carrot and chewing on it. It wasn’t so bad, but perhaps Allen was just thankful to have warm food. He still clearly remembered his foraging in the forest when he had been lost; cold berries and mushrooms that he wasn’t sure were good for him. Anything was better than that.

“…W-Walker.” He waited until Zebediah was looking at him again, working on a piece of meat after deciding it’d probably be best to not waste it. “…H-how long have I been h-h-here?”

“Well, Cap, you told me you were turning forty your next birthday…”

“Walker.”

Zebediah smiled thinly, shrugging a shoulder and looking back at his meal. “About a year now. Doesn’t feel like it, does it? Feels like the war should’ve been over ages ago…thought this was just gonna be a quick one.”

Allen frowned down at his meal, feeling what he had eaten turn to lead in his stomach, before forcing himself to finish. No good wasting food, good or bad. “Mm.”

They fell silent after that, eating their respective dinners and allowing the conversations of other soldiers to fill the silence. Allen put aside his empty plate, folding his hands together and staring at them as they shook more than he had ever seen them shake before. He wondered when the shaking had started.

“W-why are you afraid of horses?”

Zebediah looked at him blankly, and Allen wondered when he had told his mouth that he wanted to ask that question. After a moment, Zebediah snorted and shrugged, fiddling with his tin cup and looking at it as if expecting something to come crawling out of it.

“When I was a kid, livin’ on a farm outside of this town called Westfield – little place in Michigan, can’t even find it on the map – I went to go visit the stables down the road at the neighbouring farmhouse. This cranky old horse didn’t like me peeking in and kicked at me. Clipped my shoulder; I couldn’t move it right for days. Haven’t been comfortable ‘round them since.”

He sensed that there was probably a lie in there, because Zebediah wasn’t one to just share information with anyone, but Allen didn’t push it. After all, he didn’t know Zebediah all that well.

“Cap.”

Allen shook himself out of his thoughts, looking at Zebediah with a curious tilt to his head as the soldier seemed to struggle with something. After a few minutes of Zebediah fiddling with his cup, staring at it and not the officer in front of him, Allen cleared his throat pointedly and raised his eyebrows when Zebediah looked at him.

“…Did you have friends in your company?”

Immediately Allen thought back to Thomas Grey, who had bragged that his steed could outrun any German’s guns; to Wesley Blake, who had followed Thomas like a lost puppy; to Brenton Faywell, who was obviously too young to be among their ranks and yet there he was, excited as could be that he could help King and Country.

Smiling thinly, Allen looked up at the stars and shook his head.

“No.”

~+~

One night, while in the middle of grooming a new stallion they had acquired from a German camp, Rodgers’ messenger boy and nephew came running up to Allen, panting and pale.

“W-what is it?”

“The horses are needed to pull the ambulance carts; a lot of our men are hurt.”

His thoughts flashed to Aiden and Tegan and Zebediah, all of whom had marched off that morning to go fight another battle, before he nodded and started to move the horses over to the ambulance carts.

~+~

“I’m told you were training to be a doctor, Captain Townsend.”

Looking down at the doctor on the field, he nodded once and tugged at his shaking hands nervously, wishing that they hadn’t begun to shake so badly and still wondering behind their cause. The doctor, a man named Liam Donovan, looked up at him from behind rounded spectacles, before he nodded and stood up, pocketing his glasses and waving for the officer to follow him.

“I’m about three hands short of what I actually need, so I’m going to need you assistance, Captain. Is that alright?”

“Y-yes, of course,” Allen nodded eyes wide. Donovan smiled at him thankfully, before he pushed some bandages into his hands and pointed him to the cot farthest down the tent.

“Start with Walker; he’s got a nasty arm wound that needs tending to. Then just go down the line until you start running out of bandages. Once you’re out, come back for more, and go back to where you left off. You can do this side – I’ll do the other.”

Feeling his stomach squeeze at the knowledge that Zebediah had been hurt, he moved down the line and paused when he saw someone he didn’t recognize.

The man was much taller than Zebediah, with a sharper face and longer limbs. However, when he opened his eyes, the same hazel-green stared up at him, and Allen realized that Zebediah had family in the war with him.

“You’re not the doctor.”

“No, b-but I am a-assisting him,” Allen said mildly, moving to the side the injured arm was on and quietly helping the mysterious Walker sit up. “W-what’s your name?”

“Walker.”

“Y-yes, well, I happen to k-know another man by that name…”

“Oh,” the man’s eyes widened in understanding, before he nodded and winced when Allen lifted his arm. “My name’s Ezekiel; I’m Zeb’s cousin.”

“D-does he know you’re in h-h-here?”

“Yeah – he’s the one who dragged my sorry ass here. Probably pacing outside of the tent or something; was muttering about a promise before I passed out.”

“I’ll be s-sure to tell him you’re f-fine; just a little b-beat up.” Ezekiel smiled at him thankfully, sighing when he could lie back down and close his eyes. Allen finished the bandage job with Ezekiel slowly drifting back to sleep, before he stood up and moved to help the next soldier.

Two hours later, his hands a little bloodier than normal and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, Allen was allowed to leave the medical tent and was met with Zebediah standing in front of it, glaring holes into the tarp as if he could see through it.

“Your c-c-cousin is fine,” Allen stated quietly, watching as Zebediah’s eyes flashed over to him, intent and so green the hazel looked like it was losing its battle. The officer smiled thinly, rolling a stiff shoulder and moving to walk past him to find the river. “H-he just needs his rest.”

He had passed Zebediah without incident and was heading towards where he knew the river to be when Zebediah finally called out for him.

“Captain!” Allen paused, looking back at Zebediah and raising his eyebrows expectantly. Zebediah seemed to collect himself before giving him a weak smile – but the most sincere smile he’d ever seen on the other man’s face.

“Thank you.”

Smiling back, Allen nodded and continued on his way once Zebediah turned away to enter the medical tent.

Somehow, his heart felt lighter.

~+~

Another year passed, and Allen was slowly ‘promoted’ from the glorified stable boy to Donovan’s assistant in the medical tent.

Despite his shaking hands, he knew how to tend to the wounded and make sure they were in as little pain as possible. He would talk to the patients and soothe them from their pained panic; he would talk them down from panic attacks. When those particularly feverish had nightmares, Allen was there with a cool cloth and the right words to say when they woke up screaming, still thinking that they were in the battlefield.

Much had changed about the war since Allen had first entered, most of it being the style of fighting that was happening.

One particular battle stood out to Allen, it being the most recent of the battles and still going strong. The soldiers were calling it ‘the Battle of the Somme’; officers called it the ‘Somme Offensive’.

Allen called it a bloodbath.

Their company had been called from their smaller battles just outside of French territory to assist the British Army and their French allies. They were fighting against German soldiers, as they had taken huge tracks of land from French territory back when they war started and it was only now that they could move forward with the attack.

Their company had been called in a week after the first attack because of the massive loss of soldiers the British suffered the first day.

(Allen didn’t like to think about it.)

~+~

Zebediah and Allen’s relationship had started to change the day after Allen had helped Zeb’s cousin.

Zebediah would purposely search for Allen, sitting with him and talking to him. Sometimes he wouldn’t say anything at all and just stare at his hands – riddled in mystery scars and freckles, his shoulders hunched and his eyes far away. Sometimes he spoke nonsense, making up stories of his childhood and telling Allen about this girl he had accidentally knocked up before he had left for the army.

He told Allen that he had joined the army because he didn’t want to deal with a child just yet, being ‘too young’ and ‘too irresponsible’. Allen thought it probably had something to do with the mother, since Zebediah never mentioned her.

Sometimes Zebediah would tell him the truth. He would speak extra quietly, whispering into his hands as if praying and confessing to things Allen knew he had never told anyone about before. He took it as the highest compliment that the most secretive member of the company decided that Allen was the person to share his secrets with.

It was a month before the Somme happened when things completely twisted on Allen’s head in the best way possible.

Allen had just finished tending to some of the wounded in the tent and was making his way to see to the horses (who he still visited, despite them no longer being his responsibility) when someone had grabbed him by the arm. Dragged into as private a nook in the camp as was possible, Allen looked up to see Zebediah in front of him, gripping onto his wrists and staring at him with a quiet intensity that reminded him a bit of Tegan, except less threatening.

Opening his mouth to ask him what he wanted, Allen had been silenced when Zebediah had leaned forward and kissed him.

It was a bit awkward, to say the least. Chaste and dry and stiff, since Zebediah seemed to be waiting for Allen to hit him over the head and yell at him. Which, really, was just silly. So to prove the silliness, Allen tugged his wrists out of Zebediah’s hold, pressed his fingertips to the younger man’s jaw, and dragged him closer to kiss him properly.

The only way to describe Zebediah’s expression after the fact had been ‘extremely pleased and ridiculously stupid in the most positive of ways’.

They only kissed occasionally, and kept to their usual routine; but now Zebediah sat next to Allen and touched him more, such as elbowing him when he wanted his attention or knocking their knees together when he was feeling particularly at peace. Whenever Zeb left to go shoot at the enemy, leaving Allen behind with Donovan and their patients, Allen would have to force himself to concentrate and only breathed easier when Zebediah came back to the camp safe and sound.

And then they were called in for the Somme.

~+~

It had been a week since Allen had seen Zebediah, and he was beginning to worry.

Soldiers had been coming in slowly to the medical tent, which was now more an actual structure far, far away from the battles. Allen could still hear the canons fire in the distance, and it made him twitchy; it was practically impossible to sleep at night.

Not that Allen slept at night.

It was nearing the middle of the second week when Rodgers came up to Allen and shoved a rifle into his hands.

“S-sir?”

“You know how to shoot one, don’t you?”

Staring at him in confusion, Allen nodded, and Rodgers gave a jerk of what could be called a nod but seemed too forced to be one.

“Good. We need a medic out on the field. The last one got shot in the throat. Normally I would send Donovan, since he has more qualifications than you, but we can’t spare him – so you’ll have to do. Holiday’s over.” Turning, he began marching away before he stopped, still staring at the wall blankly.

“…Sir?”

“Don’t get shot, Townsend,” Rodgers turned to look at him, eyes narrowing faintly. “That would just be a waste.”

Swallowing, Allen nodded.

~+~

To call the field of the Somme the gateway to Hell was probably an understatement, but it was the only way Allen knew how to describe it.

It was barren of natural life, craters the size of horses littering the ground and filled with water and bloated bodies. Crawling through trenches, pressing his back against the muddy walls and helping those soldiers he found still breathing, Allen saw more rats crawl out of old comrades’ mouths and stomachs than he ever wanted to see.

He had a feeling that if he ever got out of this alive, he would have nightmares for the rest of his life.

Wading through the slick fields, he slipped into a crater and into a desperate situation.

“Captain!”

Turning to where he heard the voice, he saw Tegan pressed against the wall, Aiden tucked against his side and breathing laboriously. That, of course, was never a good sign and so Allen immediately moved over to them.

“W-what happened?”

“Bullet to the side,” Tegan said in a rush, peeking his head out over the rim of the crater they were currently taking shelter in, before turning back to Allen. The captain-turned-field-medic nodded, helping Aiden sit up and looking at the bleeding wound in his side. Allen hissed between his teeth, eyebrows furrowing in worry, before turning to Tegan.

“H-he needs to g-g-go back to the infirmary.”

“We’re not allowed to turn back – we’ll be shot,” Tegan said softly, tucking Aiden back against his side. He pressed a kiss to the top of the smaller soldier’s head, seemingly not even caring that Allen was right there; Allen didn’t comment, and Tegan’s shoulders relaxed just a bit. “We’ll stick it out here until someone finds us when collecting the dead.”

Allen pressed his lips together, not thinking it was a good idea, but seeing the reasoning behind it. Why bring a wounded man to an encampment that would simply shoot them for returning, assuming they were running from their post? Not that this field was a post; it was chaos compact into a field where no grass grew.

Rummaging through the pack he had been given before being tossed out into the field, he pressed some gauze into Tegan’s hands, smiling at him thinly. “G-get it wrapped up a-at least; i-it’ll prevent m-m-more damage.”

“…Thank you,” Tegan murmured, wrapping dirty fingers around the gauze and nodding to the officer. Allen moved to climb over the crater and Tegan touched his arm lightly. When Allen looked down at him, Tegan stared at him for a long minute before sighing. “Be careful.”

“…Y-you, too,” Allen murmured. He went to climb up again before pausing, turning back to the two soldiers. “H-have you seen W-W-Walker?”

Giving him a knowing look that would normally cause Allen to flush an embarrassing red – but really, time and place – Tegan shook his head slowly. “Lost him at the beginning of the attack. He’s probably still out there trying to get to the German trenches.”

“R-right.”

~+~

When Allen saw his first gas victim, he threw up into a crater and then dry-heaved until it hurt.

The man laid face-up with his face bubbled and destroyed beyond recognition. He had boils and welts along his neck and on his hands where the gas had hit his flesh. He barely looked human.

It was with that realization that Allen began to fear the worst.

~+~

Allen was shot in the leg November 16, 1916. On the 17^th, he was dragged back to camp where he was tended to by Donovan and visited by Tegan to hear the news that Aiden hadn’t made it.

On the 18^th, the battle ended and the Allies won, though Allen didn’t feel like celebrating. Any and all soldiers were brought back from the field, dead or alive. When Donovan was leaving his bedside to tend to the newly wounded, Allen grabbed his sleeve and begged him to look for Zebediah Walker. Donovan didn’t even give him a knowing look; he merely nodded and patted Allen’s hand before leaving.

Three weeks later, Allen walked with a limp; two days later, Rodgers approached him and told him he was going home because he was officially considered an invalid – a limper was no use to the front. Another three days after that, Donovan came up to Allen and told him that there had been no signs of Zebediah Walker amongst the living.

A week later, Allen was sent home.

~+~

He had first heard about the ending of the war when his brother came in and told him flatly that someone finally decided to end the damn thing like a human instead of like an animal.

He hadn’t truly reacted, merely giving Richard a nod and an empty smile before turning back to his textbook.

Allen had gone back to medical school, the medals he had somehow won sitting in a box wrapped in a scarf in his trunk and underneath his medical school books, hopefully to be forgotten until the end of his days.

A few days after Richard’s announcement, Allen received a letter from Tegan Hobbes telling him the same thing. Tegan and Allen had kept in touch after Allen had been sent home, as Tegan was the only friend Allen had left from over there and Allen was the only one who knew about Aiden. It was a companionship born from misery and loneliness, and neither man seemed to mind much. Allen invited Tegan to come to his home once he arrived in England and returned to his studies.

On New Year’s Eve, Robert Townsend died suddenly from an illness no one had realized plagued him, and Allen inherited everything. Richard finished medical school and was running his own practice, making an impact and doing well.

After Allen’s studies were completed he started a practice in his home, which was best for his leg and for his personality, as he was prone to being a recluse more than a social butterfly.

Tegan only visited once every few months, which was just fine with Allen. The man was still as quiet as he had ever been, threatening at first glance but gentle once you got to know him. Whenever the two veterans got together they would avoid talk of battles and of lost loved ones and instead talk about current events; politics, the monarchy, the way in which the world was changing, the state of the economy.

It was peaceful, and it was a shallow existence.

But it was life, and Allen told himself he was okay with that.

~+~

On his 44^th birthday, Allen Townsend was told he had a visitor.

The message came to him from his secretary who had just been about to leave for the night, seeing as Allen worked even on special events like the date of his birth.

Wondering who could be coming by when the clinic was closed, Allen thanked his secretary (a bright young woman called Rachel who knew what was happening in all the houses on the street without even having to move from behind her desk. Sometimes Allen wondered if she were a fortune reader or a gypsy; then he would remember that she was born in Devon on a farm and call himself foolish for the thought) and asked her if she would be so kind as to send his guest to the tearoom. With a smile and a quick little salute (Rachel liked to remind him of his soldier days, because she thought it was thrilling), she went off to do as he was bid, and Allen made his way to the tearoom to greet his guest.

He sat in his armchair slowly, resting his leg and rubbing it idly. Despite healing mostly fine, it still ached – and since it was threatening rain that day, it ached more than usual; though it was useful if he ever wanted to know if he would need an umbrella stepping out.

The door to the tearoom opened, then, and Allen sighed softly, moving to stand up.

“Don’t be gettin’ up on my account, Cap.”

The voice made him freeze, grey eyes widening before Allen was suddenly lurching to his feet and twisting around to make sure he wasn’t absolutely delusional.

Standing at the doorway, looking older and more scarred and more freckled than he had ever seen him, was Zebediah Walker. His hair was a bit too long, a thin white line ran from the corner of his eye to his jaw, and his right arm held stiff against his side, but it was him.

There was no denying it was him.

“H-how – what – w-why –?”

“Who knew I could get you so flustered, Cap?” Zeb grinned, before pausing. “Or should I call ya ‘doc’, now? When did you become an honest-to-goodness doctor, anyway? I’m always the last to know –”

He was cut off by Allen suddenly being there, arms wrapped tight around his chest and face buried into his neck. He still smelt the same, except cleaner, and he could feel the scrap of stubble against his temple; really, at that point, he didn’t care. Zebediah was alive and breathing and in his tearoom and he could not get past that point in his head.

After a moment, Zebediah wrapped his arms around Allen carefully, squeezing him closer and pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“I missed you, too.” 

So…holy fuck, I’m done. 8|
Uh. Some notes? 8V

Q: So Heather, what’s up with the narration at the end and then the letter?
A: So metaphorical reader, let me tell you about – /shot.
Basically the story behind that was first: I was struggling to find an appropriate ending. Seriously. Ask Angel or Rico, they got me crawling up to them like ‘how does one end a story they have dedicated practically an entire year of their life to?’ Yeah. Yeaah.
Second: the narration at the beginning is Rachel, and the narration at the end is not. I know it sounds a lot like the narration at the beginning – I was going to go with them being the same person. But then I decided ‘nah’ because apparently I like fucking with my own brain. So while the narrations sound similar, they are in fact different. I don’t know who told the ending narration. You can make up theories. 8’v /lazy-ass-bitch.

Q: So Heather, why are there so many spelling errors?
A: Hey metaphorical reader, this is 176 pages of pure writing. I’ve never written anything of this length before. 8’| Growing! But yeah, I’ll edit the shit out of it after. Have my rough writing.

Q: So Heather, why the hell don’t you go into detail about what happened to Allen after that ending scene where you basically ripped out your own heart?
A: I did rip out my own heart, despite the poor quality of that scene. 8’v And I didn’t go into detail with Allen because first off, I wanted to end this motherfucker. And second off, I’m lazy. AND THIRD OFF, I was kind of mirroring the ‘missing years’ from the beginning. We’re missing eight years of Zebediah’s life, with only really vague hints as to what went on with him; likewise, we’re missing five years of Allen’s life before he appears again. Shh. I’m being clever. 8’| But mostly I was lazy and wanted to end the bitch. My brain’s still dead.

