"...Covey Leader, calling Raven! Talk to me, Johnny!"
John opens his eyes--and he's not in the cave anymore. He's...somewhere else.
And there's an old woman. Sort of.
"Where am I?"
"...you died. Not as those who came before you, but the first true death we have seen in some time. This may be a blessing, a ray of hope to end this curse...but you once told me you serve me as much as my sister. That's why you're here. You served faithfully, and so--I had to try."
"I don't understand."
"You will...listen carefully..."
* * * * *
Once upon a time, there was a man--broken, flawed, and good. He loved, he lost, he despaired...and through it all, he served the goddess of Spring and of life with hands dripping with blood.
He came to a little town called Pumpkin Hollow to break a curse and save a world, alongside others...and in that pursuit, in the name of Serranai, he did something no one has been able to do in a year.
Something terrible happened, and he died. His body remained, his flesh went cold, his soul fled.
The how does not matter. The why was simple: to protect his new home. To stand against demons...to fight for those he loved. He fought, he died...and he did not come back.
That, however, is the thing about good men who do bad things. Sometimes, if the stars align, and the gods--or goddesses--are listening, they can get a second chance. When time is nebulous, and death can be a miracle, sometimes good men can begin again.
Which is why, roughly nine weeks after John Rambo's funeral in Pumpkin Hollow, among the new faces on the ferry, there is a gift.
A man, slightly younger that some remember--one who had, until moments before, been asleep in a cave with roughly tended wounds, hunger gnawing in his belly, and not a friend in the world to call his own as his personal demons came back to assault him.
And as John Rambo steps off the ferry again, for the first time, he wonders precisely what the hell kind of life he could have ever made for himself in a place like this.
The night that John Rambo died, Sam had heard. He hadn't believed it to be permanent, any more than any of the rest of them had. The body stayed, though.
The body stayed.
What did that mean? What did it mean, now that death could come down on this little island? Would he be the only one who could come back from the ocean's embrace? The only one that could feasibly come back to his child, even if the community as a whole were decimated?
Sam had knelt at John's graveside, cursing his damn fool sacrifice and the lack of real resolution.
He was angry.
He was hurt.
He was sorry.
Sorry for what? For establishing boundaries and having them betrayed?
For leading on the only person that looked at him and didn't see someone that could do something for him.
Sam grieved.
Then he tried to move on.
The day the Ferry comes with a small group of new faces, Sam is out there, picking up an order from one of the fishers' places to take back into town proper. He glances over them, but otherwise doesn't offer much by way of greeting if they look his way.
At least, until he sees the haggard face of a man who, last he'd seen, had given up on him. On them.
Sam seethes privately, then slings his pack on straight. The weight of the chain and stone bead bracelet feel monumentally heavy in this moment.
"Where the fuck you been, John Rambo?" he calls, gruff and irritable, covering the rising grief the only way he can think to.
John turns sharply at the sound of his name, visibly blanching. It's...it sounds wrong. Too much like the deputies shouting at him at the station, too much like Trautman on the radio calling out to him from the past before he woke up in that room. The voice calls out like it knows him the way his buddies did...or rather, the way Danforth did after John had fucked around when the poor bastard slept off a recent bender and woke up with Sharpie on his forehead again.
Pissed...but known.
Still covered in grime and dried blood under his simple linen clothing, given to all newcomers, he shakes off the flash of fear and looks at the man the voice belongs to. He's sturdy looking, seen some shit (handsome, don't think about that, you're broken enough without being a freak to boot), and...there's something behind that scowl he's not sure he wants to name.
John walks over to the man, meeting his gaze, quiet and lacking any sort of recognition.
"...Washington." he replies--too quiet, too short, steady but with a too-wide look around his eyes that smacks of frightened animal, ready to bolt or lash out at the first sign of a threat.
Sam's eyes, perpetually narrowed while out in the daylight, search John's face. It's blank in a frightening way.
John Rambo has forgotten him. Or maybe it's more accurate to say that this version of him has never met him at all.
There's a nervousness to the man that Sam has never really seen before. A deer-in-the-headlights sort of terror that is throwing Sam off. He knows he needs to take a step back.
"Not Vietnam?" He asks gruffly as he shrugs his pack more comfortably into place. He looks back at John a moment, then nods back toward the village. Come on, I'm not waiting for you all day. "Been a long time since I lived out in DC, personally."
John gets the message—and he’s aware of the scrutiny.
I promise, you’re gonna talk to me, soldier.
This man’s low voice reminds him of Galt, but real. Gruff, terse, none of that down home drawl and mock friendliness meant to disarm and deceive. He seems to have a perpetual squint, but his eyes are wide open.
John hesitates just long enough for a breath before following.
“…Washington state.”
The admission comes once he’s fallen into step alongside Sam with relative ease.
“I was—I was in Hope, Washington.”
How much do you know? he wonders in silence. Do you hate me because you know? Are we friends? Are you taking me to friends?
John isn’t even sure he should ask the man’s name or not. Maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe he does…John knows this is messed up, and he knows there’s so much he doesn’t know.
Strangely, it makes him feel more sure of himself. Keeping quiet, paying attention…let people assume, underestimate him, and then…
John doesn’t let himself finish the thought. Not with dried blood still clinging to his skin. He looks down at his arm, still sporting fresh, rough stitches in a cut that had long since become a scar last time Sam had seen him.
“There, uh—you know where I can find a medic?” He asks softly—not hesitant or fearful, but openly cautious.
Any accent that Sam has is all his own, nothing affected about it. He doesn't speak in any way to make other people more comfortable. Hell, doesn't really say much of anything at all for people to notice that he has much of an accent in the first place.
"Ain't been out there in a while either," Sam notes distantly. He'd swung that way after the encounter in Edge Knot City, but hadn't been able to stay long; he'd been flooded with orders, dozens of new jobs for long-standing preppers on the network, and no real room to breathe. It was just him, and Lou.
Sam is quiet, thoughtful as he leads the way up the beach toward the cobbled street back into town. A small paper windmill swings from a loop on his pack where the dream catcher had once been.
The question has him looking back at John following him, expression barely changing. "Yeah, c'mon. I can do field medicine but you got a little more goin' on than I can help with."
But Hawkeye could. He'd just have to see if anyone's actually at the guy's clinic or if he's off playing footsie with the preacher that came with him.
The terse tone, the way he's sort of...dragged John along--for an instant, the younger deputy from Hope springs to John's mind. Kid with the red hair, not quite as "friendly" as the others, but far more genuine. More courteous, more understanding, didn't quite see John as a person but still treated him like one.
He can't quite relax, but he feels just slightly safer walking alongside the guy who gave away nothing with his expression. He follows, silent and obedient, as the guy changes direction and leads him towards...whatever passes for medical care in this place, which looks like something out of the fucking Victorian Era. (Edwardian?)
John is about to ask when he spots the windmill on the man's bag, and instead--
Sam is bracing to explain the basics that the ferryman might not have, about this place being locked in the past thanks to magic being a thing holding tech back in places. He doesn't immediately respond to the question, figuring that he should mete out the information so that he doesn't overwhelm the guy with it all.
"Made it for her, actually. She's got a new one now so she decided this one's mine."
The little sideways tilt of a smile on his face is easy to miss. He's always soft talking about Lou, though. John would see that more often than not.
He leads the way toward Winterbottom's clinic and steps back to let John in before him.
"Here, you g'on. I gotta drop these off. You want me to come back for you or you gonna go to the Oak to stay?"
John catches the smile—and the story makes his chest ache, but in a good way. Man like that, carrying around a paper pinwheel his daughter forced on him? That’s a man who can be trusted. Maybe it’s ridiculous, but he can hang his hat on that—a man like Delmar Barry.
Delmar—God, he hasn’t even had a chance to fucking mourn.
Suddenly realizing how much he doesn’t want to be alone wars with the gut-check fear of making trouble again…
“I don’t wanna put you out,” John replies quietly with a shaky, sheepish smile, “especially if you gotta get home to your daughter. But uh—thank you. For helping…not used to that.”
"Wouldn't offer if it was a problem," Sam assures him easily, and shrugs his pack up straight as he steps back. "I'll be back. Let the doc patch you up n' then you figure out if you wanna eat or sleep first. Gonna go pick up Lou."
He doesn't necessarily want to leave John alone, looking as skittish and haunted as he does right now, but he doesn't want to give the guy the idea that he's somehow obligating Sam either. It's weird, having someone around that is so opposite his experience with people as a whole. It might have been refreshing, if not for the knowledge of the things that John has done and seen up to know. This version of the man might be younger and less hardened to it all, but that doesn't mean that he isn't the man that Sam knew and cared about.
His rounds are going to be distracted as he tries to figure out what he wants to do from here. The immediate urge is to put John in his spare room, but then again he knows he could find the previous location the man had lived and put him back there, at least for a little while. He'd have to ask what would be easier; the crowded space at the inn was probably not in John's best interest. Maybe a room at that brothel with the bath and soundproofing?
He's still turning over the ideas when he makes his way back to the clinic, his daughter slung across his chest and staring out at the world with wide, sparkling eyes. The moment she sees John, there will be zero hesitation as she reaches her hands out to him. Around her wrist, that beaded bracelet that matches the one that Sam wears, the matching set given to them by the version of John that he had mourned.
Why are you helping me? What’s your name? Who are we to each other?
Who are you?
The questions fill John to bursting, thorns scratching at his insides—this man who is so comfortably distant and too close for comfort. Everything that’s needed to soothe John’s rough edges, if not his confusion. This man who has plucked him up and claimed him the way his unit did, one look and certain they belonged to each other, certain they would die for each other. It’s in every quiet line.
It’s an echo of the rare moments that Vietnam was actually good—when he had friends, family, purpose—and he hates how badly he wants to cling to it.
He stays silent and just nods as the man leaves. Inside the doctor’s office, he’s greeted with more familiarity and with shock…and with more kindness than he’s seen in a long time besides his new ferryman friend.
He does learn things, too, as Hawkeye stitches him up: the ferryman’s name and who he was to John.
When he returns with a child, one who reaches for him—
John may have noticed Sam was attractive, but for Lou it’s love at first sight.
“You must be Lou.” He greets her with a soft, easy smile as he walks up and takes her small hands in his. He admires the bracelet, as his arm sports a fresh white bandage against tanned bicep and his temple a square of gauze where some hair was trimmed away for ease of treatment.
“I hear from Dr. Pierce you ‘n me and your pop are good friends.” He continues as his smile grows. “But I got smacked in the head pretty good so my memory’s fuzzy. Remind me, Dad here said I’m allowed to buy you all the toys and candy you want, right? Or am I remembering wrong?…”
It never really occurs to him to introduce himself to John; unless he was asked directly, he rarely ever actually introduces himself to anyone. They know him by reputation mostly, no matter the world he ends up in.
John is treated well, noninvasive where it can be helped, and when he's out, Sam is there to meet him. It's a good day overall. A wild contrast to the life that had brought him to this point.
Lou's hands pat on John's face when he gets close enough, tiny and warm. She makes some small nonsense sounds as he talks to her, hints of words in there as she's begun to learn how to talk. Sam chuckles quietly under his breath as he observes the interaction. His attention turns to the various bandages and the shaved patch of John's hair. Distantly he thinks that John might look good with a cleaner shave job to make his mess of curls a mohawk of sorts.
"Careful, you're gonna spoil her all over again," he quips.
"Not surprised I prolly spoiled her before--look at that face." John hums, deep voice nearly a purr, then melting into a chuckle as she pats his cheeks. She's so little, soft and cheery and...good. He almost wants to pull away, irrationally fearful of sullying her with the metaphorical blood on his hands...
But those little paws spark something, a bone deep ache he's gotten used to ignoring. It flared up bad, in the mine as he dreamed...
He looks up at Sam with an expression he might recognize, painful amounts of longing...
"Could--could I hold her?" he asks softly, hopefully. "I mean--I know, doc said in there, you 'n me were friends, and I guess I died here, so...if it's weird, I get it..."
"Even learned woodworking. Made her a couple of little things," Sam confirms, figuring he could at least show John the little bouncing dolphin toy that he'd once made for Lou.
The assertions of what the docs had told John finally makes Sam nod. "Yeah...yeah, somethin' like that," he confirms. "I ain't ever been real touchy though so sorry if it don't really feel like it." As he talks, he shrugs off part of Lou's harness to pull her up and out of it. He turns Lou around and carefully passes her over to John, though he keeps a hand on her to support her until he's sure that she's secure. He doesn't know if this version of the man has any real experience with such little kids, after all.