Q: Hey Heather, why did Allen change his name?
A: Let me quote Sherlock from BBC’s Sherlock for a moment: “Sentiment”. Literally. That’s what it is. It’s pure sentiment. However, it’s also another ‘mirroring’ thing – this time with Tegan and Aiden’s relationship. Tegan and Aiden were basically ‘spiritually’ and metaphorically ‘married’, and they showed this through the rings. Allen showed his love to Zebediah after his death through changing his name. That, and I also wanted a legitimate excuse to write ‘Allen Walker’ for once.

Q: Hey Heather, WHY RACHEL?
A: WHY NOT? I’ve grown to love her a lot, okay. 8| She’s like my favourite person in existence, can I marry her? No? Okay. Anyhow, have a real reason: Allen and Rachel were already close, as shown throughout the course of the story. She was also close to Zeb, so that gave Allen some sort of connection to that part of his life. The two of them had a lot in common. After Allen changed his name and bought the orchard, people thought it was kind of curious that he was still pretty young and still very unmarried, so one day he visited Rachel in the city. The two got to talking – Allen needed people off his back, Rachel needed to get the creepy suitors off of hers – and baddaboom, baddabing, wedding bells.

Q: HEATHER BUT ALLEN IS GAY.
A: NO REALLY I JUST WROTE 176 PAGES OF HIM IN A SORDID GAY LOVE AFFAIR IN THE ‘20s I NEVER WOULD HAVE GUESSED.
Allen and Rachel didn’t have sex often – twice, in fact. And both times perfectly timed to get Rachel pregnant. 8’| Margaret was the first born, and then Zachariah. Rico. You finally know why I asked about girls names. You’re welcome.

Q: Heather why did you kill Zebediah?
A: Why not? One part revenge (I told you I’d have it), one part ‘cause he told me that’s what would happen, and one part ‘cause of something I realized I do that Rico told me I do. I show a lot about Zebediah in my AU’s. This is just another fact about Zeb that I’m showing you. Look at what he says.

Q: Heather why did you mention this person and never bring them up again/bring in this person and throw them to the side/NEVER MENTION THIS PERSON?
A: 8| Because I could. No, not really. I was showing the enormity of both Allen’s world and Zeb’s world – mostly Zeb’s, it seems, since a lot of the characters broke the law in one way or another. Also sometimes I forgot to bring in characters I wanted to – like Frank! I had an entire story for Frank, backstory and present story and everything, and I never brought him in! DAMN IT.

Q: Heather why the hell didn't Allen say 'I love you' back?
A: You gonna say 'I love you' to a corpse? 8'| No that's not the real reason I just like reminding you Zeb's dead. I'm a terrible human being. Reason why was because this was Zebediah's moment - and Allen showed he loved Zebediah without him having to say it. That, and for fuck's sake when I realized I forgot it I had to somehow stick it in - and no matter what I did it was too awkward. I'm a perfectionist. I stuck with no confession rather than clumsy confession.

Q: Heather Zebediah brought up something about some guy stumbling in and saving him this one time.
A: OH YOU CAUGHT THAT? 8V That’s why Aiden is so important to Zeb. I know it was said because of his and Tegan’s relationship, but that’s not all. 8’| Zeb cares a lot more about Aiden than anyone who just wants to make sure their significant other doesn’t shoot them in the head should. Aiden saved Zeb – Zeb gave him a job – Tegan met Aiden through the club – they got close – they got ‘married’ – Tegan and Zeb can stand one another. LOOK AT THAT A CHAIN OF EVENTS I’M SO SMART.

I’m sure there are other things I should mention, but at this point my brain re-short-circuited, so I think it’s time for me to stop. 
Thank you all for reading, and hopefully enjoying, this enormous project. Hopefully after I edit the sucker you’ll get to see it. You know. Official. 8| Maybe. Holycrap.
/passes out.

Zebediah woke up around noon, the light hitting him right in the eyes and the warmth of Allen Townsend against his side practically dragging him back to sleep.

Turning to press a kiss against the sleeping man’s head, he inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of fading rain water, the cologne Allen had worn the previous evening and something so completely Allen that he couldn’t help but wonder if it would be alright to just lay with him the whole day and never move again.

But he couldn’t, and he knew that, so with an unhappy groan, the gangster pulled away from his doctor and walked over to the window, dragging the curtains closed.

He disappeared into the bathroom, running a bath and splashing water over his face to wake himself up, looking into the mirror with a squint of hazel-green. He looked more worn and aged than he usually did, which really wasn’t very comforting but he supposed he should have expected as much. Zebediah aged by the day instead of by the year, as if he was making up for the future birthdays he was sure to miss.

Because like any good crook, Zebediah Walker knew his days were numbered. They had been since the day he’d killed his stepdaddy in cold blood.

He got dressed fifteen minutes after entering the bathroom, combing his hair into proper style and positioning his fedora on properly so that no one on the street would recognize him immediately. He made a mental note to thank Rachel for bringing in a fresh suit without disturbing him and Allen, making his way over to the bed to see the doctor still sleeping deeply.

He sat on the edge of the bed, reaching over and tracing the shape of the doctor’s face before leaning in and pressing a kiss to his forehead. Allen stirred, eyes opening slowly, and he squinted up at him tiredly.

“…Going somewhere?”

“Just for a few hours,” Zebediah assured, cupping Allen’s neck and running the pad of his thumb along his Adam’s apple very carefully. Allen swallowed, arching his back and turning onto his side. He lazily lifted an arm, taking Zeb’s hand into his own and squeezing it affectionately. Zebediah smiled. “I’ll be back in time for dinner – we’ll go over to the Price Tag, meet up with Eli and listen to some good music. Sound like a plan?”

Allen smiled sleepily and nodded, dragging the gangster’s hand to kiss the palm before letting go. He curled up against his pillow, hiding his face into it and burrowing under the sheets before promptly falling back asleep.

There was a quick knock on the door, then, and Zebediah turned to see Ezekiel peeking his head into the room.

“Time?”

“Yep.” Ezekiel gave a quick, reassuring grin, hazel-green eyes flickering over to the lump that was Allen sleeping under the covers. “You already talk to him?”

“Yeah, I said what I needed to. I’m seein’ him again later today, anyway, it’s not like I’m off to war.” Zebediah stood up and rolled his shoulders, pulling the Colt out of his holster and checking to make sure it was loaded before moving towards the door. He slipped out past Ezekiel, watching as the taller Walker closed the hotel door silently and locked it back up, slipping the key to the room in his pocket. “Shall we?”

“Let’s get goin’, I want to finish this in time for lunch. That diner Allen goes to all the time serves some excellent grilled cheese, I’ve recently learned.”

Zeb snorted, making his way to the stairwell and hurrying down the stairs to the main floor. They left the woman at the counter with a polite nod and a quick smile, entering the streets and making their way towards West and Fifth.

The streets were pretty empty for a Saturday, but that was alright. This way, there were less people to recognize the Walker cousins and report them to the nearest police or to the nearest gangster. Zebediah liked to do his personal business in private, and dealing with Thomas Gray was the most personal one could get in this particular criminal’s life. Thomas Gray was the reason Zebediah was a crook; he was the reason why he owned the Orchard, and a gun, and had more scars than Frankenstein’s monster.

It was because of Thomas Gray that Zebediah Walker was Zebediah Walker, and not just another regular Joe on the street. He wondered if he should thank him or punch him across the face.

Probably both.

West and Fifth wasn’t far from the hotel Zeb, Allen and Rachel had found the night before, just a block or so over. The hospital was one of the well-known landmarks, and the only reason it hadn’t been knocked down yet was because the Townsends still owned it. They just didn’t know what to do with it.

It was a decently sized building, made out of gray stone and around three stories tall. It had once been the only hospital in Westfield until Robert Townsend moved into the city and bought it out. He then closed it down, opening another, better hospital on the other side of town (the one Allen worked at), as well as opening a chain of clinics and pharmacies. The Townsends made their name through the medical system, and the only reason why no one bothered with the Townsends or what they did was because they owned the clinics and the hospital and the pharmacies. Had they not, they would have just been another foreign family.

Zebediah looked around to make sure no one was waiting around, looking down at his watch to see that he and Ezekiel were about twenty minutes early for Thomas’ meeting with his supplier. Indicating to Ezekiel that he should wait out under cover somewhere nearby, Zebediah walked ahead, moving towards a quieter place. If one was making arrangements with their dealer, they would head for the most private spot in a public area – and that would be the little courtyard where patients used to walk around to stretch their legs.

The freckled man pressed his back against the wall, peeking around the corner into the courtyard to see what it was completely empty. He frowned, eyes narrowing suspiciously, before he bent down to a crouch and started walking into the courtyard.

It was still empty, no signs of anyone waiting around. No Thomas Gray in his fancy suits and self-serving smile; no dealer with a fag in his mouth and a suspicious glint to his eye. Nothing. Just pure silence.

Zebediah stood up, replacing his Colt into the holster and crossing his arms anxiously. He looked at his watch again. Only twelve minutes to one. Where was everyone?

Looking behind him, he saw Ezekiel crouched in a nook hidden away, looking just as confused as his cousin. The taller of the two put away his pistol, standing up slowly and making his way towards Zebediah.

“Ya sure Stu gave you the right address?”

“Positive –”

He was cut off by something sharp and sudden hitting him in the side, right through the recent stitches. Looking down, he narrowed his eyes uncertainly before pressing a hand against where it hurt, pulling away to see his hand covered in red.

“…Oh.”

“Shit.” Ezekiel was suddenly there, helping Zebediah to his knees as the older man felt a wave of dizziness hit him right in the head. He pulled away to pull his pistol back out, wincing when they heard another shot; Zebediah choked, pressing a hand to his stomach and feeling the blood ooze out quickly between his fingers.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, where are they?” Ezekiel hissed, looking around madly and placing himself in front of Zebediah. After all, they kept on shooting for him; if they had wanted both of them dead, they wouldn’t have waited until Ezekiel was separated from his cousin to shoot again.

A third shot fired, grazing Ezekiel’s cheek and barely missing Zebediah, and both Walkers decided it was time to go. 

Gathering Zebediah into one arm, Ezekiel started running out of the courtyard and towards the back allies, knowing them better than anyone outside of the homeless. He didn’t hear shots fired behind him, nor did he hear footsteps, so he took that to mean no one was following him.

It was only when he saw a police car slowly driving down the road along the route he was taking that he knew that was not the case.

“So, Zeb,” Ezekiel panted, pressing against a wall and looking down at his cousin to see how he was doing. He looked paler, his eyes glassy and his breathing slow and raspy. The minute it started to sound wet and like he was breathing bubbles and rocks, Ezekiel would be worried. Well. More than he already was. “I get the feeling Stu lied to you.”

“No,” Zebediah choked out, clearing his throat and spitting out a gob of blood. He winced, wiping at his mouth with a shaking hand. “No, I think S-Stu was fine…and that he w-was lied t-t-to.”

“Soundin’ like Allen there, old boy,” Ezekiel said, before his eyes lit up. “Allen. He can help! C’mon we gotta head back to the hotel –”

“Allen won’t be able to h-help,” Zebediah shook his head, closing his eyes and pressing his hands against his stomach. They were pure red now, and for a moment it looked like he was wearing gloves. “…But please g-get me to him. I w-wanna see him.”

Swallowing, Ezekiel nodded, before hoisting Zebediah into his arms and running towards the hotel through the back allies, ignoring the police car on the road following them and keeping an ear out for anyone on foot.
______________________________________________________________________________________________
Allen was washing his face when the door to the hotel room suddenly opened and shut much too loudly to be a casual visitor the return of Zebediah from whatever his errand had been.

Quickly leaving the bathroom, he stopped where he stood.

Ezekiel was helping Zebediah sit down on the ground, holding onto his shoulder and talking to him quietly. He had a gun in his hand, the other smeared red from blood. A quick look to the taller Walker proved that it wasn’t from him – he had a small scratch on his cheek and nothing more.

Zebediah was a different story.

He could see the blood even through the dark suit jacket, soaking through his side and his stomach. It looked like he had bled a lot, meaning that the wound hadn’t just happened; it had happened at least half an hour ago, at the most.

Ezekiel was pushing the man’s jacket off when Allen seemed to come back to the real world, stumbling over to his side and dropping to his knees.

“W-what –?”

“Things didn’t go according to plan,” Ezekiel muttered, wadding up Zebediah’s jacket and pressing it against his stomach. The older Walker hissed, leaning back, and Allen moved so that he could lie down on top of his knees. Shaking hands swept through light hair, soothing away the lines of pain from Zeb’s forehead. He felt cool and clammy, his skin much paler than usual, practically white; his freckles and scars stood out like black on white.

Like blood on snow.

“‘Zekiel,” Zebediah spoke up, eyes closed and breathing controlled. “I want you to go outside and watch out for anyone comin’, okay?”

“Zeb –”

“Ezekiel…just do it.”

The younger cousin looked down at Zebediah for a long time before he nodded, standing up and walking out of the hotel room without another word. Allen didn’t even seem to notice him leave, his eyes fixated on Zebediah’s face. He wanted to do something about the bleeding of his stomach, but his hands were shaking too badly for him to even stop the bleeding.

If the bleeding could be stopped.

(He didn’t think it could.)

“I think dinner’s gonna h-have to be cancelled,” Zeb said after a moment. A dry laugh escaped Allen, though it sounded more like his voice cracking than any form of humour. Zebediah smiled apologetically. “Grab my hand, would ya? …feelin’ heavy.”

Swallowing, Allen reached out for Zeb’s hand, moving it so that it rested over his heart. He laced their fingers together, ignoring the blood on Zebediah’s hands and pretending for a moment that it was yesterday again; fingers laced together in the quiet of the night, lightning their only light and thunder the only sound that mattered.

But it wasn’t last night.

“I was s’posed to see my baby brother, y’know,” Zebediah interrupted the silence, eyes still closed and body heavy. His fingers sporadically squeezed Allen’s, as though reminding himself he could still move them. “At Easter. Promised him and everythin’…”

“I…you m-might still…”

“Allen, don’t you lie,” Zebediah reprimanded with a smile, shaking his head and opening his eyes. They were far away, but still looked directly up at him. “Don’t you lie to me. Not now.” Allen kept quiet and Zebediah closed his eyes again, fingers squeezing and relaxing. “It’ll just be another p-promise I break, anyway…”

Shifting, he hissed, pressing his hand harder on his stomach. Fresh red spilled over, coating drying hands, and Zebediah gave a short laugh.

“Ohhh…I always knew I’d get shot, but I thought it’d be…h-headshot at least, y’know? Quick. This is just cruel…” He snorted, opening his eyes and looking up at the ceiling blandly. “Damn you, Greg Hale…”

“W-why did you come h-h-here, Zebediah?” Allen whispered, fingers tightening in Zeb’s and clutching to him. “Why d-didn’t you go to a h-h-hospital, o-o-o-r Liam, or s-s-someone who c-could help –”

“I don’t want help,” Zebediah interrupted quietly, fixing his gaze on Allen and focusing solely on him. “I don’t need help.”

“Yes you do – !”

“No,” Zeb said softly, shaking his head slowly. “I don’t.”

He took in another careful, deep breath, hissing through his teeth and pressing his hand into his bleeding stomach as pain shot through his nerves, before forcing himself to relax, closing his eyes and exhaling slowly. Allen watched him with a heavy feeling of helplessness, unsure as to what he could do and wishing – wishing – that he could actually do something. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t fix Zebediah; he couldn’t play doctor.

He couldn’t help.

“…can I say somethin’?”

“Of c-course.”

“Good.” He looked up at Allen, and it hurt to see such sharp eyes gone dull. “First. Don’t blame yourself…for this, okay?” Allen frowned, looking away, and Zebediah sharply squeezed his hand to force him to look back. “I mean it. Don’t. Don’t you dare. I’m the sorry sap here…not you. …never you.”

He shifted, Allen helping him to get comfortable, and he ended up half sitting up, his head resting on the doctor’s shoulder tiredly. Their joined hands fell from his heart to his stomach, and Allen watched with numbed fascination as their hands turned red together.

“Second.” The doctor broke his gaze away from their hands, hiding his face in Zebediah’s shoulder. “…second…I…”

“…Zeb?”

Zebediah shook his head, forcing himself to turn so that he could face Allen. Allen turned towards him, watching him wide-eyed confusion, unsure of what the other man was about to say. He couldn’t think of anything he would say in this moment; he couldn’t think.

It was strangely cold.

“…I love you…Allen Townsend. So much it scares me. You scare me…and I love you for it.”

It felt like a slap to the face, his words. They were the most open Zebediah had ever been with him; the most honest, the truest, the realist he had ever been. And it hurt to hear him be so open with him. It hurt and for a moment Allen wondered if the pain in his chest was empathy from Zebediah’s bleeding wounds, before remembering he was shot in the stomach – not the heart.

Zebediah would never be open like this again. He would never, ever say those words again.

Because Zebediah Walker was staring at him…and staring at him…and seeing nothing. And he had stopped breathing the moment he stopped speaking.

And in that moment, so had Allen.
______________________________________________________________________________________________
Zebediah Walker died on February 24, 1924.

Twenty-nine years old, the man had created a successful business, and successfully became the big man in Westfield – and for his efforts, he was hunted down and eventually shot in the abdomen twice by a sniper. Some say it was Chief of Police Gregory Hale who had shot him; others suggested that Hale had hired on a successful sniper from the other side of the law to take the shot.

It would never be clear what had happened.

Wesley Blake and Thomas Gray disappeared a few days later, the Boiler Room shutting down and Thomas’ associated, Dick Schlage, being arrested and thrown into the high-security prison of the state. Thomas was found two weeks later by Hale, however, dead in his hotel room with a bullet between his eyes. Wesley completely disappeared off of the map and no one has ever known what happened to him.

Ezekiel Walker stayed quiet for some months, staying out of the public eye until the excitement over the death of Zebediah eventually wore off. After that, he found himself a proper job on the right side of the law, working in a law firm as the errand boy while saving up money to go to college. He eventually ended up marrying a young woman in the law firm, and the two of them had three children before they divorced shortly after the Depression, because of reasons they did not wish to disclose with the public.

Ezekiel kept a good relationship with his children and his ex-wife. It was only revealed when he was much older that the reason they divorced was because of Ezekiel’s different tastes in partners. He died in a home beside his lover, William Evans – a once-prostitute who Ezekiel helped out during many years before.

As for the Apple Orchard, Adiel Walker took over the establishment and kept it as a club that served alcohol until Prohibition fell and speakeasies were no longer necessary. After that, she made it a regular club for everyone to go to – and during the Depression, the young woman converted the Apple Orchard into a shelter for those who needed it, giving the homeless shelter and a soft bed to sleep on, as well as warm food to eat every night. She never married.

As for Rebekkah Walker, she buried two sons in 1924. Shortly after the news that her oldest had been shot, Rebekkah had Zebediah’s body brought back to his childhood home, where he is not buried. Shortly afterwards, Benjamin Gable went out for a walk to clear his head and fell into the river, where he was found dead the next morning.

Unlike with Aaron Walker, it was not called a suicide, and Benjamin was allowed to be buried next to his brother. Rebekkah kept to herself for the rest of her years, dying in her sleep in 1928 and just avoiding the Depression.

The farm was bought by a rich young man a year after Rebekkah’s death. The young man called himself Allen Walker, and he was a doctor and a good one at that – if you ignored his shaking hands and stuttering disposition. A quiet man, he kept mostly to himself and always seemed to be thinking about something. He had a sad smile, and never seemed to show an interest in any of the women around the area.

He married in 1929, just in time for the Depression, and he and his wife helped those who were unlucky enough to suffer from the great crash of the American stock market. They had two children, stayed married throughout the course of the Depression, and then divorced just before World War II began. Despite their separation, they kept in contact and raised their children together.

Allen Walker died at eighty years old in 1967, and is buried next to Zebediah Walker. His wife, Rachel is still living, residing in Westfield city.
______________________________________________________________________________________________
A Letter from Rachel Walker to her Daughter Margaret, c. 1953

Margie,

Happy birthday, sweetums! You’ll see I have included twenty dollars with your letter, as well as a card from your Auntie Adiel. She sends her love and hopes you are enjoying college.

I cannot believe that you are 22 years old! It seemed only yesterday you were running down the orchard’s fields, causing poor old Michael the worst of headaches. He would tell you stories about a similar rascal who had once grown up in the orchard, remember? Little Zebediah Walker? You always asked if you were related to him, and Poppa would always tell you that you weren’t.

Poppa’s doing well, by the way. I’ve spoken to him quite recently, and the apples this year are particularly fresh so he tells me. You should go visit him, along with Zachariah, sometime soon; I’m sure he would really like to see you.

Now, you’ll have noticed that along with the letters and the money, there’s a very large packet of papers wrapped up in brown paper. This is my gift to you, sweetums – the most important gift I can ever give you.

It’s about your Poppa. And it’s about little Zebediah Walker.

You see, your Poppa was not born a Walker – he was born Allen Townsend, and he was a very important man in Westfield. I’m sure you’ve learned about him in your history classes; his family owned the chain of clinics, pharmacies, and the big hospital for years before they were bought out by Timothy Dawson. But this story isn’t about that, I’ll tell you about that another time.

This is the reason why Poppa is so sad all the time.

Margie, you’re always asking why Poppa always looks so sad, even when he’s happy. Why does he go out to those old gravestones whenever he needs to think? Why does he disappear for hours in that old attic, filled with another family’s history? This is why. I have written down everything I know about your Poppa, and about his dear, dear friend Zebediah Walker.

I hope it explains some things.

Please take good care of yourself, my darling, and I’ll see you and your brother at the orchard for Christmas.

Love,
Marmie

Margaret Walker stared at her mother’s letter for a very long moment, before turning to the packet of papers on her lap.

It was thick and heavy, promising a very long and a very entertaining tale – if it was anything like any of her mother’s other stories. Rachel Walker was a brilliant actress, but she was the best storyteller in the world, and no one could tell her differently.

Putting aside the letter, the 22-year-old college student made herself comfortable on her couch and slowly unwrapped the packet of papers, running her fingers along the carefully type-written letters and the thick paper that held all of her father’s secrets.

Thinking on her Poppa’s sad grey eyes and the wistful expression he got whenever he looked out at the orchard, Margaret turned to the first page and began to read.

The Walkers owned an apple orchard – the best anywhere, just ask anybody. They grew anything from Galas to Allen’s Everlastings and everything else in between…

Allen met with Rachel outside of the diner at the exact time they had agreed on, Rachel grabbing onto his hand and dragging him down the street towards the theatre. There they met Zebediah, standing out in a dark suit and hat tipped down as far as it would go before it looked ridiculous, hiding his features from the people around them.

“I see Rach dragged you into this madness as well, huh doc?” Zebediah greeted, following the grinning woman into the theatre and pulling out a wallet to pay for their tickets. Allen watched while Rachel looked around the theatre with fascination, taking in the crowds and all the different sights the building had to offer. “Why are ya wearin’ that heavy coat for? S’not that cold out.”

“I s-saw clouds earlier,” Allen explained, tucking himself further into his overcoat and basking in the warmth it provided. “It m-m-might be an unseasonably w-warm February evening, but I’m not t-taking my chances.” Zebediah smirked, shaking his head and handing over the money for the tickets, grabbing the slips of paper and handing one to Allen and Rachel each. “S-shall we?”

“I think so.”

They settled into the theatre, sitting near the front because Rachel wanted to ‘feel the full effect of the movie’. The quiet chatter that filled the auditorium silenced after a few moments, the screen flickering and skipping before the grainy film started to play, music filling the room.

Rachel seemed absolutely entranced with the film, leaning forward with interest and squeaking every time something frightening would happen. Zebediah had his arm around the back of her seat, the tips of his fingers subtly tugging on a few of Allen’s curls that were in reach; Allen kept his hands to himself, leaning towards Rachel every time she leaned over to him and whispered something softly.

The movie ended with a sputter after 81 minutes, Rachel breathing a sigh of relief and smiling, pressing her hand to her chest. The crowds started to drift out after a moment, the three of them following them, Rachel hooking her arm through both Allen’s and Zebediah’s and beginning to chatter about the film excitedly.

“Oh, did you see that dreadful make-up they used on Count Orlok? Positively frightening, I’m sure I’ll have nightmares for days! And those sets! And that story! What was your favourite part, I was fond of the scene when Hutter realizes that the Count is actually a vampire, it was just so dramatic!”

“You, ah, l-like dramatic things, R-Rachel?”

“Oh, I love ‘em. You should know that, Allen, I do wanna be an actress! I think I would have made the perfect Ellen, don’t you? I can play innocent and pure, yeah?” She fluttered her lashes, Allen laughing softly and Zebediah grinning at her foolishness. “And the music! I hadn’t been expecting something so theatrical, I was shocked! Those Germans know how to put together a film, let me tell you!”

They were walking down the sidewalk, just enjoying the quiet of the evening. Couples and groups of young people were walking towards hotels, restaurants, and other haunts that the city offered at this time of night. The three of them were heading towards the Price Tag, wanting to listen to some good music and eat a decent meal before they turned in for the night.

“Oh, what did you think of the effects the film used –”

Rachel’s question was cut off by the sudden crash of lightning, followed quickly by a rumble of thunder just ahead and the sudden down-pouring of rain from above.

Shrieking, Rachel ripped herself away from the gangster and the doctor, rushing over to the nearest cover and wrapping her arms around her chest, rubbing at her arms to keep herself warm. The couples and groups of young people all followed Rachel’s lead, running into convenience stores and restaurants and hotels, even if they hadn’t been planning on going in there. In a matter of minutes, the entire street was empty.

Allen gave a quiet ‘oh’ of surprise, bundling his overcoat tighter around himself and starting to make his way over to where Rachel stood. He stopped when he realized that Zebediah wasn’t beside him, turning to look where the gangster had been last. Tipping his hat back to see more clearly through the sudden torrential storm (how strange for February, really, but then again the entire day had been strange), he noted that Zebediah was nowhere near where they last were.

“Z-Zeb?” he called out, turning around completely and looking for him. “Z-Zeb, let’s head to some s-shelter – you’re not in a c-coat like me, you’ll get s-s-sick!”

He heard a laugh coming from his left, and turned to see that Zebediah Walker, fearsome gangster and criminal of the city of Westfield, was stood in the middle of the street with his arms outspread as if he was trying to embrace the rain.

Hat in hand, the freckled youth had his face tipped towards the sky, freckles and scars standing out in shocking relief. His suit had quickly soaked to second skin, the dark grey becoming practically black due to moisture. He didn’t seem to care, though; not about his suit, not about the rain soaking him through, and not about the fact that he was standing in what was quickly becoming a miniature lake in the middle of the street.

But Allen couldn’t help but notice the smile on his face.

It wasn’t the usual sharp, wolf’s smile, all corners and edges and danger hiding within the expression. It wasn’t faked cheer, either, which he pulled whenever he wanted something. It wasn’t small, or quiet, or subdued – it was there and it was screaming pure contentment in that moment.

Zebediah was a young man in that moment, still in the cusp of his youth and alive, and Allen felt an ache in his chest that had never been there before at the thought.

“Allen!” His voice broke through Allen’s musings, making the doctor turn to him curiously. “Come over here for a sec, would ya?”

Allen frowned, shaking his head before making his way over to the criminal, trying his best to avoid the deeper puddles and failing quite miserably. He stopped just a foot or so away from Zebediah, looking at him expectantly and waiting for him to say something.

Instead of speaking, however, Zebediah reached out and snagged Allen by the waist, dragging him as close as he could and grinning down at him.

“Z-Zeb!” Allen gasped, pushing back against him for a moment and staring at him with shock. “W-what are you d-doing?”

Zebediah looked down at Allen quietly, hazel-green eyes staring into grey-silver. The hint of his innocently boyish smile was still on his lips but quickly fading, the hands on Allen’s hips tightening and loosening sporadically the longer they stood there. In the background, Allen could hear Rachel yelling out to them that she did not want to get soaked because Zebediah wanted to jump into puddles like some mangy mutt, but the two of them ignored her.

“No one’s paying attention to two lunatics in the rain outside of the bird twittering at us incessantly. I never get to hold you, Allen – not like this. Not in the middle of the street.” He closed his eyes, leaning forward and bumping noses with Allen, the rain cool and dripping down the curve of his cheekbones and length of his nose with no sign of letting up. Lightning flashed above them, women in white dancing through thunderous clouds, before another growl of thunder rolled through the sky, shaking Allen to his core. “I hate that. I hate that so much – ‘cause sometimes, when I see ya, I just want to grab hold of ya and never let you go. But I can’t, you know? I can’t just kiss ya like I could kiss Rachel or any of those molls. And it drives me out of my head, alright? ‘Cause you’re a prize, Allen – you need to be shown off. I need everyone to know that you’re with me.”

Allen kept his mouth shut, eyes wide and stomach in knots, unsure of what to say to something so deeply personal; so completely open that for a moment Zebediah was not the man Allen had gotten to know over the past few months but someone utterly broken. Someone so fractured he just wanted to sooth the cracks and the pain away. But could he?

“And I can’t,” Zebediah repeated, voice cracking before he shook his head, giving a thin smile. Pressing even closer to Allen, lips practically touching but not quite – for the streets might have been empty, but the buildings were not – Zebediah replaced his fedora onto his head, tilting it back so he could stay close to the doctor as he was. The doctor’s hand was suddenly grabbed by the gangster’s, Zeb positioning them so that they looked like they were about to dance. Eyes still closed Zebediah hoisted Allen a bit closer, their chests touching much too close for proper dancing.

“Dance with me,” he commanded, voice quiet and barely heard over the rumbling sky above them.

Staring uncertainly at the young man, Allen squeezed his fingers and nodded minutely. “Okay.”
______________________________________________________________________________________________
Rachel had finally gotten sick of the two lovebirds in the rain, running out and dragging Allen – and therefore Zebediah – towards the closest hotel so that they could dry off. Zeb ordered a room for he and Rachel, Allen taking his own, and the three of them went their separate ways.

However, when it came for Allen and the ‘couple’ to separate, Rachel peeled herself away from Zebediah and grabbed Allen’s room key, kissing his cheek and going up the stairs the extra flight, leaving the two alone. And wordlessly, Allen followed Zebediah back into their hotel room.

Closing the door carefully behind him, Allen slid out of his coat. He flinched when it was pulled away from him, turning to see Zebediah hanging it up on the coat rack without being asked. The gangster set his fedora and his suit jacket onto the hooks as well, reaching out for Allen to give him his.

Once that was settled, the two stopped moving, Zebediah looking at the coat rack and Allen looking at Zebediah; then, without warning, Zebediah reached out for Allen’s hand and dragged the doctor over to him.

He did nothing for a moment, callused hands holding onto the doctor’s wrist as if he were a manacle and Allen his prisoner. The older man moved to pull away and Zebediah squeezed his wrist tighter, looking at him with an expression that told him he was not letting go; yet Allen simply smiled a small, understanding smile, pulled away anyway, and quickly laced their fingers together to create a bond and not a shackle.

They didn’t bother with the lights, the curtains of the room left open and the lightning flashes giving the room an otherworldly glow every time it spiked. The doctor met the criminal halfway, lips pressing dryly against lips, a scarred hand tracing the outline of a cheek while shaking fingers curled into a fist just above a steadily beating heart. They undressed one another, fumbling and struggling in the dark and with dripping wet shirt buttons or trouser buttons or suspenders – but they managed all the same.

Zebediah led Allen to the bed, the blind leading the blind, and over they toppled; Zebediah flat on his back, Allen for once above him and in control. Allen kissed his way down Zeb’s throat, nuzzling into his collarbone and murmuring either romance or medical theories – he couldn’t make out which. Zeb spoke in lyrics, hands shaking against ribs and hips and thighs, eyes aimed towards the ceiling as if he were in prayer.

The boy from an apple orchard in the country couldn’t help but wonder what would happen the next day, thinking on the Colt he left with his harness on the floor; thinking about the stitches in his side that had just been removed. He swallowed thickly when Allen paid special attention to the two thin scars on his throat he never talked about – about the one time Thomas Gray had almost killed him, and the only reason Zebediah was breathing to talk about it was because a man stumbled on them and accidentally saved his life.

He thought about piano wires and marble-mouthed accents, cool eyes and fire, and his heart seemed to stutter in his chest when Allen whispered what sounded like the Hippocratic Oath just over the madly beating organ that he constantly put in danger every day or his goddamned life. His hands were the ones shaking, and he felt so small and so young and so helpless for a moment and he blamed Allen Townsend with his whole heart.

He blamed him because he had stolen him.

And looking up into those grey-silver eyes, so much like storm clouds and precious metals, he didn’t bother trying to stop himself from framing his face and kissing him as if he had never kissed him before. He didn’t even care if it was cliché.

“Zebediah,” Allen murmured once they pulled back, doctor’s hands pressing against his cheeks and swiping at the tears he knew were falling. He let Allen say it anyway. “You’re c-crying.”

Smiling, Zebediah nodded, kissing Allen’s palm and hiding his face away in capable hands.

“Make me stop.”
______________________________________________________________________________________________
He did not appreciate the manhandling, but he supposed he could deal with it as long as it got him what he wanted.

Being led down the hall of the local jailhouse, Thomas Gray curled his nose in distaste at the sight of dirty criminals sitting around behind bars, some plucking at the threads in their shirts, others spilling around the tin cup left behind since they had nothing better to do. He thought he could hear one singing somewhere in the back, but the gangster couldn’t be sure.

Thomas Gray was Old Money – Old Money with no money left to his name. His father had spent it all on drinking and whores, and Thomas had salvaged what he could to buy out the art museum in Westfield – only to convert the basement into the Boiler Room. It was a prestigious place, and only those with cash were allowed in.

At least, that was how it used to be. But then the Apple Orchard opened, and business went south.

Tugging his arm out of the grip of the bull leading him down towards the back of the building, Thomas straightened his light gray suit and brushed off imaginary lint and wrinkles, sighing forlornly when he noted that there was one he would not be able to smooth over. It appeared he’d have to make an appointment with Yue, then – he wondered how angry the little Asian would be.

“Wait here,” the officer ordered when they stopped in front of a plain door, a name written on the glass plain stating that it was the Chief of Police’s office. Thomas rolled his eyes but nodded, taking off his fedora and brushing it off as well. He wondered if he should get a new one – this one had a speck of blood on it he just could not get rid of.

After a few minutes, the door opened again and the officer walked out, pointing into the office. “He’ll see you.”

“Oh, thank you, how very gracious,” Thomas smiled, sarcasm and contempt all rolled into a flash of very, very white teeth. He stepped inside, shutting the door before the officer could step back inside, before turning to look over at the desk.

Sat with his feet up on the table and his hands folded over his stomach, Gregory Hale watched Thomas with the lazy eyes of a predator waiting for his prey to let down his guard. He was not a young man, but neither did he look his age; his ginger hair was greying these days, and he had more frown lines along his mouth and eyes than he did laugh lines. He was dressed in the nicest, cheapest brown suit he could possibly find, with a dull black tie and a vest that looked like it had seen a few resizes over the years.

Overall, Thomas was not impressed. But then again, he was rarely impressed with anyone these days.

“What can I do for ya,” Hale asked after a moment, though he didn’t necessarily word it as a question – more of a rhetorical statement that Thomas was going to answer whether the bull wanted him to or not.

“You have an acquaintance of mine in one of your…charming jail cells,” the criminal stated, walking over to the rather uncomfortable chair in front of Hale’s desk and sitting. The officer quirked a brow at him, looking a cross between amused and aggravated, before nodding for him to continue. “Wesley Blake – small, jumpy young man, blue eyes, rather distinctive nose?”

“Ah, yeah – he was with those caught at the Apple Orchard run. If he’s a friend of yours, Gray, what’s he doin’ with the likes of Walker?”

“I’m sure he was just visiting,” Thomas said tightly, smiling thinly. He was still hitting himself for allowing Wesley to get caught – he needed a lawyer of his own. Dawson had been unavailable for the past month, and Moore was a lapdog of Zebediah’s through-and-through. He wouldn’t even go near Rodgers, the man offered his services to the highest bidder and Thomas didn’t have the kind of money a Townsend might have these days.

So he was stuck with what he did best – bartering.

“Well, if ya’d like to join ‘im in his cell, I can make sure the both of ya are cozy,” Hale said after a pause, dropping his feet back onto the ground and standing up. “Really, quite thoughtful of ya to come in and turn yourself in, wasn’t expecting such manners from snobs like you –”

“Oh, I’m not turning myself in, Mister Hale.”

“Chief. And what’re you doin’ here, then? Can’t think I’m just gonna let you walk off.”

“You will. Today.” Thomas smiled, leaning back in his seat and looking up at him with the air of looking down his nose. “Sit, please, I’d hate for you to be uncomfortable.”

“I’ll sit when I goddamn please.” Hale crossed his arms, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Tell me why you think you’re gettin’ out of here, no problems, this evenin’.”

“Myself and Wesley Blake – I won’t be leaving without him.” Hale snorted, and the gangster continued on as if he hadn’t. “Tell me, honestly now, out of the two of us…who is the sharper thorn in your side? Zebediah Walker…or myself?” He looked up to see Hale carefully keeping his expression neutral, though he could see the aggravation in his eyes. “Honestly now, Chief.”

“…Walker – but only ‘cause he’s been the louder of the two of ya!”