The moment Lou's head lands on John's shoulder, Sam nods his head off toward the cabin that, by now, has a chicken coop with a couple of hens courtesy of the now derelict Kaspbrak farm, including the one that had made a real nuisance of herself stealing all the nails on his old work site. There's a small garden, a sturdy fence, stone walkway, and a set of wind chimes that sway gently in the breeze coming down off the mountain. Sam's horse, stabled off to one side from the main yard, peacefully chews through the feed in the deep tray attached to the front of its little door.
This is a home that's well-loved, and well lived in.
"You don't gotta come in or anything, but I'm gonna clean up a little. Fuckin' stink," he announces, and leaves Lou in John's care without hesitation.
“No worries, man—little cagey ‘bout it myself, but you probably know that.” John replies as he takes Lou, steady if unsure. He’s got more or less zero experience with kids, but the way she promptly melts against him…it messes with him. In a good way.
“Been twenty, thirty years—can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been touched by someone that didn’t want me bleeding or dead.”
Idly rubbing Lou’s back, John doesn’t even think as he follows Sam. It feels natural, feels good. Sam’s a calm, steady presence, and Lou is a warm, gently squirming bundle of heat that can’t seem to cuddle close enough for her liking—making little noises, tucking her face into his neck, fingers clutching the collar of his simple linen shirt.
Sam is in the house before John can say a word, Lou still happily ensconced in his arms.
Friends is one thing…are they really so close that he doesn’t even think about letting John just—have her?
“…guess it’s just you and me, cuddle bug.”
John thinks about going in, but it’s a small house and…yeah, let the man have his privacy to clean up or whatever. He’ll just sit on the stoop, play with Lou…
…except when Sam emerges and checks, he will find John Rambo stretched across his porch: back against one post to sit up, legs blocking the path, and Lou curled against his midsection with his arms wrapped protectively around her.
Both of them fast asleep. Well, Lou is passed out, John is just dozing, breathing shifting the moment he hears a sound.
"You n' me both," Sam sighs, shaking his head and then quietly leading the way.
It doesn't take Sam long to return after leaving John there on the porch to get reacquainted with his daughter. His work clothes are swapped out for more casual clothes, a similar simple lace-front shirt and comfortable trousers. Without shoes, and the shirt lacking sleeves after they'd been long since removed, the multitude of stenciled handprints stand out on his skin. There aren't any new ones just now, and they all seem to have faded back just a little bit as he's been able to get regular sun exposure.
There's a long moment that he stands and quietly watches Lou snoozing there with one little hand curled around a fold of his shirt. He crouches down as John stirs.
"Hammock 'd probably be more comfortable," he points out with a soft quirk of a smile.
John opens his eyes to look over at Sam, and for a second that barely there smile on his face lodged in John’s throat. It’s so soft, so gentle, and it fits his face so well…
It makes John ache with a forbidden longing, that thing inside him that makes him wrong, wanting too much and wanting things that just aren’t allowed.
Does Sam know how fucked up he is? Would he let him near his daughter if he did?
His hand settles on Lou’s back without thinking as she snuffles and squirms against his chest, soothing her back to sleep. He’s drawn back to looking down at her sweet, slack little features as she settles again.
“Not real defensible, a hammock.” He replies softly. “Hard to cover your six…’sides, haven’t really worried about comfortable in years. Tend to sleep rough most of the time.”
The Sam that the old John knew wasn't quite as relaxed as this one had become. This Sam is more easygoing, more able to make himself heard and less wary of acting on his own behalf. More stable, less inclined to flinch away from other people trying to be close to him. Thank his neighbors and regulars for that.
He knows that look. He'd seen it so often on John's face before their last falling out. His last desperate, ill-conceived attempt to protect himself from the hurt that he'd spent his entire life running from keeping him from opening himself up to the possibility of just letting it happen again.
He would never stop regretting what he'd said. Just another shitty decision on top of the rest of those he'd made.
"Yeeeah, good thing ain't a lot out there that'll pull an assault on a man's homestead," he replies easily, reaching out to put a hand on top of Lou's head as she snuffles. "Don't I know it. Had a real hard time actually getting to where I am, able to actually sleep in a room with a window. Usually I'd just knock out wherever I stopped but...well. Ain't really a good way to raise a kid."
John nods with a soft sound of agreement, still staring into Lou's sleepy little face with a painfully tender expression.
"Man can never let his guard down." he replies softly. "Not even home is safe. Someone's always out there, itching to take it away from you. Gotta be ready to fight if you wanna hold onto it, and even then they won't let you keep it. To kill if you want to pretend you can have a moment's peace."
He says every word gently, with warmth and quiet conviction as he watches Lou sleep. His work and battle callused fingers are just as gentle as they smooth her hair off her forehead, pure adoration for the little girl in his arms. The words come not with any kind of pleasure or bloodlust, but with longing.
A certainty that this is how the world works, and a fervent, wistful wish that it didn't have to be this way.
"Learned that the hard way. Got reminded recently even harder." he explains, the hand not rubbing Lou's back drifting to the gauze at his temple. "Man died, doing the reminding."
"Even if you can't really kill for it, you can send a message. You don't gotta draw first blood but you should damn sure be able to end a scrap. Protect yourself n' what's important to you, nothin' else much out there that matters more."
Sam pushes himself back to his feet, observing Lou in her comfortable, peaceful napping, not wanting to wake her but wanting to be able to talk with John now that he'd had a chance to think in the easiest place for him to do so. "You want something to eat? We got one'a those forever soups going since the harvest's been pretty good lately."
He has so much that he needs to say to John. Things that he would push out of himself like trying to exorcise a demon all on his own. He doesn't want to run out the clock on the surge of bravery coming from seeing the man that he had once kissed in a distant dream.
John’s stomach tightens a little at the thought of food. By his reckoning, all he’s had in a couple days is a hunk of pork off a campfire and never got anywhere he could eat before that thanks to fucking Teasle. Just for a second, that tightness grows, thinking about asking…
…but he’s not, is he? Sam is offering. And Lou is sleepily trying to shove a thumb in her mouth without letting go of John’s shirt…
The tightness eases as John gets to his own feet, slow and meticulous and fairly graceful so as not to wake Lou.
“Sure, I can give it a shot.” He replies softly as he moves to follow Sam inside. “Ain’t had a full meal in a couple days thanks to the cops.”
He looks Sam over as he follows him inside, and for the first time notices the dim shape of handprints on his bare arms.