“I know when to keep my nose out of danger, yes.” Thomas nodded, as if Hale had complimented him. “He’s been giving you a bit of a hard time, though, hasn’t he? He’s always getting away from you…you keep making a bull’s rush for the club, but he’s always gone. And if he’s not gone, he’s shooting your men. Must burn, not being able to get him. How long have you been chasing him? Six, seven years?”

“Eight,” Hale spat, sneering and looking away unhappily. “And countin’ the more I waste my time with you. What about him, Gray?”

“I know where he’ll be tomorrow,” Thomas said softly, looking down at his suit and tugging at a sleeve carefully. “I know the time, the place, and I know he’ll only be with one other person – he thinks he’s going to have a private meeting with me. He’s quite upset with me, you know.”

“I’m sure there are a lot of people upset with you, Gray. How d’ya know he’ll be there?”

“I planted the information into his little informant’s ear that I would be where he’s going to be. I won’t be there, of course.” He smiled, looking up at Greg with a condescending look. “And don’t you think for a moment I’ll tell you where I’ll be!”

“I’ll find ya either way, flashy men can’t hide in shadows.” Hale shook his head, sitting down on his desk. “So where’ll he be then, huh? Since you know so much.”

“The abandoned hospital at the corner of West and Fifth. The one you were born at, actually, if I’m right?” Thomas smiled, standing up slowly and adjusting his tie. “He’ll be there at around one o’clock in the afternoon. He’ll have a gun, of course – when doesn’t he? – so I would suggest setting up a sniper there while you can.” Slipping his hands into his pockets, Thomas Gray smiled. “May my associate and I leave now?”

“How do I know you ain’t just pullin’ my leg?”

“Oh, Chief Hale,” Thomas stepped over to the door, narrowing his eyes and glaring through the frosted glass unhappily, “Zebediah Walker is the one who put Wesley Blake into your find accommodations in the first place. And you know what they say about revenge.”

“Best served cold or some baloney like that?”

“Oh, you’ve picked up on the quaint slang, how sweet.” Thomas grinned, before shaking his head. “But no. Revenge is best done from behind – they’ll never see it coming. I’ll wait outside for Mr Blake, shall I?”

He left the office without waiting for word from Hale, his smile turning absolutely snake-like when he was followed by the sounds of the Chief of Police’s cursing behind him.

It was the afternoon of February 23 when Rachel Price walked into the doctor’s office, looking for all the world as if she belonged there.

Dressed in a blue dress that fell to her knees, the flapper plucked at her golden chain as she planted a hand on Allen’s desk, leaning forward so that he had to pay attention to her. She had a set of golden barrettes in her hair in place of some kind of cap that afternoon, her crimped brown hair glossy and smooth in its feathered curls.

“Doctor Townsend, I have a proposition for ya,” she said with a grin, promptly sitting on the edge of the doctor’s desk once Allen looked up at her, grey eyes wide and curious. “Y’see, the theatre in town is replaying some films from ’22, and there’s one that I heard was fantastic from a friend of mine who’d seen it when it first came out.”

“And w-what film would t-t-that be, Miss Price?”

“Movie called Nosferatu,” Rachel smiled, looking out the open door of the office to see Allie Phillips peeking into the room curiously. She grinned, winking at the other woman, before looking back at Allen. “I think it’s based off of Bram Stoker’s Dracula – some German movie. But it scared the bajeebus out of my friend, so I want to see what all the fuss is about!”

Allen twirled his pen slowly between long, shaking fingers, his gaze settled there as he thought about the invitation. He had read Dracula, of course – what curious schoolboy hadn’t? – but he hadn’t liked it very much. He highly doubted that he would enjoy a film version of it.

“I’m not s-s-sure, Rachel, if that would be…m-my kind of movie.”

“Awh, c’mon! You have to come with, Allen, if you don’t I’ll be stuck with the most uncouth of men that the world has ever known.”

Allen bit back a smile, already knowing who Rachel was talking about, but deciding to play along anyway. That was the game he and Rachel played, after all – a game they had developed the more time they spent together, pretending to be something that they weren’t.

Allen’s whole life seemed to be a game of pretend lately.

“Oh? And who, p-pray tell, is that?”

“Just some dummy who calls himself ‘Walker’.” Rachel dramatically rolled her eyes, wrinkling her nose before giving Allen an impish smile. “C’mon, you know it’ll be fun. You don’t even have to pay attention to the movie. Just be my shoulder to hide in!”

Sighing, Allen shook his head, knowing the real reason why Rachel was sat at his desk attempting to convince him to see a movie he did not particularly want to see. He had not seen Zebediah in almost a week and a half, the doctor busy with an influx of appointments and engagements with ‘high class’ society, and Zebediah busy trying to avoid both the law and Thomas Gray’s lackies. There had been a recent increase in the amount of criminal movement, with Chief of Police Gregory Hale arresting gangsters left and right; and if he didn’t arrest them, he certainly shot them.

The Orchard wasn’t even able to be opened every evening like usual, only running for business when the heat from the bulls died down. It was all very tense.

“Well,” Allen said after a moment, voice thoughtful despite both Rachel and himself knowing what answer he was going to give, “I s-suppose it wouldn’t hurt, hmm? Wouldn’t w-w-want to leave you in the u-unsavoury hands of a m-man with the last name W-Walker – d-dangerous men with that last name.”

Rachel snorted, slipping off of the desk and straightening the back of her skirt before walking around the desk, leaning down and pressing a kiss to Allen’s cheek. “Thank you, hon – I swear, you won’t regret it! Meet me in front of the diner at around six, okay? It’s a late night showing, but that’s the best time to see scary movies! We might go to the Price Tag afterwards for some dinner, if the weather’s good. Enjoy the rest of your day, doc!”

She slipped out just as easily as she slipped in, Rachel always being the type to slide into places that she didn’t seem to belong. Shaking his head, Allen smiled to himself and looked back down at the papers he had been working on, flipping through a man’s file and wondering what it was he had just signed up for that night.
______________________________________________________________________________________________
“Zebby!”

Zebediah grinned as Adiel ran up to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and squeezing him in a hug. Lifting her briefly, he spun the sixteen-year-old around once, placing her down and stepping back from her.

“Let me take a look at ya, I’ve never seen ya in your school uniform before.”

Beaming at him proudly, Ellie held her arms out and spun in a slow circle, showing off the uniform. It was a dark blue plaid skirt that fell just above her ankles, with a white sweater trimmed in dark blue stripes at the collar, hem, and sleeve cuffs. The sleeves ended just below her elbows, the collar kept close to her neck (like any self-respecting female uniform should), and she wore white socks and dark brown shoes on her feet.

Her short hair (which she had gotten in trouble for with her school teachers, Gawain had told him after the first week Ellie had gotten it cut) was pinned back with simple barrettes, and around her neck was a necklace with a profile – her grandmother’s, to be exact. Zeb knew because he recognized it from the profile of Granmomma back at the orchard.

“What’cha think? Not as nice as some of my dresses, but it ain’t too bad!”

“Isn’t, Ellie-belly, you’re in a private school to learn how to be a proper lady.”

Ellie stuck her tongue out at her cousin, before running over to grab the satchel she had dropped when she had first seen him. Slinging it over her shoulder, she walked back to him and hooked her arm through his, allowing the older Walker to lead her off of the grounds.

“Where’s Gawain?”

“I asked ‘im if it would be alright for me to walk ya home today,” Zebediah explained, keeping his fedora tipped down low so that no one would recognize him from the papers. “Bit difficult to ask a deaf man, but we managed with some paper and some real slow talkin’. I haven’t seen ya in a while, and I’ve never seen ya at school, so I thought ‘why not’?” He crossed the street once sure that there was no incoming traffic, allowing Adiel to hop onto the sidewalk, guiding her like a proper gentleman.

“Well I don’t mind! I’ve missed you, Zebby.” She pressed her cheek against his arm, smiling fondly, before pulling back. “How’s Doctor Townsend?”

“Doc’s fine,” the gangster looked around to make sure no one overheard them talking about a big name like Townsend so casually. “Gonna see ‘im tonight, actually.”

“Ohh, can I come, too?”

“Oh, no, you’ve got homework, I’m sure.” Ellie sighed, making Zeb grin at the endearing girl. “No, you’ll be stayin’ home tonight. I’ll make sure to tell the doc you said hi, though, sound fair?”

“I suppose.”

The two continued to walk along the sidewalk in silence, Ellie looking up at the sky and Zebediah covertly checking out the street. He slowed down to a halt in front of a familiar bench, looking over to see a dirty-looking young man dropping breadcrumbs to the pigeons that pecked at both the food and his fingers.

“Can you hold on just a moment, Ellie? I got some quick business to take care of.”

“Kay!”

He separated from the girl, sliding over to the young man and sitting down next to him on the bench, watching as he fed the birds.

“…Nasty things, aren’t they?”

The man twitched, vibrant blue eyes staring at Zebediah uncertainly before he shuffled back a bit, fingers twitching over his coat and pulling it closer. He acted as though he were afraid Zeb would steal his coat and run off – preposterous really. Zebediah made enough money to buy himself nice suits.

“S’pose,” the man said after a moment’s hesitation, eyes looking around quickly before settling back on him, “but I like ‘em. ‘O are you, then?”

“I’m a friend of Justin’s – he would call me Zeb?” The gangster gave his friendliest smile, trying to remind himself to get rid of the sharp corners of the expression. He wasn’t sure how successful he was, but the young man seemed to relax at the mention of Justin. “Your name’s Stuart, right?”

“Stu,” he corrected, turning back to his birds. He reached out to pet one, wincing when it pecked at his fingers before nibbling at the crumbs in his hands. “Stuart’s what me da called me, and I don’ talk to ‘im no more.”

“Stu, then,” Zebediah nodded, folding his hands over his stomach and making himself comfortable. “…I wanna ask you something, Stu. Somethin’ only you’re know.”

“You wanna know where Thomas Gray’s gonna be t’morrow, yeah?” Zebediah narrowed his eyes, but nodded, waiting to hear what the other man had to say. “Though’ so. Justin told me you’d be askin’ soon – he said he told your giant friend that I’m the best t’ask.”

Justin had told Ezekiel that Stuart Rodgers knew the movements of Thomas better than anyone in Westfield – except for Dominic, but Dominic was practically impossible to reach unless you knew where he was. Stu only knew about Thomas because he stuck around his area of the city; unlike Justin, who favoured the streets closest to the Orchard.

“Indeed he did. Do you require anythin’ in exchange? Money, a meal, a favour?”

Stu shook his head, looking over at Zebediah with his frighteningly bright eyes.

“No, no – jus’ that you leave me alone afterwards. I don’ like talkin’ to fellas like you. Makes me feel like I’m bein’ watched by others.”

Zebediah smiled grimly, before he nodded. Leaning towards the homeless youth, he listened as Stu murmured where Thomas was most likely to be the next day, before scooting away from the gangster and turning his attention back to his birds. Standing up, Zebediah moved back to Ellie and offered her his arm, walking away from the bench and the man on it once she looped hers through his.

“What did he say?” Ellie asked, looking up at him curiously. Zebediah smiled, looking down at her before deciding that it was safe to tell his baby cousin – who was she going to tell, after all? She knew no one interested in Zebediah Walker’s movements.

“Thomas Gray will be headin’ towards the old hospital that closed down when the Townsends bought the hospital chain out. Apparently he’s got a bit of a meeting with his dealer there – and I’d like to surprise him.”

“The hospital on West and Fifth?”

“That would be the one.”

“You’re not goin’ alone, are you?” Zebediah snorted, shaking his head, and Ellie sighed in relief, squeezing his arm and leaning against him. “Thank goodness. I wouldn’t want to see you hurt.”

“No worries, Ellie-belly,” Zebediah reassured, turning a corner and heading towards a set of apartments just down the block, “I’ll be safe as can be.”

Neither noticed the man walking behind them stop and turn around after Zebediah had spoken, heading in the opposite direction.

Three days after the New Year found Zebediah and Allen curled up under the blankets of their bed, Zebediah pressing kisses to the back of the doctor’s neck and his hands tracing the shape from ribs to hip as though memorizing what he looked like from touch alone.

It was quiet and intimate and private, a moment that Zebediah and Allen rarely ever got to experience due to their busy schedules and the manner of their relationship. It was difficult to find the time, what with Allen’s schedule as a doctor and Zebediah’s schedule as a law-breaking crook. But it was a Friday, and Allen had the next Saturday off. Whether Zeb had anything planned for the weekend, the doctor didn’t know; he never told Allen what he was up to.

Shaking hands moved to press against the tops of scarred ones, fingers sliding between the gaps of Zebediah’s while Allen pushed his back against the gangster’s chest. In response, Zeb stopped paying such close attention to his neck, resting his chin – rough with morning stubble and (oddly) pleasantly scratchy against smooth flesh – on his shoulder contentedly.

“How l-long is the Orchard going to s-sstay closed for?”

“Hmmm,” the gangster flexed his hands on Allen’s hips, sliding them to rest over his belly and squeezing the man closer to him. It was comfortably warm under the sheets, and Allen had the random thought of ‘I never want to move from this spot’. “Probably a month or so. I hate gettin’ a bull’s rush on the place, but it’s good for somethin’. I can get so much done now that I don’t gotta worry ‘bout how the Orchard’s runnin’.” He pressed a kiss to the doctor’s shoulder, curving against his back and pretty much moulding them together like puzzle pieces.

“And w-what will you do with your f-f-free time?”

“Travel a bit,” Zeb answered immediately, drumming without rhythm against Allen’s stomach. “Deal with a few people I gotta deal with. Check out competition; see if there’s anyone I want on my side. Might go out of state and earn some quick cash.”

“Do I want to know…?”

“Nope.”

Allen huffed out a laugh, closing his eyes and shaking his head. He pulled his hands away from Zeb, turning himself around so that they were facing one another. Re-tangling their legs, he pressed his forehead against Zeb’s and pressed a hand over his beating heart.

“Might go home for a while,” Zebediah mused after a moment’s quiet, grey eyes looking into hazel-green, the both of them trying to read the other. “Haven’t been there in a few years…”

“H-home?”

“Hm?” Blinking away the glazed look of remembrance from his eyes, the criminal looked at the Old Money before smiling faintly, turning onto his back. Allen scooted closer, resting his cheek against Zeb’s shoulder and wrapping his arm loosely around his waist. After a moment, Zeb’s arm wound itself around his shoulders. “Yeah, home. Where did you grow up, Allen?”

“L-Lake District, in England,” Allen replied, voice partially muffled against Zebediah’s shoulder. “R-rather…big house – p-pretentious, really. I wouldn’t call it ‘h-home’, however. It was just…where I g-grew up.” Zebediah hummed out what seemed to be an understanding noise, the hand resting on his shoulder squeezing before relaxing again. “…W-what about you?”

“I grew up about five hours out from Westfield city – the outskirts, really. Farmin’ country, with the cows and the sheep and everythin’. Farm down the lane had a bunch of cats and a dog and some pigs, from what I remember. Probably changed up their livestock by now, though.”

“W-what was your farm?”

“…” Zebediah stared up at the ceiling, his hand drifting mindlessly over Allen’s shoulder and arm as he thought. “We lived on the biggest farm in the area – Grandpappy Walker built the place from the ground up to impress Granmomma’s daddy, but that never worked out. Or so I hear. My daddy, Aaron Walker, he took over once Grandpappy passed away, and he bought out a couple of farms that were next to us, enlargin’ the land and givin’ us more property.” He paused, Allen looking up to see him frowning at the ceiling and gnawing on his lower lip. “…We ran an apple orchard. It grows the best apples anywhere, so my momma tells me.”

“An a-apple orchard…?”

“Yeah, yeah, you got me – I’m a sentimental sap.” Allen smiled, hiding the expression in Zeb’s shoulder. The gangster snorted, not at all fooled, but let it slide. “My momma and my little brother are the only ones who live there now – daddy killed himself when I was still a kid, and momma’s second husband –” here he cut himself off, seeming to hesitate in what he was about to say, before pressing forward “– Mister Gable walked out on her in the middle of the night when I was fourteen and growin’ like a weed.”

Allen could just imagine Zebediah as a young man, tall and gangly and awkward. He tried to imagine what his mother looked like – did Zebediah look like her? Did his brother look like him, or like his father?

“Do you m-miss it?”

“…Kinda,” Zeb shrugged, lifting Allen’s head in the process and making the doctor laugh. He grinned, pressing a kiss to the other’s forehead, before closing his eyes. “I miss Benny – my little brother. I miss the trees and their apples – we grew this one kind, always liked ‘em best, Allen’s Everlastin’s. S’kinda appropriate, now that I think about it.”

“Oh…p-posh,” Allen shook his head, attempting to pull away. Zebediah would have none of that, wrapping both arms around the doctor and dragging him to lie directly on top of him. “Z-Zeb!”

“It’s true, though!” Zebediah said with a grin, squeezing his arms before relaxing. Allen didn’t pull away, however, merely settling himself more comfortably on top of him. “…I miss the singin’, too.”

“Singing?”

“The workers used to sing all the time,” Zebediah murmured, voice becoming quieter as he remembered. “Louie, Bobby-John, Michael…they was all from the South, where their mammies and pappies used to pick the cotton ‘fore slavery was made illegal. They were only kids – Michael practically grown – when they came up North. Michael had worked the orchard since my daddy was a kid, and he was still there when I was small. Crippled old Negro, but he told the best stories.” He shook his head, pulling back to the present and smiling down at Allen sheepishly. “Louie had the best singin’ voice, though, no one could beat him.”

Moving so that he was partially sitting up, Allen crossed his arms over Zebediah’s chest and looked down at him with a curious expression. “S-so when Eli P-Price said you were raised by N-Negroes…”

“That’s just him bein’ a smart aleck,” Zebediah shrugged, brushing back a wayward curl of Allen’s. He tangled his fingers into the other’s hair, pulling his head down so that they bumped noses. Allen snorted, pulling back and wrinkling his nose to get rid of the funny feeling he received at the collision. “But I basically was, in all honesty. No one outside’a ‘Zekiel knows ‘bout my family life.”

The gangster fell silent, his gaze gone introspective. One hand curled against the back of Allen’s neck, the other gripping onto his arm near the elbow; he seemed curious about that particular confession. As if he were wondering whether he should have actually said that or not.

After a moment, though, he seemed to pull himself back to reality, looking up at Allen and giving him a weak grin.

“What ‘bout you? What was your childhood like?”

“O-oh,” Allen paused, looking away and giving a pained expression. He promptly rolled off of Zeb, resting beside him with their arms touching but nothing else, staring quite pointedly at the ceiling. “W-well…it was…” He swallowed, trying to figure out a ‘nice’ way to describe the clinical detachment that was his upbringing. How his father only paid his sons any attention when they did something exceptionally good – or exceptionally bad. How Mother treated her eldest like a precious china doll that she could dress up and play with because Allen was a good child and a good son and did exactly as he was told, while Richard threw fits and was coddled for it. How his nannies knew more about his favourite foods and his favourite toys than either of his parents.