“Sunburn?” He asks, nodding to his arms. “Weird shape.”
"Yeah, heard about you getting chased all over some fuckin' woods by a bunch of assholes didn't know when the hell to leave a guy alone. Long as you're here though, I'm not letting anyone pull that kind of shit."
Sam takes a step back to give John room to stand, then heads inside and only briefly pauses to shake a hand-woven blanket out over a little play-pen for Lou, where various stuffed animals were arranged, including a well-loved stuffed rabbit with one threadbare ear where it had spent weeks in Lou's mouth. Inside the house it smells like wood fire, warm broth, and earthen herbs.
As Sam ladles a smallish portion into a bowl for John, he looks down at his forearm. "Long story," he grunts, then goes to fetch a spoon. "I got this condition, friend'a mine called it aphenphosmphobia, as a result'a DOOMs. It's this thing kinda like mesothelioma but it affects everything, not just the lungs. Makes it so if anything living or dead grabs me, it leaves this huge fuckin' welt."
He turns over the steaming bowl loaded with strips of fatty pork, cabbage, carrots, potato, with herbs floating in the broth. He huffs a small, quiet laugh at a thought:
"First time we met, you jumped me, put me in a chokehold. I had that welt on me for a while."
John’s visibly startled by that revelation, but doesn’t let it show until Lou is snuggled in her play pen. He even spots the rabbit and puts it beside her, his expression touched with a little bit of alarm as he follows after Sam.
He came after the guy, and he’s letting him near his daughter. He’s let John into his home, warm and earthy and smelling of herbs, taking him back to the hogans on the res when he was a kid. He’s feeding him, and he’s in this small house with him…
John accepts the bowl with great care, making sure his fingers don’t brush Sam’s hand as he watches him with a puzzled smile.
“Who are you, Sam?” He asks softly, a question heavy with warmth and amazement, very clearly rhetorical rather than lingering confusion over who he is to John—or who he is in general.
He’s a little left of center for a soldier, but soldier enough to be a comrade. He’s someone John can trust, can’t help but trust, trusted in a life he’s totally divorced from.
It’s not a matter of wanting to know who he is, or who he is to John—but how he somehow tricked this man into giving a shit about him.
The corner of Sam's mouth remains quirked up in that soft smile.
"You n' I were friends once," he replies quietly as he moves to fill up a bowl for himself so that they could both eat. "Or I guess by your reckoning, we would be eventually. I'unno man, time shit's weird and I'm the one that's had to deal with four different wars in a month span."
"Hey, 'friend' tells me a lot." John assures him, picking up his spoon and only hesitating a little before he takes a bite of stew. It's amazing, savory and flavorful and just the right side of too hot as it slides down his throat and into his belly.
It makes him feel...at home. Safer than he has in months.
"We, uh...we're still friends." John assures him softly after a second bite, no hesitation this time. "Maybe I got some catching up to do, but far as I'm concerned, yeah."
He pauses to glance over his shoulder, where Lou's shifted in her sleep and is cuddled up to her stuffed rabbit. Turning back to Sam, John takes another bite of stew with a lopsided smile.
"I mean, any friend of Lou's is a friend of mine. Gotta be."
While Sam would never claim to know what anyone needs if it weren't himself, he at least knows what tends to be comforting, and generally well-received, and a hot meal tended to hit that right on the mark.
The assurance that John wouldn't even question that they were friends, meant a lot to Sam. He lets himself relax, taking a seat on the floor in front of an armchair that was pushed close to the playpen. He has some nice worn-in furniture sure enough, but old habits die hard. He's fine being on the floor.
"Gonna have to get you reintroduced to Sally's kid, her n' Lou are two peas in a pod. Same age just about."
John follows after Sam, and doesn't even think about it as he settles on the floor beside him--facing Sam's side instead of the playpen, sitting cross legged, two to three inches between his body and Sam's. Comfortable, safe, in his personal space without touching.
"Sally?" he asks around another spoonful of stew. The good food helps, warms him from within, but he swears he can feel the heat of Sam's body as well. John's not used to being so close to anyone, but it feels...right. Just...
He honestly doesn't know if he's going crazy or if Sam runs that hot.
"'Nother friend?" he continues. "Or...girl...friend?..."
John takes another bite, draws a breath, and has to set his bowl down so he can shift back another inch. The proximity is so hot it burns, or maybe he's got other injuries he didn't realize, causing that raw scrape against his nerves or that miserable ache throbbing in his bones.
John settling down in front of him so close that their knees nearly touch makes his skin prickle as if arcs of static electricity jumped between them. He stayed where he was, though he stiffened reflexively, leftover instinct from long before coming to the Marrow Isle.
"Nah. Been a long time since I had anything like that," he replies absently, eating a little of his own serving, his mouth barely opening between bites. "Sally's just the apothecary, n' Gwen's the same age as Lou. Came to the village around the same time. Take turns watchin' the girls when work gets busy, make sure they don't get in too much trouble, see that they're makin' friends with the other kids, that kinda thing."
He takes a few more bites, looking over at Lou quietly napping there. He's quiet for a beat, then quietly whistles the lullaby that he always did when he saw she was close to falling asleep on him.
Noting how Sam goes stiff, John's glad his own strange discomfort has him backing up, feels better about it, and notes it for the future. Sam's a friend, but...he also likes him. He doesn't want to screw this up.
(He died. She said he died. He doesn't remember him. He already screwed up. This man's still here.)
He doesn't like the knot he becomes aware of when Sam explains, or the way it eases down low in his gut. He's made this mistake before, thank God Delmar was the kind of guy who could forgive him his fucking depravity, but Sam? John's not sure, still doesn't know if Sam's aware of what John's really like...
The silence they fall into as they eat is comfortable. When Sam starts whistling and Lou makes a few sleepy, content little noises while trying to cuddle her plush rabbit close enough to try and crawl inside of it, John can't help but smile. There's something that settles over the guy as he shares the melody to soothe his daughter, like being a dad slots something into place that was missing until that moment.
"Never heard that before." he admits, barely aware he's destroyed half his bowl of stew while wool gathering. "Just a tune, or does it have words?"
In contrast to John's turmoil, Sam is remarkably calm about all of this. The corner of his mouth lifts in a subtle smile when Lou responds to the sound of her favorite lullaby.
"Ain't ever heard it anywhere else," he replies thoughtfully. "It was somethin' my...I guess he was my dad, he sang it to me when I was still real little. She likes it, but I can't sing for shit. She likes the whistling, though. Harmonica, too."
"Harmonica...had a buddy who used one." John admits softly, thinking of Delmar by the fire during the war with a small, sad smile. He watches Lou again to soothe that ache, still raw and bleeding in his chest...
"He died."
It's the first time John has said it out loud to someone else--someone other. It leaves him feeling cold, that pit in his chest where Delmar Barry used to be.
He isn't wholly aware of taking another bite of his stew until the warmth is pooling in his middle, trying to fill that pit. It doesn't, it can't--but it helps.
Enough that, after a moment, he starts to hum the melody, deep and dark to contrast the high and bright sound of Sam's soft whistling.
Lou sighs in her sleep, then lifts her head just a little to yawn and blink at them, eyes still half-mast.
Sam nods, careful and gentle in the way he approaches the thought. John had mentioned the men he knew in the army, and those he'd gotten to know after. He knows how important those men are. For John to talk about them in such a way with him feels even more deeply personal now.
"Men die," he says quietly, staring in the direction of the fireplace without really seeing it. "Don't mean you can't feel about it, n' talk on it when the words come."
Another one of those hard-learned lessons.
The two of them don't quite harmonize well, but John picked up the melody fast, and when Lou stirs Sam smiles and reaches a hand to run over the top of her downy-soft hair.
"Think you'll be able to settle down out here again?" he asks quietly, looking back at John with his hand still on his daughter's head.
The small, simple remark brings with it a flood of gratitude so raw John has to resist the urge to reach up and touch his chest, check for blood for how rough it runs along the edge of that brand new wound. It hurts, but in a cleansing way. Alcohol burning that open flesh, killing infection, clearing away debris and shrapnel to make way for healing. It's a good sting, and it makes his eyes burn even as it softens his features immeasurably further.
The question tightens them again, but with thought.
Settle down. Out here.
"Doc said I ran this ranch in the farmlands. Last time." John admits quietly, shaking his head. "But I don't know a damn thing 'bout it, or the people there...but uh, out here? Maybe set myself up a camp or build something here in the woods? Maybe."
He'd been ready to ride out the manhunt in the woods in Washington, and truthfully it was different enough from 'Nam to matter. The cooler air, the smell of pine and the cool, damp smell of stone over the thick, moist living green of the jungle?
He looks around the cabin, then peers at a nearby window where pine branches are visible not far from the sill.
"...yeah." he murmurs, half to himself. "That--that could be good."
Sam watches him without staring, just keeping an eye out, spooning more of his soup into his mouth and mulling over the idea, then shrugging a shoulder at a thought.
"Plenty'a forest out there, bet you could set up a pretty good hunting spot out there. Lots of game if you wanna brush up on some trapping. Other folks took over your ranch when you left, n' I got your chickens. Co Bao's out there with her posse of hens and the cock that Kaspbrak had over with his before he headed out some time after."
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theydrewfirstblood) wrote2025-03-19 09:24 am
PUMPKIN HOLLOW REDUX
John opens his eyes--and he's not in the cave anymore. He's...somewhere else.
And there's an old woman. Sort of.
"Where am I?"
"...you died. Not as those who came before you, but the first true death we have seen in some time. This may be a blessing, a ray of hope to end this curse...but you once told me you serve me as much as my sister. That's why you're here. You served faithfully, and so--I had to try."
"I don't understand."
"You will...listen carefully..."
Once upon a time, there was a man--broken, flawed, and good. He loved, he lost, he despaired...and through it all, he served the goddess of Spring and of life with hands dripping with blood.
He came to a little town called Pumpkin Hollow to break a curse and save a world, alongside others...and in that pursuit, in the name of Serranai, he did something no one has been able to do in a year.
Something terrible happened, and he died. His body remained, his flesh went cold, his soul fled.
The how does not matter. The why was simple: to protect his new home. To stand against demons...to fight for those he loved. He fought, he died...and he did not come back.
That, however, is the thing about good men who do bad things. Sometimes, if the stars align, and the gods--or goddesses--are listening, they can get a second chance. When time is nebulous, and death can be a miracle, sometimes good men can begin again.
Which is why, roughly nine weeks after John Rambo's funeral in Pumpkin Hollow, among the new faces on the ferry, there is a gift.
A man, slightly younger that some remember--one who had, until moments before, been asleep in a cave with roughly tended wounds, hunger gnawing in his belly, and not a friend in the world to call his own as his personal demons came back to assault him.
And as John Rambo steps off the ferry again, for the first time, he wonders precisely what the hell kind of life he could have ever made for himself in a place like this.
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The body stayed.
What did that mean? What did it mean, now that death could come down on this little island? Would he be the only one who could come back from the ocean's embrace? The only one that could feasibly come back to his child, even if the community as a whole were decimated?
Sam had knelt at John's graveside, cursing his damn fool sacrifice and the lack of real resolution.
He was angry.
He was hurt.
He was sorry.
Sorry for what? For establishing boundaries and having them betrayed?
For leading on the only person that looked at him and didn't see someone that could do something for him.Sam grieved.
Then he tried to move on.
The day the Ferry comes with a small group of new faces, Sam is out there, picking up an order from one of the fishers' places to take back into town proper. He glances over them, but otherwise doesn't offer much by way of greeting if they look his way.
At least, until he sees the haggard face of a man who, last he'd seen, had given up on him.
On them.Sam seethes privately, then slings his pack on straight. The weight of the chain and stone bead bracelet feel monumentally heavy in this moment.
"Where the fuck you been, John Rambo?" he calls, gruff and irritable, covering the rising grief the only way he can think to.
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Pissed...but known.
Still covered in grime and dried blood under his simple linen clothing, given to all newcomers, he shakes off the flash of fear and looks at the man the voice belongs to. He's sturdy looking, seen some shit (handsome, don't think about that, you're broken enough without being a freak to boot), and...there's something behind that scowl he's not sure he wants to name.
John walks over to the man, meeting his gaze, quiet and lacking any sort of recognition.
"...Washington." he replies--too quiet, too short, steady but with a too-wide look around his eyes that smacks of frightened animal, ready to bolt or lash out at the first sign of a threat.
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John Rambo has forgotten him. Or maybe it's more accurate to say that this version of him has never met him at all.
There's a nervousness to the man that Sam has never really seen before. A deer-in-the-headlights sort of terror that is throwing Sam off. He knows he needs to take a step back.