A hand on his arm broke him from his thoughts, and he turned to look over at the man who had edged his way into his life and slipped his way into his heart, hazel-green eyes understanding and sympathetic.

“I think I already know.”

Allen smiled weakly, taking Zeb’s hand and squeezing it within his own.

“Okay.”
______________________________________________________________________________________________
After the Feast of the Epiphany (something Zebediah Walker apparently celebrated – who knew?), Zebediah disappeared from Allen’s life to go to do what he had to do. From dealing with unsavoury people to crossing state borders to ‘earn a quick buck’, Allen wasn’t aware; he was kept completely out of the equation, and that was probably for the best.

Near the middle of January, his brother was finally released from the hospital, given a cane and strict instructions for how he was to handle himself now. The younger Townsend’s bodyguard, Dustin, kept as true as his word and followed after Richard like a loyal lapdog who would growl and bite at anyone who approached the younger man; whether the person was a friend or a foe, it didn’t seem to matter. Even Allen had difficulty getting past the man if Richard had told him he didn’t want to be disturbed.

Allen wasn’t sure what he thought about Dustin, in all reality. A seemingly polite man when he first met him, he saw more and more viciousness in the shorter Englishman the more and more he saw him. He also made Allen feel absolutely judged under the harsh glare of heavy blue eyes, as if Dustin could see straight into his soul and into the sins that he committed every time he met up with Zebediah in safe houses, hotels, and his own townhouse.

It was unnerving to say the least.

But he made due, spending time with Rachel (who had a lot to say about everyone and everything around her – it was unbelievable, how much the moll knew) and going out to lunches with Liam. Sometimes these lunches were awkward, since Allen could tell Liam wanted to ask everything about the night life Allen led, but the surgeon was too polite to ask.

(It shouldn’t have amused Allen, but it did.)

On the last week of January, Zebediah finally came back from whatever business it had been that he was doing, opening up the Apple Orchard for business and returning the night to the regulars who had been forced to go to smaller speakeasies to kill the time. They kept things on the down-low, however, Elliot and Zebediah changing out the password was handed out to people (as Aiden had revealed that the coppers had know the night’s password, which was why the doorman had opened the door for them in the first place).

The doctor and the gangster also reunited that first night, Allen spending the night at Zeb’s hotel and leaving it early in the morning, heading home for a bath and a quick change of suits before continuing on with his day.

And everything was fine.

A week before Christmas, Allen found himself with too many bloody gangsters to deal with by himself, and so he brought in trusted reinforcements.

Liam Donovan was good at what he did, and a good friend of Allen’s. Well, perhaps ‘friend’ was a bit of a strong word, seeing as the two only ever saw one another at work or work functions. ‘Acquaintance’ seemed to be more appropriate. But the point of the matter was that Liam was good at what he did, and what he did was surgery.

Meaning he had the steadiest hands in the hospital and could stitch up anyone without fear of hurting them. This was why Allen called on his assistance.

“So what you’re telling me,” Liam started, walking towards a building that had no markings, from address to even signs of life inside, with Allen, holding his medical bag and rubbing the rest of the sleep residue out of his eyes, “is that you want me to give stitches to…how many men?”

“O-only three,” Allen said softly, tugging nervously on his jacket sleeve and wondering how Liam would survive this ordeal. Zebediah always joked about killing people who knew too much about him and his association with the doctor, but Allen couldn’t help but remember Mitch Macgowan and how he had ended up.

“And what were these three men doing that they need immediate medical attention…from me…outside of the hospital?”

“P-please, Liam,” Allen muttered, knocking against the door and waiting for the sound of the lock sliding out of place to sound before twisting the knob, “I can’t a-answer your questions.”

“That’s what worries me.”

The two doctors fell silent once they were through the door, Allen closing it soundlessly behind him and making his way to where Zebediah and his lost were staying in the safe house. Allen knew this safe house the best, as it had been the one he had gone to the most. It was the closest to the Apple Orchard, tucked away in an old abandoned factory building that used to put together guns before the war ended.

Just like so many places that had dedicated their services to the war effort, the factory had closed down and hundreds of people had lost their jobs once peace was settled on November 11, 1918. It had been abandoned for years; what was, until Zebediah Walker made use of it.

Walking through a doorway into what was once a locker room, Allen walked ahead towards The reclined figure of Ezekiel Walker holding a wad of bandages to his shoulder, looking at the ceiling and quietly talking to himself. He knelt beside the younger Walker, brushing back his too long hair to try and give him some comfort before moving the bandages away to inspect the damage. He winced when he saw it was still bleeding, though sluggishly.

“L-Liam, I didn’t want to r-r-risk pulling out the b-bullet myself, my hands s-shake too much. Could you come here and – Liam?” Allen looked over to see Liam standing by the doorway, his eyes wide and staring straight at the figure sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall and looking at him flatly.

Zebediah Walker held his ruined shirt to his side, which had once again gotten a bullet ripped through it. Beside him, making sure he wouldn’t bleed out and ignoring a nasty cut on his own forehead, was Aiden Wolfe.

It was really quite the scene for a man to walk into.

“So…those rumours about you being close to the Walkers are true, huh?”

“Feel f-free to ask me all of your questions l-l-later, Liam, first I need you to r-remove the bullet from Ezekiel’s shoulder while I t-take care of Mister Wolfe’s h-head wound.”

Shaken out of his stupor, the surgeon stepped forward and both doctors went to work patching up the gangsters, Allen making quiet comments to Aiden or Zebediah while Liam worked silently, Ezekiel in too much pain to actually make any attempt at friendly conversation. When Allen moved to look over Zebediah’s side, the gangster grabbed onto his wrist, eyes narrowing on the older man suspiciously.

“What’s with the new face?”

“He’ a f-friend,” Allen said softly, tugging his arm out of Zeb’s grip and removing the shirt from Zebediah’s side, biting his tongue and wincing at the wound. “W-what did I ask you to d-d-do before?”

“Sometimes a guy can’t help but get shot at,” Zebediah grumbled, rolling his shoulder and groaning when it stretched his side, blood freshly oozing out to slide along freckled-and-scared skin easily. Allen shook his head, looking over to see Liam crouching down next to him, his hands covered in blood and his expression carefully blank. “Evenin’, doc. Sorry we had to meet under these rather unfortunate circumstances. Not quite copacetic.”

“…Indeed not,” Liam said flatly, shaking his head and moving to kneel by the wounded side. “The bullet still in this one?”

“Nah, it was a through-and-through,” Zeb shrugged, wincing when Liam prodded at his side and glaring at him uneasily, “so, you a gentle-handed doctor?”

“I’ve been told I can be. It all depends on if I like the patient.”

Allen rolled his eyes, standing up and leaving Liam to his work, assisting Aiden to a bench so that he could sit down and rest for a moment. Sitting down next to him, seeing as he was the most readily-available of the gangsters for talking, Allen folded his hands over his lap and waited. If he waited for long enough, Aiden was sure to start talking –

“It was a bunch of Gray’s men,” the man started, his accent a mumble of marbles and consonants. Allen was pretty good at understanding the words coming out of his mouth these days. “And a lady. ‘Er name, I don’ know – bu’ I sho’ her ‘fore she could ge’ away. She go’ bossman. T’men…one was Dick Schlage.” Aiden shook his head, ruffling up the springy curls that had fallen out of their styling. “T’other was jus’ a boy. Prob’ly hadn’ even ‘ad ‘is firs’ beer, ye’.”

“And him…?”

“Bossman go’ ‘im in the leg. He ran off, bu’…I don’ think ‘e made i’.” Pressing his hands against his eyes, he took in a deep breath and slowly let it out, moving his hands so that he could twist his ring around his finger. “Gray’s a son of a bitch, doc,” Aiden muttered softly, turning to look at him with serious brown eyes. “Sendin’ kids out t’deal with fellas like Zebediah Walker. Bossman don’ do mercy, no’ when ‘e’s bein’ sho’ at.”

“…N-no,” Allen said softly, turning away from Aiden and standing up to see how Ezekiel was faring. “No I don’t suppose he d-does.”
______________________________________________________________________________________________
Christmas passed quietly, Allen spending the holiday with Richard in the morning and with Zebediah in the evening. The doctor explained a few things to the surgeon after that night in the safe house, being reassured that Liam wouldn’t tell a soul of the Townsend’s connection with the criminal side of Westfield – and so far, the other doctor had been as good as his word.

A young man named Bruce Hayward had come into the hospital a day after Zebediah’s skirmish with Thomas Gray’s men (and lady). He died in the hospital, bleeding out and too tired to try and hold on. A day later, the body of Kim Robinson was found in an alleyway, covered by a coat with a bullet-hole in the chest.

Zebediah didn’t say anything, but then again he didn’t have to.

It was New Year’s Eve, and the Apple Orchard was packed with regulars and newcomers alike. Drinks were flowing, both Priscilla and Kaelan were singing on the stage, and Chance and Wesley would switch off on piano whenever one of them needed a break.

Adiel had come, glammed up in gold and black and looking as grown-up as could be with her bobbed hair and her pretty beaded headband. Her guardian Gawain was there, as well, dressed up in a fancy suit and looking perfectly comfortable sitting at a table and patting his hands to the beat of the music he could feel; and unfamiliar man with bushy eyebrows who Ellie practically clung to when he arrived sat next to Gawain, talking to him slowly so that the deaf man could read what he was trying to say. He seemed content with the situation.

Laughing breathlessly, Allen twirled Rachel around, her glitzy frock of red and white shining under the dim lights of the dance hall. She fell into his chest coming back, clinging to his shoulders and giggling to the point where she was almost only making squeaking noises, before pushing back and looking up at Allen.

“Care for a drink, old boy?”

“Y-yes, I think I would.”

Grinning, Rachel hooked her arm through Allen’s and guided the both of them to the bar in the back, crowded as it was. Randy was using his little brother Laurie for help – a big man with wide shoulders and a voice like an angel’s. Yet he liked bootlegging the bootleg more than singing on a stage, so he kept to the grunt work, amusing his comrades with his ditties and jingles whenever they went for a run.

“Be just a mo’, doc, Rach!” Randy called over his shoulder, passing out four glasses of hard liquor before plopping a glass of iced tea into Ellie’s reaching hand. “Don’t think you can fool me, Miss Ellie-belly – I’m watchin’ out for your tricks.” Ellie pouted, sticking her tongue out at Randy before looking over to see Allen and Rachel, smiling brightly.

“Hi Allen!” she greeted, hugging onto his waist with one arm and standing on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I’m gonna be over with Gawain and Gerry, okay? I think Zebby’s lookin’ for ya!” She disappeared soon as she delivered her message, blending into the crowd easily. Allen watched after her, only looking away once he saw her with the two men at the table, looking over at Randy and accepting a flute of champagne easily.

“I s-suppose the occasion d-does call for this, hm?” Allen smiled, lifting his flute in a salute before taking a swallow, closing his eyes at the bubbly liquid sliding down his tongue and throat. He looked over to see Rachel talking cozily to Cooper, who had paid off his debt once more and earned a black eye and a chipped tooth for his efforts. Shaking his head, the doctor slipped through the crowds, looking around for a familiar face. Yet instead of finding one, he was found by one.

“Lookin’ a bit lost there, doc,” Ezekiel greeted, wrapping an arm around Allen’s shoulders and freeing him from the crowd, walking over to Zebediah’s table. It was empty, but Allen had the feeling he was being led there for a purpose.

“O-oh, no, just…m-m-mingling,” Allen countered conversationally, sitting down when Ezekiel gestured he should. He placed his flute on the table, tapping at the glass carefully before looking up at Ezekiel with a small smile. “H-How’s the shoulder?”

“Better,” Ezekiel said with a sigh, rotating the injured shoulder and only flinching once at the tug of healed skin. “Your friend is really good at stitchin’ folks up.”

“I w-would certainly hope he was,” Allen said mildly, taking a sip of his drink to his hid amusement. “He is a s-surgeon, after all.” Ezekiel grinned, drumming fingertips on the table and humming along with the song Kaelan was currently singing. “A-are we expecting anyone?”

“No one important,” Ezekiel grinned, looking at someone behind Allen’s shoulder. The doctor smiled faintly when he felt heat at his back, barely jumping when a hand landed on his shoulder. Looking back and up at Zebediah, he quirked a brow while the gangster smirked back down at him.

“You can go now, ‘Zekiel, I’m sure the doctor is tired of your dreary conversation.”

“Oh, I w-wouldn’t say that,” Allen mused, looking away as Zebediah dropped himself into the seat next to Allen. Ezekiel quickly vacated his spot just as his chair tipped over, – no doubt due to Zebediah’s assistance – the younger walker giving Allen a nod before he disappeared back into the crowds, leaving the doctor alone with his criminal.

“You look ritzy tonight.”

“You think?” Allen glanced down at his suit – black with pinstripes, a dark blue tie that supposedly made his eyes stand out, and an elegant tie pin keeping it back. There was also a black waistcoat with a dark blue silk backing, but one could not see that underneath the buttoned jacket. His hair was styled as best as he could get it, fedora tipped back until it threatened to fall off his head just keeping over the loose curls. He thought he looked rather simple, really.

“Mmhm,” Zebediah voice was right next to his ear, making Allen twitch and lean away from him quietly – no need to give anyone any idea. “Ya dress up special for New Year’s? Or for someone special?”

“…” Allen looked over at Zeb, chewing on the inside of his cheek, before giving a sly little smile.

“N-New Year’s, of course – who would I d-d-dress specially for?”

Zebediah snorted, reaching over and grabbing Allen’s flute, downing the rest of it. Allen winced, shaking his head at the gangster’s crass manners, before taking a moment to realize what that moment just meant.

Zebediah only took drinks from Randy, or if he didn’t he had to have seen Randy give the other person to drink. Unless Zebediah had been watching the bar when Allen and Rachel had gone over to get their drinks, Zebediah wouldn’t have known that Allen had gotten it straight from Randy. Yet still he drank from it. He trusted Allen enough to drink from his glass.

The thought made him warm inside.

“Enjoyin’ yourself?”

“Oh, y-yes,” Allen nodded, tugging at a cuff and twiddling with a silver cufflink distractedly. “The, ah, the music is q-quite good tonight – Kaelan s-sober?”

“He will be until midnight. Then he can drink all he likes and more – Prissy will just take over for him.” Zebediah shrugged, leaning back in his chair and taking off his fedora, fanning himself with it quietly. It really was quite warm in the Orchard tonight. “Prissy’s a godsend, she really is. Dedicated to her work, a damn good singer, pretty to boot. Can’t think of what I would do without her. Deal with Kaelan’s bull, I guess.”

“Oh, Kaelan’s a g-good man,” Allen defended, taking off his hat as well and placing it on the table, running fingertips over the brim slowly. “I t-think he wants to do m-m-more with his life.”

“…Hm.” Zebediah narrowed his eyes on the singer as he sang into the microphone on stage, the band playing in time behind him. “…I’ll talk to ‘im about it. What’re your plans tonight?”

“Well,” Allen shifted, turning to face Zebediah a little. He crossed a leg, ankle atop knee, and tapped his foot against Zeb’s nearby thigh. Despite Zeb’s poker face, he could see the amusement in hazel-green eyes. “I was t-thinking…of s-s-spending the night somewhere. Y-you, ah, know of anywhere g-good?”

“I might.” Zebediah smirked, turning to face Allen and looking at him intently. “Got any preferences?”

“…S-somewhere I’ll f-find enjoyable company,” the doctor murmured, his smile softening. He glanced over to the stage when the song ended and Wesley switched out with Chance, suddenly thinking of something as he watched the thin young man make his way to the bar. He was a skittish man, with bright blue eyes and dark hair too long to be socially acceptable. He didn’t drink very much, preferring iced tea over alcohol, and he was always smiling thinly whenever Zebediah spoke to him.

Oh, that reminded him.

“Z-Zebediah, what had you s-spoken with Mister B-Blake the other day?”

“Hm?” Zebediah blinked lethargically, looking over to where Allen was looking and snorting when he caught sight of the pianist. “Oh, him. Just wanted to give Thomas Gray a message – which he must have done, I got shot in the side.”

“What did you say?” Allen asked, perplexed. Zebediah smiled, shaking his head, and Allen rolled his eyes, looking out at the dance floor again.

He watched as Ellie and Rachel danced together, the older woman spinning the younger girl around in circles, the two of them laughing. Cooper and Ezekiel were talking, propped up on the far wall, Ezekiel using big hand gestures and Cooper nodding along with him. He saw Colin slipping through the crowds, bringing empty glasses and trays of food and drink to each table, frazzled but pleased with himself. Priscilla glided through the crowds, dressed in white and gold and looking as glamourous as ever; Austin, her foreign friend, was sitting on a stool at the bar, drinking a glass of what appeared to be whiskey and grinning widely while Randy said something.

He watched the life of the club, feeling it pulse around him like a heartbeat and thinking to himself that he knew these people. That these were people he cared about.

That was a nice thing to have.

His thoughts were broken when the doors that led into the club were suddenly slammed open. Turning to see who was making such a commotion, Allen immediately lurched to his feet when he saw Tegan Hobbes standing there, shoulders hunched and expression haggard. His suit looked like it had seen a better night, his hat was missing, his hair was a tangled shock on the top of his head –

– but it was the blood dripping off of his hands that grabbed his attention.

“Hobbes, what in the hell happened?” Zeb called out, following after the doctor as the Townsend marched over to Tegan, taking hold of one of his hands and examining it for wounds. Tegan twitched and it looked like he was about to do something violent when Zebediah reached out, settling his arm and giving him a look that said ‘don’t try it’.

“…It’s not h-his blood,” Allen said softly, dropping his hand and fumbling for a handkerchief, walking around the scarecrow of a man to go find who was bleeding. He was grabbed and jerked back into the club, however, pushed against Zebediah’s chest by Tegan who promptly shut the doors behind him.

“Oi, Tegan, what’re you playin’ at?” Zebediah snapped, steadying Allen and squeezing his arms, silently asking if he was okay. The doctor nodded subtly, pulling himself away from Zebediah and stepping back to allow the two gangsters to talk. “Why’re you shuttin’ my doors? How’d you get by Aiden? He knows not to let even you down here without tellin’ me first.”

It was dead silent in the club, everyone turned to watch the spectacle that was the bloody Hobbes and the angered Walker. Wiping his forehead with the back of his forehead, Tegan shook his head and cleared his throat, attempting to say something. Colin edged towards him with a glass of water but the tall man denied it, closing his eyes and breathing deeply before exhaling loudly.

“Aiden’s been knocked out. That’s whose blood this is. I put him somewhere safe – looks like you’ve got a few unwanted visitors comin’ down tonight, Zebediah.”

“…Who?”

“Bulls.” Zebediah swore and Tegan grimaced, before continuing. “I grabbed the first couple who tried to sneak into the club after knocking Aiden out. They hit his recent head wound, it didn’t take much.” Allen pressed his lips together, twitching to go make sure they hadn’t reopened the man’s stitches. “There were only two, but their friends will notice when they don’t get back. You’ll need to get out of here. Now.”

No one moved for a moment, before suddenly everyone was moving at once, people pushing past one another trying to get to the exits. Zebediah dragged Allen to his side to make sure he didn’t get knocked around while shouting something to Ezekiel, who seemed to understand what he was saying. The taller Walker placed thumb and pinky into his mouth, then, and whistled shrilly, bringing everyone back to a sudden and complete stop.

“You want out of the Orchard, you’ll get out organized! There’ll be less blood that way! Those closest by the bar, use the exit there; those by the door, use the exit just outside. There’s another one by the stage for those of you panicking about that. Now move!”

Zebediah pulled out his Colt, turning to Ezekiel and pushing Allen towards him. “Get Doctor Townsend safely out of here –”

“Oh, no,” Allen shook his head, stepping back to Zebediah and Tegan and staring at the shorter of the two tensely. “I have to look at A-Aiden’s head.”

“Allen, you can do that after.”

“No,” Allen said fiercely, stepping right into Zebediah’s space and narrowing his eyes on him. “I have to look now.”

The two had a stare-down in the middle of the madness, Ezekiel waiting to see what would happen on one side and Tegan impatient to get moving on the other, before Zebediah sighed and pulled away, grabbing onto Allen’s arm and dragging him to his side.

“Fine, but for God’s sake, keep close to me,” he muttered darkly, checking his Colt to make sure it was loaded. He waved Ezekiel off, the younger cousin moving off to make sure everyone was getting out safely, before nodding to Tegan to lead the way.

They were walking through the hallway when shots were suddenly fired, whizzing by Tegan’s head and digging into the box behind them. Zeb pushed Allen behind a pile of boxes, diving in beside him while Tegan pressed his back against the cover and shot out at whoever was firing at them. Someone cried out, yelling out ‘officer down!’, telling them that their unwanted visitors had already broken in.

“Damn it,” Zebediah breathed, looking around as if he were rethinking his decision to let Allen come with them. One look at the doctor made him decide that no, his decision was fine, before turning back to Tegan. “Can you cover us?”

“Yeah,” Tegan nodded, peeking out from behind the boxes and ducking back when another shot was fired – their bull had a friend. “I might kill ‘em – I know you don’t like killin’ bulls.”

“I don’t like the problems it gives me,” Zebediah muttered, before nodding. “Fine, I don’t care if you kill ‘em. Just make sure they don’t kill us.”

Tegan snorted, before he leaned out again and shot at the officer looking out from their own cover, hitting him in the forehead. The officer dropped, Allen seeing the pool of blood from back where he was, before the three of them ran up the hallway. Zebediah shoved Allen behind another pile of boxes near to the spare room Zebediah and Allen had used last time to stitch up Zeb’s side, Tegan checking the stairwell to make it was safe.

He waved them over, the three of them climbing up the stairs slowly with their backs pressed against the wall. The trapdoor was open, leaving the entrance open to anyone who wanted to go in. Tegan popped his head out, ducking back down when shots were fired, before pulling up and shooting the two officers by the door – one in the neck, the other in the stomach. Both went down, the bull shot in the stomach groaning and curling up into a ball, before Tegan climbed out and pulled Allen out behind him, bloody hands slipping over Allen’s pale ivory.

“He’s in the main convenience store, in the ‘Staff Only’ room,” he whispered, moving to press his back against one of the tall boxes Aiden usually leaned back against. “Be careful, though, the bulls are scouring the entire building. Apparently they got a tip from an ‘anonymous source’ that something big was happenin’ tonight at the Orchard.”

“Thomas Gray?” Zebediah hissed, fingers twitching on Allen’s arm. Allen hissed, jerking his arm away from Zeb’s hold, but the gangster didn’t seem to notice him.

Tegan nodded, his expression tight. “That’s what I’m thinkin’,” he mumbled, before he looked out at the door and shot at another officer, forcing him back for cover. “Get to the main area, if you would please. Unless you’d like to watch me take more husbands away from their wives?”

Zebediah snorted, grabbing onto Allen again and rushing across the open space from Tegan’s hiding place to the boxes on the other side. Ducking behind those, they edged towards the door, Allen being pushed behind Zebediah as the freckled man leaned towards the door. He reached up, turning the knob and shoving the door open before pressing his back against the wall, waiting to see if anyone would come through or shoot at them. When nothing happened, Zebediah nodded for Allen to get over to him, the two of them slipping into the store.

Keeping to a crouch and hiding behind the shelves whenever they could, Zebediah led the way to the door that said ‘Staff Only’ on the other side of the main store. Looking around the corner of a shelf holding canned goods, Zebediah reeled back when a bullet sudden shot out at him, wincing when the bullet embedded itself into the shelf beside them. He leaned out again, firing once and ducking back, swearing.

“Z-Zeb…?”

“Shh,” Zebediah pressed a finger to his lips, narrowing his eyes at the opening between shelves. “Just a bull, I’ll get ‘im.”

Allen nodded, keeping to him that Zebediah didn’t want him to talk. He watched as he looked out from behind their cover again, shooting twice and smiling grimly when Allen heard the sound of something falling over. “Alright, let’s go,” Zebediah urged, reaching out for Allen’s arm again and dragging him across the opening. They ran all the way to the ‘Staff Only’ door, Zebediah looking around once more before pushing open the door that was already ajar, stepping inside. Allen followed shortly after, grimacing at what he saw.

Aiden was propped up on the couch that the staff room had, head wound bleeding and arms folded over his stomach. He was unconsciously, fortunately, and looked like he was merely sleeping. Allen didn’t like that the police had purposely hit the man on a head injury, however – head injuries were tricky, and Allen wasn’t sure what would happen.

“Get to lookin’ at him, then, I’ll watch the door,” Zebediah ordered, rolling his shoulder and keeping to the wall by the door, closing the door slowly with his foot until it was just a touch open like last time. Allen frowned at him, shaking his head before walking over to Aiden, kneeling beside him and turning his head so that he could look at the damage.

He was just checking his pupils to see if they were responsive when Zebediah swore. Turning to see what was happening, Allen’s eyes widened when he saw an officer bursting into the room, gun out to shoot.

Zebediah tackled the officer, knocking his gun out of his hand and tossing it to the side. It skidded to a stop at Allen’s foot, the doctor twitching away from it.

The two scuffled, Zebediah wrapping his fingers around the officer’s uniform jacket and ramming his back against the ground, trying to knock his head against the hard tile. The officer reached up, hands wrapping around his throat as he tried to overpower the gangster. They flipped at one point, Zebediah on his back and being strangled, hands pushing at the officer’s face, before he managed to elbow him in the jaw and shove him back to the ground, grabbing his face and slamming it back against the tile.

Allen watched as the two continued to struggle, overpowering one another continually. When the officer was the one on top, pressing his palm against the lower half of Zebediah’s face, a shot rang out and the bull froze, before falling over onto his side, Zebediah pushing him off. He wiped the blood that had sprayed onto his face and neck off when the bull had suffered a headshot, looking up to see Tegan staring down at him dryly.

“Enjoyin’ yourself?”

“Oh, dry up.”

Tegan rolled his eyes, looking over at Allen expectantly. The doctor froze under the harsh stare for a moment before shaking his head, turning back to Aiden.

“H-His vitals are still g-g-good…as is his b-breathing. And his s-stitches are still intact. He’ll be f-fine.” Nodding, confident in his assessment, he pulled back, looking over at Tegan. “…A-are we safe?”

“For now,” Tegan muttered, rolling his shoulders and looking out the open door to the main store area. “Hale called his men back when he realized more were dropping like flies than they were catchin’ rats. They grabbed what dead they could – we’ll deal with the rest. Everyone’s out of the Orchard. Ezekiel’s just outside with a report on damages and such.”

“Right,” Zebediah croaked, rubbing his throat and grabbing the fedora that had been knocked off during his brief tiff with the officer. He holstered the Colt, turning to Allen to see that he had settled himself down beside Aiden, determined not to move. “…Tegan, you stay with these two.”

“Didn’t even need to tell me,” the taller of the two pushed past Zebediah, leaning his back against the wall Zebediah had been propped on before, his eyes focused completely on Aiden. Certain that Tegan at least wouldn’t let anything happen to his doorman, and therefore his doctor, Zebediah left the staff room and walked over to Ezekiel, who was inspecting the freshly dead body of the officer Zeb had shot down.

“Messy night.”

“Happy New Year,” Ezekiel greeted with a grin, holding up his watch to show that it was, indeed, midnight. Zebediah snorted, shaking his head, before looking at Ezekiel expectantly.

“Well?”

“Everyone got out of the club, though a handful of people got bagged by the bulls and taken downtown. Only mortalities were coppers.” Ezekiel dropped the hand he was holding, tugging out his handkerchief and wiping his hand against it, before tossing it over the dead man’s face. “Bulls shot a couple of civilians – we’ve got one of those that got shot in the spare room downstairs.”

“We’ll get Allen to look ‘em over – any of our people get bagged?”

“I wouldn’t call him one of ours, per say…”

“Ezekiel.”

“They got Wesley.” Ezekiel pulled off his hat, ruffling his hair and frowning down at his shiny shoes. “Grabbed him soon as he stepped out of the exit – he was first, probably wantin’ to make sure he didn’t get caught. Too bad that’s what did him in.”

“Tch,” Zebediah snorted, looking over to the staff room to see Allen looking over Aiden again, double checking his vitals and his breathing. “Let ‘em cage the poor bastard – it’ll be a lesson to Gray.”

“Was he the one who sent the bulls on us?”

“That’s what Tegan’s thinkin’; therefore, that’s what I’m thinkin’. Makes sense, the man’s still pissed from what I said to him a few weeks ago. Why not send in an anonymously helpful tip and get my club ransacked? Bastard.”

“You think it wise to leave ‘em in the cages, though?” Ezekiel plopped his hat back onto his head, crossing his arms over his chest uncomfortably. “Thomas might try somethin’ even nastier if we don’t get ‘im out.”

“Oh, let the coward try it,” Zebediah adjusted his collar, turning back to the staff room intent on getting Allen out of the store and to his hotel for a peaceful start to the New Year. “He’s got nothin’ on me that he hasn’t already tried. Who d’ya want Allen to look over, our civilian got a name?”

“William Evans.”

Zebediah paused, looking over at Ezekiel with a flat look before smiling thinly. “Visitin’ old friends, are we ‘Zekiel?”

Ezekiel didn’t say anything, Zebediah grinning sharply at his silence, before drifting back into the staff room.

“Doc, how d’ya feel ‘bout lookin’ over a gigolo who got himself shot in the crossfire?”

Allen quirked a brow at his question before standing up; Zebediah led him out of the room with a nod to Tegan, drifting back down to the bottom level of the club and towards the spare room, the door open there. Allen walked in ahead of him, heading straight to the bed where a man was reclined.

He was a pretty man, and that was the only way to describe him with any justice. Fair hair and bright blue eyes when they were open, he was practically elegant; and Zebediah had called him ‘Ethel’ and ‘Nancy’ more times than he could count on fingers and toes. Ezekiel always gave him a hard time whenever he insulted the other man, but Zebediah never took it to heart. 

A male prostitute had been called much worse, after all.

Allen looked at the arm that had gotten skimmed, examining the bloody wound critically before nodding. “N-No need for stitches, he just needs b-b-bandages and a g-good night’s rest.”

“I ain’t payin’ for him to get that here,” Zebediah said, pushing off the wall he had propped himself against. “The medical kit is still on the table, so you can bandage him up. I’ll go talk to ‘Zekiel to get his old friend here a room for the night.”

“W-what about Aiden?”

“Tegan will take care of ‘im,” Zeb waved his hand, waving away the concern and the problems that came with it. “He knows a place, and since he’s fine he won’t need your constant attention.” He turned to look at Allen, then, tilting his head to the side. “You still goin’ for those plans of yours earlier?”

Allen blinked, looking momentarily confused, before he gave a weak laugh and nodded, turning back to the medical kit and rifling through it for bandages. Grinning, Zebediah stepped out of the room, heading back upstairs to talk to Ezekiel.

It really wasn’t that bad of a way to start the New Year.

“I got that old fashioned love in my heart~”

Allen walked through the entrance to the Orchard, being greeted by Priscilla Lockhart’s voice smoothing over the dance hall and the dancers. She was singing a catchy tune he had heard on the radio a few times, by a woman outside of Westfield called Cecil Mack. It must have been more popular than the doctor had thought.

“And there it will always remain~”

“Allen!” The doctor turned from the stage where Prissy was standing, dressed in silver and looking like a star in the dim lighting of the speakeasy. Cooper approached him, grinning and well-groomed as always. The younger man clapped him on the shoulder, turning him towards the bar and walking leisurely through the crowds; gals in shimmering dresses and fellas in pressed suits stepped out of their way when they saw who it was. Whether it was for Cooper, who was a regular, or Allen, who was known to be a friend of Zebediah’s and his lot these days, the doctor couldn’t be sure.

He had a feeling that it was him, though.

“I haven’t s-s-seen you here in a f-few weeks,” Allen remarked, sitting down on a stool and smiling kindly at Randy. The Southern bartender smirked back at him, removing a long-stemmed wine glass and pouring in a fine red wine, pushing it towards the doctor. Allen picked it up, swirled it once, and took a delicate sip, eyes closed as he tasted the rich texture and flavour. “..O-oh.”

“Pinot Noir,” Randy said, as if Allen hadn’t been able to tell what it was as soon as he tasted it. “Got it special – it’s good to keep the winter chill off, hm?”

“…Indeed,” Allen murmured, smiling and tucking the glass close to his chest. He turned to see Cooper staring at him with curiousity, causing the doctor to shake his head and look to the crowds. “H-have you paid off your d-debt then, Cooper?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah, finally. Mum sent me some Christmas money.” Cooper grinned, and it was then that Allen noticed a healing cut by the corner of his eye.

“…And what’s this?” he asked, reaching out with shaking fingers and touching the cut carefully. Cooper jerked back, adjusting his jacket and standing up quite abruptly. “Cooper…?”

“Just remembered I left a table with a poker game when I saw ya. They’ve got my money and my cards, and I think Ezekiel can only guard my hand for so long before even he gets curious.” Cooper smiled, giving the doctor a two-fingered salute before disappearing into the crowds. Allen frowned, leaning back and taking another small sip from his wine, feeling the smooth quality slide down his throat with no effort.

“Coop’s a fighter,” Randy spoke up once Cooper was gone, the bartender leaning against the counter and watching the crowds with a distant gaze. “Fights in illegal rings against big guys like Dick Schlage.”

Dick Schlage used to be a professional fighter until the war, where he got shot in the shoulder and had to retire. When the war had ended, he had taken up gambling – and when the Prohibition started, he took to robbing banks and bootlegging liquor from Canada for Thomas Gray. The only reason why Allen knew anything about the man was because he had read about him in the newspaper, and when he had been brought out of the field, he had been sent to England, where Allen looked after him and a dozen other soldiers sent to more peaceful areas of the world.

Unable to fight he might have been, but Allen knew how to heal. And he did his level best for all of his patients.

But that was then.

“W-why would he do that?”

“‘Cause his old ma can’t send him nothin’ – they’re struggling to make ends meet as it is, since his daddy died. Last I heard, his little brother was workin’ in a factory for buttons.” Randy shook his head, pushing back hair that flopped into his eyes and squinting into the crowd as if he could see something important out there. “He fights for the money. Sometimes he does good – sometimes he don’t. Poor sap.” The bartender leaned back again, picking up a glass and pouring in a shot of whiskey just as Zebediah appeared out of the crowd and dropped into the stool next to Allen.

“Here you are, boss.”

“Thanks, Randy,” Zebediah sighed, grabbing the glass and knocking it back, shaking his head as the sting of alcohol buzzed through his head and down his throat. Glancing over to Allen, the gangster gave him a quick, sharp smile, hazel-green eyes dropping to his glass. “Enjoyin’ the specialty?”

“Very m-much so, thank you,” Allen said with a hint of a smile, eyeing Zebediah as he held out his glass for another round. Randy gave it to him, not seeming concerned by the apparent speed of the other man. Perhaps Randy never cut Zebediah off, him being the boss. Or perhaps Zebediah just didn’t get drunk as easily as others.

“That’s good – I remember you sayin’ you preferred it for the winter months. Lance got me a bit of a deal on the stuff, so I took it.”

Lance Sheppard was a Scandinavian with a mind for good business – and by good business these days, we mean illegal business. Allen had never met him, but he’d heard his name a few times. Lance brought Zebediah his cars, his guns, and his alcohol. He seemed to know when a shipment of something was coming in and he knew the best points to grab hooch from Canada.

“H-have you had any?”

“No, but I will in a bit. Gotta let the panther sweat settle before I go for anythin’ as rich and heavy as Pinot Noir. Think it’s the fanciest stuff I’ve ever served in my joint.”

“And you’re not even servin’ it to everyone – just doc here.” Randy grinned when Zebediah scowled at him, Allen feeling a burn on the back of his neck and crawling towards his ears. “By the way, boss – Chance couldn’t come in today, so we brought in Wesley. Y’don’t mind, do ya?”

“Ah, Wesley huh?” Zebediah shook his head, sliding the glass back and pushing to his feet. “Nah, not at all. In fact, I’m gonna grab a quick word with him. If you’ll excuse me, doc.” The  criminal nodded to him once, slipping back into the crowd and leaving doctor and bartender once again to themselves.

“W-who is –?”

“Wesley?” Randy picked up Zebediah’s glass, frowning at the smudges and left-over drink clinging to the bottom before putting it to the side to clean later. “Wesley Blake is his full name. Boss met him maybe three years ago when the man stumbled into the Orchard lookin’ for work – so he told us, at least. Boss asked what he could do, he said he was good at the piano. And he is, don’t get me wrong – fella played some classical piece the boss recognized faster than anythin’. But…well, I wouldn’t call ‘im trustworthy.”

“What do you m-mean?”

“Wesley Blake’s already got his alliances,” Randy shrugged, scratching at a stubbly jaw and licking his lips briefly, wetting them. “His uncle was Wallace Clearwater – and he’s a close friend of Thomas Gray.”

“...H-how do you k-k-know this?”

“A few of the regulars here have seen ‘im at Gray’s place whenever they wander over there.” Randy narrowed his eyes as if the thought of any of their regulars going over to Thomas Gray’s establishment bothered him. It probably did; it was a rival club, after all. Rivals never liked to see their customers go over to the other side. “Boss has confirmed it when he went over one day, ‘fore he was kicked back out.”