"Not Vietnam?" He asks gruffly as he shrugs his pack more comfortably into place. He looks back at John a moment, then nods back toward the village. Come on, I'm not waiting for you all day. "Been a long time since I lived out in DC, personally."
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I promise, you’re gonna talk to me, soldier.
This man’s low voice reminds him of Galt, but real. Gruff, terse, none of that down home drawl and mock friendliness meant to disarm and deceive. He seems to have a perpetual squint, but his eyes are wide open.
John hesitates just long enough for a breath before following.
“…Washington state.”
The admission comes once he’s fallen into step alongside Sam with relative ease.
“I was—I was in Hope, Washington.”
How much do you know? he wonders in silence. Do you hate me because you know? Are we friends? Are you taking me to friends?
John isn’t even sure he should ask the man’s name or not. Maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe he does…John knows this is messed up, and he knows there’s so much he doesn’t know.
Strangely, it makes him feel more sure of himself. Keeping quiet, paying attention…let people assume, underestimate him, and then…
John doesn’t let himself finish the thought. Not with dried blood still clinging to his skin. He looks down at his arm, still sporting fresh, rough stitches in a cut that had long since become a scar last time Sam had seen him.
“There, uh—you know where I can find a medic?” He asks softly—not hesitant or fearful, but openly cautious.
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"Ain't been out there in a while either," Sam notes distantly. He'd swung that way after the encounter in Edge Knot City, but hadn't been able to stay long; he'd been flooded with orders, dozens of new jobs for long-standing preppers on the network, and no real room to breathe. It was just him, and Lou.
Sam is quiet, thoughtful as he leads the way up the beach toward the cobbled street back into town. A small paper windmill swings from a loop on his pack where the dream catcher had once been.
The question has him looking back at John following him, expression barely changing. "Yeah, c'mon. I can do field medicine but you got a little more goin' on than I can help with."
But Hawkeye could. He'd just have to see if anyone's actually at the guy's clinic or if he's off playing footsie with the preacher that came with him.
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The terse tone, the way he's sort of...dragged John along--for an instant, the younger deputy from Hope springs to John's mind. Kid with the red hair, not quite as "friendly" as the others, but far more genuine. More courteous, more understanding, didn't quite see John as a person but still treated him like one.
He can't quite relax, but he feels just slightly safer walking alongside the guy who gave away nothing with his expression. He follows, silent and obedient, as the guy changes direction and leads him towards...whatever passes for medical care in this place, which looks like something out of the fucking Victorian Era. (Edwardian?)
John is about to ask when he spots the windmill on the man's bag, and instead--
"...your kid make that?"
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"Made it for her, actually. She's got a new one now so she decided this one's mine."
The little sideways tilt of a smile on his face is easy to miss. He's always soft talking about Lou, though. John would see that more often than not.
He leads the way toward Winterbottom's clinic and steps back to let John in before him.
"Here, you g'on. I gotta drop these off. You want me to come back for you or you gonna go to the Oak to stay?"
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Delmar—God, he hasn’t even had a chance to fucking mourn.
Suddenly realizing how much he doesn’t want to be alone wars with the gut-check fear of making trouble again…
“I don’t wanna put you out,” John replies quietly with a shaky, sheepish smile, “especially if you gotta get home to your daughter. But uh—thank you. For helping…not used to that.”
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He doesn't necessarily want to leave John alone, looking as skittish and haunted as he does right now, but he doesn't want to give the guy the idea that he's somehow obligating Sam either. It's weird, having someone around that is so opposite his experience with people as a whole. It might have been refreshing, if not for the knowledge of the things that John has done and seen up to know. This version of the man might be younger and less hardened to it all, but that doesn't mean that he isn't the man that Sam knew and cared about.
His rounds are going to be distracted as he tries to figure out what he wants to do from here. The immediate urge is to put John in his spare room, but then again he knows he could find the previous location the man had lived and put him back there, at least for a little while. He'd have to ask what would be easier; the crowded space at the inn was probably not in John's best interest. Maybe a room at that brothel with the bath and soundproofing?
He's still turning over the ideas when he makes his way back to the clinic, his daughter slung across his chest and staring out at the world with wide, sparkling eyes. The moment she sees John, there will be zero hesitation as she reaches her hands out to him. Around her wrist, that beaded bracelet that matches the one that Sam wears, the matching set given to them by the version of John that he had mourned.
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Who are you?
The questions fill John to bursting, thorns scratching at his insides—this man who is so comfortably distant and too close for comfort. Everything that’s needed to soothe John’s rough edges, if not his confusion. This man who has plucked him up and claimed him the way his unit did, one look and certain they belonged to each other, certain they would die for each other. It’s in every quiet line.
It’s an echo of the rare moments that Vietnam was actually good—when he had friends, family, purpose—and he hates how badly he wants to cling to it.
He stays silent and just nods as the man leaves. Inside the doctor’s office, he’s greeted with more familiarity and with shock…and with more kindness than he’s seen in a long time besides his new ferryman friend.
He does learn things, too, as Hawkeye stitches him up: the ferryman’s name and who he was to John.
When he returns with a child, one who reaches for him—
John may have noticed Sam was attractive, but for Lou it’s love at first sight.
“You must be Lou.” He greets her with a soft, easy smile as he walks up and takes her small hands in his. He admires the bracelet, as his arm sports a fresh white bandage against tanned bicep and his temple a square of gauze where some hair was trimmed away for ease of treatment.
“I hear from Dr. Pierce you ‘n me and your pop are good friends.” He continues as his smile grows. “But I got smacked in the head pretty good so my memory’s fuzzy. Remind me, Dad here said I’m allowed to buy you all the toys and candy you want, right? Or am I remembering wrong?…”
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John is treated well, noninvasive where it can be helped, and when he's out, Sam is there to meet him. It's a good day overall. A wild contrast to the life that had brought him to this point.
Lou's hands pat on John's face when he gets close enough, tiny and warm. She makes some small nonsense sounds as he talks to her, hints of words in there as she's begun to learn how to talk. Sam chuckles quietly under his breath as he observes the interaction. His attention turns to the various bandages and the shaved patch of John's hair. Distantly he thinks that John might look good with a cleaner shave job to make his mess of curls a mohawk of sorts.
"Careful, you're gonna spoil her all over again," he quips.
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But those little paws spark something, a bone deep ache he's gotten used to ignoring. It flared up bad, in the mine as he dreamed...