Allen frowned, turning to face Randy only to see him cleaning a few glasses. Biting his bottom lip unsurely, the doctor tapped the stem of his wine glass, looking into the deep claret of the wine.

“Then…why do you s-still let him in h-h-here?”

“‘Cause I like the sense of power it gives me over Mister Gray.”

Zebediah slid back onto his stool, taking off his hat and flicking a few stray hairs back into place before looking over at Randy. “You see Russell Marx around anywhere? I got some questions for ‘im.”

“He left ‘bout an hour ago – said he was gonna check out some other joints, see if they got anything ‘respectable’ or some baloney.”

“Tch, ‘course he left. Probably knew I was actually gonna try and talk to ‘im today. Damn Mick.”

Allen made a face at Zebediah’s language, causing the gangster to give him a sheepish grin and shrug before standing up again. “Doc, you stayin’ long tonight?”

“…T-that was not the p-p-plan –”

“Could ya anyway? I’ve got somethin’ I wanted to ask ya, and I’m just too busy right now.”

He was looking at him with an expression that meant he wasn’t really asking but he still hoped he would say yes as if he was, causing Allen to sigh and smile to himself, shaking his head and looking away from him.

“Oh…a-alright, then. I c-can’t stay too late, h-h-however, I have work in the morning. The ­e-early morning.”

“I understand.” Zeb grinned, replacing his hat on his head and tipping it to Allen and Randy. “See you fellas later.” Disappearing once again into the crowd, Allen slowly finished the rest of his wine and handed it to Randy, shaking his head when the bartender went to refill.

“T-that’ll be it for m-m-me,” he said lightly, adjusting his own fedora before looking back at Randy. “…R-Randy.”

“Mm?”

“How do you…k-know all that you know?”

The Southerner paused in the middle of cleaning a glass, looking over at Allen before smiling thinly.

“I’m a bartender, doc, why do you think?”

Putting away the cleaned glass, said bartender walked away, leaving the doctor alone with a perplexed expression.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
The night seemed to drag on after that, Priscilla singing song after song and people coming and going as they pleased. Cooper left two hours after Allen had arrived at the Orchard, broke and owing people more money from gambling. Ezekiel stepped outside after Zebediah had gone up to him and asked him to talk to Justin Rockwell.

When it was near time to close up, Zebediah sent home Randy and Aiden, telling them that he would be closing up that night and he had some last-minute things to do.

The place was completely empty by the time closing came around, outside of Zebediah and Allen of course. Allen was sitting on the edge of the stage, going through a small black book – his planner, most likely. The man had taken to carrying around his planner so he always knew what was going on the next day. This never used to be a necessity, he’d told him once. His late nights had made it a necessity, however. 

Sometimes Zebediah wondered if he should feel bad. And then he would push the thought away, because really, what was the point?

Closing the door behind the last guest, Zebediah pressed his forehead against the polished wood for a moment before turning back towards the stage, making his way to it. He hopped up beside Allen, walking past him and into the back where he started to drag out a large machine that had a thin layer of dust over it.

“I-is that a phonograph?”

“Why yes, yes it is.” Zeb grinned, pulling it out onto the middle of the stage. He adjusted to angle it sat at, stepping back and looking at it critically, before nodding once. “Used to have one at home, and I missed it – so I bought one for myself. Not quite the same, though; the one at home is an older make. But it serves the same purpose.”

Allen smiled, watching as Zebediah fiddled around with a record, placing it carefully on the phonograph. The gangster dutifully wound the machine up to get it going, placing the needle very carefully onto his record, and for a moment all they could hear was the scratching of the needle against the record.

Then it began to play.

Voices human, crooning over Moonlight Bay
Banjos strum, tuning while the moonbeams play

“…I-is that Billy M-Murray?”

“And the American Quartet.” Zebediah grinned, stepping back and planting his hands on his hips while the music filled the empty dance hall. “It was a favourite album of mine when I was younger – mum would listen to it a lot when she wasn’t listenin’ to my really bad singin’.” Shaking his head, he turned to Allen and offered the doctor a hand, pulling him up to his feet. Once he was up, however, he dragged him closer, left hand settling on his waist and right hand not letting go of Allen’s.

“Z-Zebediah, what are you d-d-doing –?”

“What’s it look like, doc?” Zebediah asked with a cheeky grin, beginning to move to the music. The dance was more familiar to Allen than any of Rachel’s high-energy jigs, the doctor falling easily into the movements along with Zebediah.

It was a little awkward of course, seeing as they were both trying to dance the man’s part, but they eventually got it.

Staring up at Zebediah with perplexity, despite his following along with the gangster’s idea, Allen quirked a brow in silent question. Zebediah, understanding what it was the doctor was trying to say, grinned in response.

“I’m always seein’ ya dancin’ with Rachel or some other broad. Watchin’ ya turn my little cousin around ‘cause that’s what you do and that’s what’s proper and that’s what’s acceptable. Rachel’s probably told ya that I take my beaus out dancin’ – and I do. I look forward to dancin’ with ‘em. Look forward to leadin’ ‘em across the dance floor. There’s somethin’ very intimate ‘bout dancin’, y’know.”

Their footsteps slowed down, bodies barely swaying to the music in the background. Billy Murray and his American Quartet sang about candles on silent shores, but the two men barely noticed.

“…Frustrates me when I can’t do that with you.”

The criminal dragged the civilian closer than was absolutely necessary, touching noses with him and giving him a small smile that hid the brief hurt Allen had seen in Zebediah’s eyes. Moving to close the gap, Allen jerked back when his hat was pushed off by Zeb’s, looking down at it in bewilderment before choking out a laugh. He hid his face against Zebediah’s shoulder, the gangster shaking with laughter against him. A twin thunk sounded, meaning the gangster had dropped his fedora to the floor to join Allen’s, when Allen suddenly felt rough fingers combing and tangling them into the wild curls he had such difficulty taming.

“Ya know,” he started, speaking into Allen’s ear since the doctor refused to lift his head just yet, still laughing over the ridiculousness from before. “You’ve got some gorgeous hair here. S’easy for me to wrap my fingers into – like I can hold onto you. Tangle myself into you.” Zeb nosed his temple, then, and Allen finally pulled back enough to look up at him. “…S’that too romantic?”

Allen didn’t answer, taking in Zebediah’s strangely open expression before he pressed a chaste kiss against the other’s mouth, only to pull back quickly and shake his head.

“…T-the record stopped p-p-playing.”

Zebediah didn’t look over to the phonograph, pressing another quick kiss against Allen’s lips in response to Allen’s. He barely pulled back to speak, mouth moving against Allen’s and breath fanning over his face.

“So it has.”

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been…”

A long pause stretched, awkward and uncomfortable, and the priest on the other side of the confessional screen coughed lightly as if prompting his confessor.

“Jeez, I don’t even remember – I think I was ten? Eleven? Cut me some slack here, Father, I’m really out of practice.” Zebediah sighed, rubbing at his face tiredly before clasping his hands together in some form of prayer, leaning forward on his knees. “Okay. We’ll just say it’s been a real long time since I’ve sat in one of these boxes and told someone my secrets.”

“Alright, son. What is it that you wish to confess?”

“…” The gangster closed his eyes, pressing his lips to his clasped hands and holding back a laugh. “More than you can listen to, Father. And more than I’m willin’ to share. So I’ll just tell you the bare bones of it and be on my way, hm?” Waiting for the hum of approval from the old man hiding behind the screen, Zebediah sat back up and thumped his head against the wall behind him.

He’d never liked confessionals. They always made him feel claustrophobic and caged, as if he were trapped and he’d never get out; forever to be judged by the harsh stare of whoever was on the other side. As a kid it had been the Irish priest who drank the wine before Mass even started. Today it was an old man with withered hands and a gentle stare.

At least he didn’t feel completely damned around this priest.

“I…helped a friend. In a way that ain’t holy.”

“…Son?”

Silence greeted the priest before the sound of a door shutting quietly was heard, footsteps disappearing down the walkway and out of the church.

He hadn’t even waited for his Hail Marys.
______________________________________________________________________________________________
“You s-seem to have a case of the f-flu, Mrs T-Turner,” Doctor Allen Townsend said gently, putting down his stethoscope and writing down a few quick notes on his clipboard in shorthand. The woman, a young thing with perfectly cared for blond curls and make-up, and a sharp skirt-and-jacket combo that told him she had a bit of money, bit a crimson bottom lip and worried it with an anxious expression on her face. “N-nothing too serious. W-we’ll get you some m-m-medicine to help. My o-only advice would be to t-take a few days of r-r-rest. Do you have a job?”

“Oh no, Doctor Townsend – I’m a housewife, I cook my husband dinner and make sure the house is in proper order for him when he gets home. He’s a construction worker, you see, and so he’s out all day. When he gets home he is so tired, I always have to make sure he has a good, hot meal and a cup of coffee to help him feel alive again.”

Allen smiled patiently, reaching out and patting the woman’s hand to get her attention back to him. “W-well, I think he’ll have to do without u-until you start feeling b-b-better yourself, Mrs Turner.”

“Oh, he’s not going to like that…” The woman sighed, tugging on her jacket and shaking her head emphatically. “Not at all, no siree.”

“I’ll give you a d-doctor’s note, so that he can’t be t-t-too angry,” Allen reassured, moving away from the examining table to do so. “If a-anything happens, Mrs Turner…”

“Nothing’s going to happen, Doctor Townsend, I promise you nothing will. He’s a good man, honest to goodness he is.”

“I’m sure,” Allen interrupted, turning to her and looking at her seriously, “but just in c-case, I’ll g-give you my card as w-w-well. It has my a-address should you have nnneeded of it, as well as a t-telephone number.” Not everyone had a telephone, but he always had the printer’s put his number on his cards just in case one of his patients ever did. Allen didn’t give his card to very many of his patients, since he didn’t feel like they would need it. If they needed the doctor, they would make an appointment with him, like always.

But sometimes, especially with women, Allen would hand over his card if he felt it was necessary. Underneath all of that pretty make-up and perfectly manicured appearance he had seen what appeared to be the last remains of a bruise; faint and yellow and just noticeable against her pale complexion.

Allen did not appreciate men being cruel to their wives. There was no rhyme or reason to it.

“…Thank you, Doctor Townsend,” Mrs Turner said softly, taking both note and card and tucking them into her purse. She slid off of the examining table while Allen wrote out a prescription for some medicine that she could take to help with her flu. Taking that as well, the woman pulled out her wallet and began thumbing through her bills.

“P-pay the secretary, Mrs Turner,” Allen said, reaching out and stalling her searching fingers. “I h-hope you start feeling better, soon.”

The woman nodded, squeezing his hand with a thankful little smile before she walked out of the examining room quickly. Sighing, Allen picked up his clipboard and made his way out of the room as well, turning towards the bathroom to wash his hands – hygiene was very important to his job.

“Doctor Townsend,” Allie Phillips called out, popping gum and leaning over her desk. The dark haired man turned towards the young secretary, looking at her expectantly. “You’ve got a visitor – he says he knows your brother.”

“D-direct him to my office, M-Miss Phillips, I’ll be there in just o-o-one moment.” The woman nodded and turned back to her work, Allen stepping into the bathroom and closing the door quietly behind him.

Walking up to the sink, the doctor turn on the tap to warm water to wash his hands, soaping his hands and rubbing them thoroughly under the running water. Twisting the knob off with the heel his hand, he grabbed the towel that was beside the sink and patted his hands dry, hanging the towel back up on its ring once he was done.

Looking up at himself in the mirror, Allen frowned at his reflection. He looked paler than usual, more tired and thinner. He supposed that was reasonable – he hadn’t been eating as well as he had before, and he was up every night for one reason or another. Some nights he enjoyed the warm company of the flappers and their beaus; other nights he spent patching up gangsters after they encountered people who didn’t like them too much.

Whenever he wasn’t with the flappers or the gangsters, he was with Richard, watching him as he recovered and wondering if the other doctor would ever be able to live normally again.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, he turned on the tap again – this time to cold – and cupped his hands under the running water. Splashing the water onto his face, he shook off hanging droplets and grabbed the towel once more, patting his face dry. He didn’t even bother to hang the towel back up after he was done, simply tossing it onto the sink and leaving the bathroom to see who was waiting in his office.

When he entered the office, he didn’t recognize the man standing by his doctoral certificate, reading the information with a neutral gaze.

He was short – shorter than himself, at any rate – with light blond hair that was bordering on grey. A youthful face, though wrinkled from what seemed to be stress, with a prominent nose and dark blue eyes that stood out to him when the man finally look over at him. He wore a dull grey suit with a black tie and a silver tie-pin – some money, then, the pin looked much nicer than his suit. A simple bowler hat was clutched in his hands, along with a plain cane of fine wood capped with a silver top that looked like it could use a shining.

“Doctor Townsend, are ye?”

That was a Londoner’s accent. Not from one of the schools, though, not like his and Richard’s – it was street dialect. So, obviously he was not of high class. Perhaps the pin had been a gift?

“D-doctor Allen Townsend, yes,” he smiled thinly, moving to his desk and sitting down behind it. He gestured to the chair in front of his desk, offering his guest a seat. “And y-you are?”

“Dustin Gable,” the man limped over to the seat, looking at it critically before easing himself down onto it. Resting his cane on his leg, his hat on his lap, the man folded his hands over his stomach and looked at Allen with an examiner’s eye. He felt, for a moment, like a schoolboy being looked over by one of his strict schoolteachers. “Retired soldier, fought for England in the Great War; I was shot in the leg, which is why I’ve got this cane.”

Allen blinked at him, head tilting to the side in confusion to his introduction. Dustin gave him a quick smile, before moving forward.

“I thought it best to introduce what kind of man your brother will be looked after by.”

“…I’m s-sorry?”

“Doctor Richard Townsend started looking for men who could look after him once he gets out of the hospital – I don’t blame him, he getting shot for no good reason by some daft blighter. I just moved to Westfield this last month, so I thought it was a good opportunity. He seemed to approve of my qualifications.” He paused here, adjusting his tie and clearing his throat. “…’Twas my idea to come and see ye, though. Richard doesn’t know I came here.”

Allen quirked a brow at the way Dustin Gable called his brother by his given name, wondering at his casual behaviour towards Richard before pushing the thought out of his mind. That really wasn’t any of his business.

“I d-doubt he’d appreciate that v-v-very much,” he said after a moment, adjusting some papers on his desk. His shaking hands paused in the midst of collecting Mrs Turner’s papers, his gaze far away. “…How is my brother?”

He looked up to see Dustin looking at him with understanding. Richard hadn’t actually allowed Allen to see him for the past few weeks; he only came by when the younger Townsend was sleeping. It ached to be pushed away from his brother like this, but he supposed it was also understandable; Richard suspected he was attacked because of something to do with Allen.

Oh, how right he was…

“He’s fine,” Dustin’s voice interrupted his thoughts, making Allen look at the ex-soldier curiously. “Being a bit whingy, but I s’pose that’s to be expected. He doesn’t play ‘patient’ very well, does he?”

Allen smiled, remembering when Richard was a child. Every time he would catch cold or become unwell in some other manner, he would throw a small fit and be the most difficult of patients. His mother dealt with him in her quiet, detached way; Father hadn’t bothered to deal with him at all, only acknowledging his sons when they were behaving and then constantly when they were older and had respectable careers as doctors.

“No,” he said after a moment of remembering, shaking his head and tucking away the rest of his papers into a pile, placing them to the side so that he could put them in his briefcase later on that day, “he does not. I-is that all, Mister Gable?”

“That it would, Doctor Townsend.” Dustin pushed himself back onto his feet, stumbling before grabbing onto his cane. He scowled down at his leg, looking up at Allen and shrugging helplessly. “I can’t stand like I used te, but I can still take down anyone who so much as looks funny at your brother, I can promise you that.”

“I have n-no doubt of your c-c-capabilities, Mister Gable,” Allen said softly, rising to his own feet and making his way to the door of his office. He opened it for the shorter man, taking Dustin’s hand when the other Englishman offered his to him. Shaking it once, he dropped the firm grip of the other and smiled thinly. “…Thank you, for s-speaking with me. Please take good c-care of my brother.”

“Will do.” Dustin put his bowler cap back on, tipping the brim low over his eyes and nodding cordially to Allen. Stepping out, he made his way out of the hospital without further delay, Allen watching from his door.

Once Dustin was out of sight, he turned back to his desk, closing the door behind him. He rubbed his forehead as he fell back into his seat, glancing at the organization of his desk and briefly hating it. The office, the patients, the work – all of it. He just wanted to walk out and not bother coming back for the rest of the day. Just one day off, one day to himself where he could sleep and rest and relax and not worry about anything.

He didn’t want to worry about his brother. He didn’t want to worry about seeing Ezekiel Walker burst into his office with a bleeding face and a panicked look in his eyes. He didn’t want to worry about going to the Orchard and almost getting arrested by Chief Gregory Hale and his bulls.

He didn’t want to worry about Zebediah Walker.

All he could think about during the days was that night almost a week ago, when Zebediah had stumbled into his home and fallen asleep shaking. He didn’t see him cry, and when Allen pulled back, he could find no trace of tears on his face. He knew there had been tears, though – his neck had been damp with them.

But he could honestly say that he had never seen Zebediah Walker cry. Just held him as the strong man appeared to break down into a little boy lost in the city and unsure of what to do.

He had never asked why Zebediah had come to him that night. He had never asked, despite reading in the news almost three days later that the police had found a charred, unidentified body in a back alley, and that it was thought that the dead gentleman had been connected to gangster movement in the city.

He had never asked, despite Zebediah leaving him the next day, saying only “it’s been dealt with” before disappearing into the shadows of early morning.

He hadn’t asked, and he didn’t want to know if he was going to be honest. He could be honest, at least to himself, couldn’t he? He knew what had happened, and he just liked to pretend that he didn’t. It was easier to sleep at night if he didn’t think about a man dead in an alleyway because he had hurt a Townsend.

It was easier to pretend ignorance.

Pinching the bridge of his nose as he fought a headache, the doctor leaned back in his chair and questioned every decision he had made since that night in September when Cooper West had convinced him to go to the Apple Orchard.

Unsurprisingly, this did not help his headache.
______________________________________________________________________________________________
“Knock, knock, I’m comin’ in whether you’re decent or not!”

Zebediah looked over to the hotel door as it opened, revealing Rachel sliding into the room with the grace of a swan. She almost looked like a swan today, wearing creamy white with black accents around her hips and along the collar and hem of her dress. A close-fitted cap covered her crimped brown hair, the golden chain holding her cross hanging heavy around her neck. She smiled over at him as she closed the door, marching back to him.

“Standin’ by the window a safe idea?”

“It’s fine,” Zebediah turned back to the window, lifting an arm and giving Rachel a quick squeeze when she approached him. The moll pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek, leaning against his side and joining him in his window gazing. “Tegan’s been able to call off Clearwater’s guys for a while now. Makes me curious, though, how he’s doin’ that.”

“I might be able to enlighten you,” Rachel said lightly, bumping her hip against his and grinning at their dim reflections in the glass. “Wallace Clearwater kicked it about five days ago.”

“What?”

“Mmhmm. Poison did him. Woman’s weapon, I bet you can guess who did it.”

“Evelyn Good,” Zebediah breathed, hazel-green eyes widening in shock. “Lord almighty, I didn’t even know she was hangin’ off the old man’s arm!”

“It’s only been for about a month or so; her last beau, poor dear, dropped dead in the Boiler Room after drinking some very bad coffin varnish.” Crossing her arms above her stomach, Rachel leaned forward to look down at the street a few stories below. Zebediah never liked to stay on the ground floor – you could always be caught unawares, then. If he was higher up, the people after him would have to go up the elevator or the stairs to get to him, and that gave him enough time to get the hell out of there.

This was also why Zebediah always tried for the room closest to the fire exit. He could clamber down much faster that way.

“So where is she, now? Always gotta watch for Evelyn Good, spider that she is.”

“Miss black widow is actually dead, too,” Rachel continued with a small smile, always giddy to know something Zebediah didn’t. Zebediah turned the woman to face him, looking at her with a clearly disbelieving expression on his face. “Why Mister Walker, you look like you don’t believe a word comin’ out of my mouth. You going to start doubtin’ my information now?”

“How’d she die?”

“His name is Timothy Dawson, and he’s a little bit scarier than Wallace Clearwater. He used to be one of Wallace’s guards, but the moment his boss kicked it, he broke off. He’s been building his own group since.”

“I ain’t ever heard of him.”

“‘Course you haven’t, he’s kept down low like a proper snake,” Rachel sniffed, plucking at her cross and turning back to the window. “Only reason I know his name and am still breathin’ is ‘cause I have people I can ask questions to without rousing any suspicion.”

“Like who?”

“That sweetheart Justin Rockwell who plays violin on the street just ‘round the corner of Hooker Lane. Also your favourite Irish blotto.”

“Russell Marx has information that I don’t,” Zebediah said incredulously, crossing his arms and leaning his shoulder on the window. “Slap me twice and hand me to my momma, I don’t believe that within an inch of my life.”

“I don’t think I will slap you, your head is practically made out of cast-iron,” Rachel mused with a wrinkle of her nose, before shaking her head. “Russell has got a lot more information than you give the poor boy credit for. He’s got cousins in New York, y’know.”

“What’s his cousins got to do with anything?”

“Oh, you think when Russell first immigrated to the good old U.S. of A he came straight to Westfield? Come on, honey, you’re smarter than that. He’s got family in New York City. What kind of family do you think he’s got?”

Zebediah narrowed his eyes, trying to see what point Rachel was making, before cursing softly under his breath. Rachel grinned, patting his arm without bothering to look at him. “Good boy.”

“Okay, so he’s got family in the Irish mob, what of it?”

“Zebediah Walker, you think they just let him stick around the place doing nothin’ but boozin’ off of ‘em and lazing about during the day? Think man, you’re making me question your intelligence more than usual.”

“Don’t you play cheeky with me, Rachel Price, don’t you dare.”

“Oh, you can’t hurt me. I’m the only reason why the big boys in the city don’t know about gentle Allen Townsend.” She winced when Zebediah walked away from her, turning to watch him disappear into the closet. He came back out with an unlabelled bottle – but she knew it for what it was. The familiar amber of Zebediah’s favourite particular poison was as recognizable as the sun to her since she had known him. “Zebediah…”

“What does Russell Marx’s family have to do with anything?” he said through gritted teeth, uncapping the alcohol and taking a long swipe from it. Rachel sighed, gripping onto her cross before walking over to him. Placing a hand on his, she forced him to lower the bottle – well, perhaps ‘forced’ was too strong a word. More like Zebediah allowed her to.

“I shouldn’t have brought up Allen,” she said softly, her tone apologetic. Zebediah grunted but said nothing more, making the moll roll her pale eyes. “Russell worked for his cousins in New York City – it was how he was able to buy a train over to Westfield. He knows the ropes of this side of the law, probably better than you. He knows where to look and where not to look – helps when he doesn’t affiliate with only one speakeasy, but all of them around town. The big ones and the little ones.”

“The pros of being a drunk,” Zebediah snorted, putting down the bottle with Rachel’s help.

“Says the drunk,” Rachel quipped lightly, squeezing his hand before slipping away. “And before you ask, Justin sees everyone. So does his little friend Stuart Rodgers. I’d keep my eye on those two and the ringleader of the homeless circus if I were you.” 

“Dominic and his monkeys can be invisible if they wanna be.”

“Only if you come unprepared,” Rachel grinned, heading towards the door and opening it without further ado. “I’ll see you tonight, Zeb – relax a little, would ya? Wound tighter than a carnival toy, you are.”

She slipped out as easily as she had slipped in, the door shutting with a muted click behind her. Staring at the closed door, Zebediah shook his head and picked up the bottle of whiskey.

“That woman gives me the worst headache, swear ta God she does…”

He woke up to the sound of knocking.

Forcing his eyes open, the doctor was greeted with the sight of tanned, scarred flesh, Zebediah’s chest rising and falling slowly as he slept. Thin beams of sunlight managed to peek through the curtains hiding his window, giving the room and the occupants a nostalgic sepia tone – as if they were in the world of photographs from their parents’ youth.

Really, if it weren’t for the insistent knocking it would all be very peaceful.

Oh, wait. Knocking.

“Allen Kenneth Townsend, if you do not open this door immediately I will knock it down myself!”

What in the world was Richard doing here?

“…Oh, b-blast, Richard’s here,” Allen hissed, bolting upright and shoving at Zebediah to force him awake. The gangster reacted immediately, twisting and pinning Allen down on the bed with his forearm across the other’s throat, pressing down as he glared at him. The doctor had to remind himself to stay perfectly still while he waited for Zebediah to come back to reality and get his foot out of paranoia to realize who it was he was trying to strangle.

“…God damn it Allen, what the hell?”

“B-be quiet and f-f-find somewhere to hide, my b-brother’s here.”

“Futz what’s he doin’ here?”

“G-good question, l-let me find out. H-hide!”

Swearing, the gangster grabbed boxers and pants and fled into the bathroom, where he presumably hid behind the door against the wall. Shaking his head, Allen grabbed a pair of sleeping pants and a house robe, folding it over his chest and tying it at the waist. Slipping into a pair of slippers as a last thought, the doctor made his way to the front door and opened it before Richard would make good on his promise.

“R-Richard, what are y-y-you doing here? W-what time is it?”

“Five in the morning, and I’m here because I’ve heard some upsetting news.” The younger Townsend pushed past his brother, turning to the coat rack and pausing at the sight of an unfamiliar overcoat. “…Whose is this?”

“A-ah?” Allen turned, paling at the sight of Zebediah’s coat, before he smiled thinly. “C-Cooper’s.”

“That student you’re always spending time around? The one who spends too much money on his suits instead of on anything of actual importance?”

“T-that would be t-t-the one. H-he came by l-l-last night…s-showing off a n-new coat, a-actually. L-left this one b-behind. I-I’ll be s-s-sure to tell him. W-what, ah. What news have you heard?”

“Hmm…” Richard narrowed his eyes on the overcoat before apparently deciding to accept the other man’s lie, tossing his coat onto the free rung and turning to his brother again. “I heard you left the office in quite the hurry the other day after someone rushed into your office.”

He was talking about the night he had finally seen Zebediah again, when Ezekiel rushed into the hospital and told him the gangster had been shot. Of course he had heard about that, Allie Phillips was a chatty young woman, after all. Though nice enough, she liked to gossip.

“…H-house call, you know I take those.”

“For Ezekiel Walker?” Allen pressed his lips together, tugging his robe closer. “I didn’t know you associated with such rabble, Allen – how very quaint of you. I’m sure the chief of police would be happy to hear that such a respectable doctor knows where the Walkers hide.”

“I d-don’t,” Allen said very softly, eyes narrowed on his younger brother. “A-and I do not see how it is any of y-your business – or C-chief Hale’s business – as to w-who I see.”

“It becomes Hale’s business when it deals with criminals. It becomes my business when it deals with your reputation. Do you want to be seen as some sort of criminal supporter, Allen? A Townsend, being friendly with killers like the Walkers. What will the papers have to say about that? And the heir, as well – scandal waiting to happen.”

Feeling his mood dropping with every word his younger brother spoke, Allen swept over to the coat rack and tossed Richard his, moving to steer the younger man towards the still-open door and out of his house.

“Leave, Richard,” Allen said softly, looking at him unhappily. “I don’t have to l-listen to this.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to, but you should.” Richard turned to Allen, pulling on his coat and smiling at him sarcastically. “You do what you wish, Allen, but keep in mind that you are not another human being. You are a Townsend. And should you do anything to endanger the reputation of that name, I will make you regret it.”

Allen closed the door before Richard could say anything more, gently hitting his forehead against the door as he listened to his brother walk away. Looking out the peephole to make sure Richard was actually gone, he shook his head and turned around to head back to his room, freezing when he saw Zebediah standing right there.

“…I s-see you put s-some clothes o-on,” Allen commented, cracking a smile when Zebediah snorted and walked over to him. The doctor pressed his hands against the other’s chest, feeling the reassuring thump-thump of the other’s heartbeat through warm skin. Leaning up, he accepted the kiss Zeb leaned down to give, smiling faintly as he pulled away.

He was still hurt, of course – there was still an ache in his chest every time he thought about what could happen to Zebediah, and how the gangster never seemed to concern himself with telling Allen anything. It still hurt to think that Zebediah would turn to ex-military men before he would turn to his doctor.

But he was content despite all of that. As content as he could be, at least.

“Breakfast, then?”

“…Please.”
______________________________________________________________________________________________
Allen never did ask about Mitch Macgowan, and that was probably for the best.

Zebediah only knew the man from his constant visits to the speakeasy, where he would down entire bottles of hooch and then demand for more. Usually Randy would cut off a patron after they emptied two bottles consecutively, but Mitch was a bit of a special case – just like Russell Marx was a bit of a special case, but Randy didn’t much like thinking about Russell.

Mitch was an ex-soldier who fought in the Great War when he was 25. He did not, however, fight for the red, white and blue. He fought in Europe, for a country no one was quite sure of because he changed his story every time someone asked. A very secretive man, he didn’t say much about his time in the war – but it was obvious that it had affected him, and affected him badly. He had not entered the war a twitchy man prone to violent fits, after all.

Why he was with Zebediah the night he had been shot was another mystery, and one neither Zebediah nor Mitch were willing to speak about. But it was well-known that Mitch had been in some unnamed city a state over from Westfield and that he had come back with Zebediah and Ezekiel on whatever form of ‘business’ the two were on.

If Zebediah had to call Mitch Macgowan anything in terms of what he was doing, he’d call him a mercenary. And that would be that.

But it wasn’t.

While Zebediah and Allen enjoyed breakfast in the Townsend’s townhouse, Mitch Macgowan was sitting in a car, hands squeezing the wheel on and off impatiently as he waited for the gangster to show up. He kind of looked to him as a boss, a friend, and a pain in his side – but Zebediah gave him a job that took his mind off of the horrors of the war he was constantly bombarded with.

What that job was wasn’t exactly clear, but it did involve a gun.

A gun which was pulled out of its holster when Mitch heard the seeming threat from Richard Townsend’s mouth, directed to Allen (who Zeb seemed so fond of – which was disgusting, but Mitch ignored it for the most part) and said with vehemence.

“Threatenin’ Freckles’ friend then, eh Mister Old Money?” Mitch muttered to himself, pulling himself out of the car and making his way down the street after the fuming doctor. He tucked his gun behind his back, smiling thinly and keeping to the shadows as he trailed after Richard.

“Oh, you’ll regret that, I can assure ya.”
______________________________________________________________________________________________
The next day, when Allen went into work, he was told about his brother being admitted into the hospital late last night.

The older Townsend immediately went to the room Richard was occupying, heart in his throat and nerves everywhere in a panic. He found the younger Townsend asleep on his hospital bed, his leg bandaged and raised up, his face drawn and pale but mostly peaceful in sleep. He moved to the end of the bed, picking up the clipboard that had information on the kind of damage Richard had suffered, stomach dropping to his feet as he read.

Shattered shin bone in the right leg; bruises along the ribs…

“He sleepin’?”

Allen turned to see Ezekiel standing at the door, looking at Richard’s sleeping face rather than the doctor. Allen hummed a shaky affirmative, the younger Walker nodding once he heard it and pushing himself off of the door. After a moment, Ezekiel finally turned to face the doctor.

“We’ll deal with the sap that did this.”

He left without another word, leaving Allen alone with his little brother.
______________________________________________________________________________________________
“Mitch, you know I like you, right?”

Zebediah leaned back against the wall of the alleyway, Aiden standing near the street, Ezekiel standing beside the figure opposite of him on the ground. Mitch looked up at Zebediah with a sharp smile, his hands folded over his stomach tapping out mindless patterns that meant little to Zebediah but could have been morose code for all he cared.

(Maybe it was. Maybe Mitch Macgowan had fallen into a state of mind where he was in a battlefield and everyone was the enemy. It was hard to tell with broken men.)

“Yeah, but that don’t mean anythin’ and you know that,” Mitch said lazily, his head swaying back and forth as if this were just another conversation. Who cared that he could taste blood in his mouth from when he got punched in the face? Who cared that his stomach hurt from getting kicked there? It was just another conversation. Just another day for a man who cared for very little.

“Maybe not to you, but I value folks I consider friends,” Zebediah muttered sourly, rolling his shoulders back. The crick of his spine sounded in the alleyway as if he had broken bones, Ezekiel wincing at the noise and Mitch’s grin sharpening to a knife’s edge. “Why’d you go after Richard Townsend?”

“He threatened your boy.”

“You really gonna take anythin’ that comes out of that swell’s mouth? Townsend’s about as likely to hurt someone as my little cousin is. He’s harmless, Mitch.”

“Everyone can be dangerous, Zeb,” the ex-soldier shrugged, looking up to the sky that he could barely see through smoke and smog, “thinkin’ otherwise is just plain dumb.” He looked back to Zebediah then, his bright-eyed gaze sharp and vicious suddenly. “You think I’m dangerous, don’t ya Zebediah?”

“…Sometimes,” Zebediah muttered, rolling his neck stiffly, “but then again, so am I.”

“Yeah, but I’m a different kind of dangerous. I’m that rabid dog you gotta put down, but you don’t really want to. That’s why you’re still lettin’ me walk around, after all. You think I’ll get over whatever’s gone screwy in my head. But I ain’t gonna get over it anytime soon, Walker. I saw shit no human being should have to see in their lifetime, and I saw it up close and personal. You don’t get over that. You either turn into the nutty homeless man or you lodge a bullet in your brain. Or you become me. None of the options seem nice, huh?”

“That’s an awfully pessimistic point of view, Mitch,” Zebediah said quietly, grip on his biceps tightening anxiously. “Makes it sound like you don’t like livin’.”

“I don’t.” Mitch gave off a laugh, short and bitter, head thumping back against the brick behind him. “God, I’m tired, Zeb – tired of tryin’ to live through the nightmares. They call it shellshock. I call it Hell in my head. Used to do hop to deal with it, ‘cause then I couldn’t remember what was upsetting me!”

“Why’d you stop, then?”

“…met someone who talked me out of it.” He scrubbed at his face, shaking his head and dropping his hands. Closing his eyes, he heaved a sigh. “You wanna help me, Zeb? You wanna do right by me?”

“You know I do, Mitch.”

“Then take your Colt, press the barrel here,” he tapped his forehead right between his eyes, “and shoot. Put down the rabid dog, Zebediah Walker. And after you do that? Take my dog tags and give ‘em to a fella called Abraham Brackman. He’s a therapist. Tell him I did it to myself…and tell ‘im I’m sorry.” He stretched out his legs, hands once again folded comfortably over his stomach and closed his eyes. “Do that, or scram. Let me burn in my Hell.”

It was silent in the alleyway, Mitch seemingly deciding that he had nothing more to say. Zebediah could feel Ezekiel’s eyes on his face while he thought, fingers squeezing sporadically at the crease of his elbows. Then, with a sigh, he pulled out the Colt and took a step over to Mitch Macgowan.

“I’m goin’ straight t’Hell,” he muttered softly, pushing the end of the gun onto Mitch’s forehead. The ex-soldier grinned, opening his eyes and looking up at Zebediah with that bright-eyed look that gave Zebediah the shivers.

“I’ll meet you down there.”

The shot echoed in the alleyway, startling a black cat from a few trash bins with a yowl. Someone yelled at them to be quiet from a few buildings down, them unaware as to what just happened.

Pulling away, Zebediah tucked the Colt back into its holster under his coat, taking off his hat and bowing his head. He quickly blessed himself, muttering a gentle prayer under his breath, before looking up and over to Ezekiel. His cousin looked a little uncomfortable standing next to the body, inching away from it slowly.

“Gimme your mop,” Zeb muttered after a moment, holding his hand out. Ezekiel looked at him in confusion for a moment before he seemed to realize what he was asking for, tugging out his pocket handkerchief and giving it to cousin. Moving towards the body again, Zebediah used the cotton handkerchief to tug out a chain that hung around the ex-soldier’s neck, pulling off the dog tags as he had been requested. He tossed them to Ezekiel once he got them.

“Find that therapist and give him those with Mitch’s message. Do it in the morning. I’ll meet up with you at the Orchard and we’ll get tanked to forget this.” He waited for Ezekiel to leave, sighing once he was relatively alone sans Aiden. Said bumbling goon stumbled up to him, leaning against the wall and looking down at the mess that was made.

“Wha’ are we gonna do wit’ it?”

“…Burn it,” Zebediah said after a moment, reaching out and closing glassed-over eyes. “And then I’m burnin’ this suit, gettin’ changed, and gettin’ tanked. And nothin’s gonna stop me.”

Aiden sighed, watching as Zebediah pulled out his flask and uncapped it, pouring it over the ex-soldier’s body.

The two of them looked away when the freckled man dropped a match and the body lit up like Christmas come early.
______________________________________________________________________________________________
That evening, close to when the Orchard was supposed to close, Allen opened the door to see Zebediah Walker barely standing in front of him, eyes bloodshot and clothes in disarray.

Without question, Allen let him in, led him to the bedroom, and eased him into lying down. He allowed himself to be dragged into the other’s arms without comment, curling against his side and running his fingers through light brown hair as Zebediah buried his face into the other’s neck and shook against him.

He made no comment on the wetness on his neck.

He asked no questions about the look of pain on his face.

He simply held him until he fell asleep.