He looks up at Sam with an expression he might recognize, painful amounts of longing...
"Could--could I hold her?" he asks softly, hopefully. "I mean--I know, doc said in there, you 'n me were friends, and I guess I died here, so...if it's weird, I get it..."
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The assertions of what the docs had told John finally makes Sam nod. "Yeah...yeah, somethin' like that," he confirms. "I ain't ever been real touchy though so sorry if it don't really feel like it." As he talks, he shrugs off part of Lou's harness to pull her up and out of it. He turns Lou around and carefully passes her over to John, though he keeps a hand on her to support her until he's sure that she's secure. He doesn't know if this version of the man has any real experience with such little kids, after all.
The moment Lou's head lands on John's shoulder, Sam nods his head off toward the cabin that, by now, has a chicken coop with a couple of hens courtesy of the now derelict Kaspbrak farm, including the one that had made a real nuisance of herself stealing all the nails on his old work site. There's a small garden, a sturdy fence, stone walkway, and a set of wind chimes that sway gently in the breeze coming down off the mountain. Sam's horse, stabled off to one side from the main yard, peacefully chews through the feed in the deep tray attached to the front of its little door.
This is a home that's well-loved, and well lived in.
"You don't gotta come in or anything, but I'm gonna clean up a little. Fuckin' stink," he announces, and leaves Lou in John's care without hesitation.
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“Been twenty, thirty years—can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been touched by someone that didn’t want me bleeding or dead.”
Idly rubbing Lou’s back, John doesn’t even think as he follows Sam. It feels natural, feels good. Sam’s a calm, steady presence, and Lou is a warm, gently squirming bundle of heat that can’t seem to cuddle close enough for her liking—making little noises, tucking her face into his neck, fingers clutching the collar of his simple linen shirt.
Sam is in the house before John can say a word, Lou still happily ensconced in his arms.
Friends is one thing…are they really so close that he doesn’t even think about letting John just—have her?
“…guess it’s just you and me, cuddle bug.”
John thinks about going in, but it’s a small house and…yeah, let the man have his privacy to clean up or whatever. He’ll just sit on the stoop, play with Lou…
…except when Sam emerges and checks, he will find John Rambo stretched across his porch: back against one post to sit up, legs blocking the path, and Lou curled against his midsection with his arms wrapped protectively around her.
Both of them fast asleep. Well, Lou is passed out, John is just dozing, breathing shifting the moment he hears a sound.
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It doesn't take Sam long to return after leaving John there on the porch to get reacquainted with his daughter. His work clothes are swapped out for more casual clothes, a similar simple lace-front shirt and comfortable trousers. Without shoes, and the shirt lacking sleeves after they'd been long since removed, the multitude of stenciled handprints stand out on his skin. There aren't any new ones just now, and they all seem to have faded back just a little bit as he's been able to get regular sun exposure.
There's a long moment that he stands and quietly watches Lou snoozing there with one little hand curled around a fold of his shirt. He crouches down as John stirs.
"Hammock 'd probably be more comfortable," he points out with a soft quirk of a smile.
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It makes John ache with a forbidden longing, that thing inside him that makes him wrong, wanting too much and wanting things that just aren’t allowed.
Does Sam know how fucked up he is? Would he let him near his daughter if he did?
His hand settles on Lou’s back without thinking as she snuffles and squirms against his chest, soothing her back to sleep. He’s drawn back to looking down at her sweet, slack little features as she settles again.
“Not real defensible, a hammock.” He replies softly. “Hard to cover your six…’sides, haven’t really worried about comfortable in years. Tend to sleep rough most of the time.”
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He knows that look. He'd seen it so often on John's face before their last falling out. His last desperate, ill-conceived attempt to protect himself from the hurt that he'd spent his entire life running from keeping him from opening himself up to the possibility of just letting it happen again.
He would never stop regretting what he'd said. Just another shitty decision on top of the rest of those he'd made.
"Yeeeah, good thing ain't a lot out there that'll pull an assault on a man's homestead," he replies easily, reaching out to put a hand on top of Lou's head as she snuffles. "Don't I know it. Had a real hard time actually getting to where I am, able to actually sleep in a room with a window. Usually I'd just knock out wherever I stopped but...well. Ain't really a good way to raise a kid."
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"Man can never let his guard down." he replies softly. "Not even home is safe. Someone's always out there, itching to take it away from you. Gotta be ready to fight if you wanna hold onto it, and even then they won't let you keep it. To kill if you want to pretend you can have a moment's peace."
He says every word gently, with warmth and quiet conviction as he watches Lou sleep. His work and battle callused fingers are just as gentle as they smooth her hair off her forehead, pure adoration for the little girl in his arms. The words come not with any kind of pleasure or bloodlust, but with longing.
A certainty that this is how the world works, and a fervent, wistful wish that it didn't have to be this way.
"Learned that the hard way. Got reminded recently even harder." he explains, the hand not rubbing Lou's back drifting to the gauze at his temple. "Man died, doing the reminding."
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Sam pushes himself back to his feet, observing Lou in her comfortable, peaceful napping, not wanting to wake her but wanting to be able to talk with John now that he'd had a chance to think in the easiest place for him to do so. "You want something to eat? We got one'a those forever soups going since the harvest's been pretty good lately."
He has so much that he needs to say to John. Things that he would push out of himself like trying to exorcise a demon all on his own. He doesn't want to run out the clock on the surge of bravery coming from seeing the man that he had once kissed in a distant dream.
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…but he’s not, is he? Sam is offering. And Lou is sleepily trying to shove a thumb in her mouth without letting go of John’s shirt…
The tightness eases as John gets to his own feet, slow and meticulous and fairly graceful so as not to wake Lou.
“Sure, I can give it a shot.” He replies softly as he moves to follow Sam inside. “Ain’t had a full meal in a couple days thanks to the cops.”
He looks Sam over as he follows him inside, and for the first time notices the dim shape of handprints on his bare arms.
“Sunburn?” He asks, nodding to his arms. “Weird shape.”
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Sam takes a step back to give John room to stand, then heads inside and only briefly pauses to shake a hand-woven blanket out over a little play-pen for Lou, where various stuffed animals were arranged, including a well-loved stuffed rabbit with one threadbare ear where it had spent weeks in Lou's mouth. Inside the house it smells like wood fire, warm broth, and earthen herbs.
As Sam ladles a smallish portion into a bowl for John, he looks down at his forearm. "Long story," he grunts, then goes to fetch a spoon. "I got this condition, friend'a mine called it aphenphosmphobia, as a result'a DOOMs. It's this thing kinda like mesothelioma but it affects everything, not just the lungs. Makes it so if anything living or dead grabs me, it leaves this huge fuckin' welt."
He turns over the steaming bowl loaded with strips of fatty pork, cabbage, carrots, potato, with herbs floating in the broth. He huffs a small, quiet laugh at a thought:
"First time we met, you jumped me, put me in a chokehold. I had that welt on me for a while."
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He came after the guy, and he’s letting him near his daughter. He’s let John into his home, warm and earthy and smelling of herbs, taking him back to the hogans on the res when he was a kid. He’s feeding him, and he’s in this small house with him…
John accepts the bowl with great care, making sure his fingers don’t brush Sam’s hand as he watches him with a puzzled smile.
“Who are you, Sam?” He asks softly, a question heavy with warmth and amazement, very clearly rhetorical rather than lingering confusion over who he is to John—or who he is in general.
He’s a little left of center for a soldier, but soldier enough to be a comrade. He’s someone John can trust, can’t help but trust, trusted in a life he’s totally divorced from.
It’s not a matter of wanting to know who he is, or who he is to John—but how he somehow tricked this man into giving a shit about him.
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"You n' I were friends once," he replies quietly as he moves to fill up a bowl for himself so that they could both eat. "Or I guess by your reckoning, we would be eventually. I'unno man, time shit's weird and I'm the one that's had to deal with four different wars in a month span."
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It makes him feel...at home. Safer than he has in months.
"We, uh...we're still friends." John assures him softly after a second bite, no hesitation this time. "Maybe I got some catching up to do, but far as I'm concerned, yeah."
He pauses to glance over his shoulder, where Lou's shifted in her sleep and is cuddled up to her stuffed rabbit. Turning back to Sam, John takes another bite of stew with a lopsided smile.
"I mean, any friend of Lou's is a friend of mine. Gotta be."
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The assurance that John wouldn't even question that they were friends, meant a lot to Sam. He lets himself relax, taking a seat on the floor in front of an armchair that was pushed close to the playpen. He has some nice worn-in furniture sure enough, but old habits die hard. He's fine being on the floor.
"Gonna have to get you reintroduced to Sally's kid, her n' Lou are two peas in a pod. Same age just about."
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"Sally?" he asks around another spoonful of stew. The good food helps, warms him from within, but he swears he can feel the heat of Sam's body as well. John's not used to being so close to anyone, but it feels...right. Just...
He honestly doesn't know if he's going crazy or if Sam runs that hot.
"'Nother friend?" he continues. "Or...girl...friend?..."
John takes another bite, draws a breath, and has to set his bowl down so he can shift back another inch. The proximity is so hot it burns, or maybe he's got other injuries he didn't realize, causing that raw scrape against his nerves or that miserable ache throbbing in his bones.
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"Nah. Been a long time since I had anything like that," he replies absently, eating a little of his own serving, his mouth barely opening between bites. "Sally's just the apothecary, n' Gwen's the same age as Lou. Came to the village around the same time. Take turns watchin' the girls when work gets busy, make sure they don't get in too much trouble, see that they're makin' friends with the other kids, that kinda thing."
He takes a few more bites, looking over at Lou quietly napping there. He's quiet for a beat, then quietly whistles the lullaby that he always did when he saw she was close to falling asleep on him.
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(He died. She said he died. He doesn't remember him. He already screwed up. This man's still here.)
He doesn't like the knot he becomes aware of when Sam explains, or the way it eases down low in his gut. He's made this mistake before, thank God Delmar was the kind of guy who could forgive him his fucking depravity, but Sam? John's not sure, still doesn't know if Sam's aware of what John's really like...
The silence they fall into as they eat is comfortable. When Sam starts whistling and Lou makes a few sleepy, content little noises while trying to cuddle her plush rabbit close enough to try and crawl inside of it, John can't help but smile. There's something that settles over the guy as he shares the melody to soothe his daughter, like being a dad slots something into place that was missing until that moment.
"Never heard that before." he admits, barely aware he's destroyed half his bowl of stew while wool gathering. "Just a tune, or does it have words?"
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"Ain't ever heard it anywhere else," he replies thoughtfully. "It was somethin' my...I guess he was my dad, he sang it to me when I was still real little. She likes it, but I can't sing for shit. She likes the whistling, though. Harmonica, too."
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"He died."
It's the first time John has said it out loud to someone else--someone other. It leaves him feeling cold, that pit in his chest where Delmar Barry used to be.
He isn't wholly aware of taking another bite of his stew until the warmth is pooling in his middle, trying to fill that pit. It doesn't, it can't--but it helps.
Enough that, after a moment, he starts to hum the melody, deep and dark to contrast the high and bright sound of Sam's soft whistling.
Lou sighs in her sleep, then lifts her head just a little to yawn and blink at them, eyes still half-mast.
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"Men die," he says quietly, staring in the direction of the fireplace without really seeing it. "Don't mean you can't feel about it, n' talk on it when the words come."
Another one of those hard-learned lessons.
The two of them don't quite harmonize well, but John picked up the melody fast, and when Lou stirs Sam smiles and reaches a hand to run over the top of her downy-soft hair.
"Think you'll be able to settle down out here again?" he asks quietly, looking back at John with his hand still on his daughter's head.
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The question tightens them again, but with thought.
Settle down. Out here.
"Doc said I ran this ranch in the farmlands. Last time." John admits quietly, shaking his head. "But I don't know a damn thing 'bout it, or the people there...but uh, out here? Maybe set myself up a camp or build something here in the woods? Maybe."
He'd been ready to ride out the manhunt in the woods in Washington, and truthfully it was different enough from 'Nam to matter. The cooler air, the smell of pine and the cool, damp smell of stone over the thick, moist living green of the jungle?
He looks around the cabin, then peers at a nearby window where pine branches are visible not far from the sill.
"...yeah." he murmurs, half to himself. "That--that could be good."
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"Plenty'a forest out there, bet you could set up a pretty good hunting spot out there. Lots of game if you wanna brush up on some trapping. Other folks took over your ranch when you left, n' I got your chickens. Co Bao's out there with her posse of hens and the cock that Kaspbrak had over with his before he headed out some time after."