Chapter Eleven

Hank

Now

“Goddamnit, will you calm down!” Hank had never had a drunk teenager under his roof, but if he had to take a wild guess, it would probably be somewhat like this. Exhausting.

“Let me go! Get the fuck off me!” The man, currently spewing expletives and struggling underneath him, was a lot stronger than he looked. This was the third time he’d woken up, the first two times out of his mind with fever, delirious, screaming, and attempting a jailbreak from the bedroom. This time definitely more alert and less feverish. And a whole lot stronger.

“Calm down, will ya?” Hank used all his weight, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible, but it wasn’t easy. He wasn’t exactly a spring chicken anymore and embarrassingly unfit even for his age. Sweat broke free across his forehead and pebbled at his temples.

“Let me go,” the stranger whimpered, his body starting to go slack underneath Hank, eyelids starting to droop with exertion.

“You’re alright. Okay? You’re alright,” Hank soothed to the best of his ability. “But we can’t have you runnin’ around stark naked in my front yard, can we now? That’s taking it a little too far even for these parts of the country, dontcha think? Mike won’t like that, will he now?” Hank almost chuckled at the image of Deputy Mike showing up, having to chase a naked man around in the snow. Yeah, that probably wasn’t a great idea, seeing as Mike was in even worse shape than him and sporting a prosthesis, too. The deputy—back in his teen years when he wasn’t a deputy—had gotten his leg caught in a bear trap up near the creek. Those were illegal, of course, but it must’ve been an old rusty one left behind from years back. They couldn’t save the leg, but it hadn’t kept Mike from going to the police academy and becoming a stellar state trooper.

The stranger finally slumped underneath him and Hank deemed it safe to ease off a little. Which, looking back, was a damn bad idea. Way too premature, since the stranger had felt a whole lot stronger this time around and a whole lot more alert, his words no longer coming out slurred.

As soon as Hank eased off and sat up on the edge of the bed, the guy, stark naked as he was, jumped out of the other side of the bed and grabbed the bedside lamp.

“You stay away from me, you fucking psycho,” he yelled, a wild, panicked look in his fiery brown eyes. “You get the fuck away from me.” He shook Grandma Mary’s ghastly pink blossomed lamp in front of him like a weapon, the frilly shade threatening to fall off any second.

“Calm down, will ya?” Hank tried to keep his voice somewhat neutral and serious, but it was just too hilarious, this young man in his birthday suit, swinging that horrid lamp from side to side like a crazy school patrol. “You ain’t fit to go anywhere like that,” Hank nodded at the guy’s flaccid dick, swinging from side to side between his lean, pale thighs. “In case you didn’t know, it’s freezin’ outside, and your clothes ain’t dry yet.”

Hank’s words seemed to have some sort of sobering effect on the stranger because he suddenly looked down at himself, taking in his naked form. Then he looked back up, and for just a split-second Hank thought he saw a glimmer of recognition and understanding in the stranger’s dark-brown eyes, but it was a little too premature to be hoping for a miracle. Especially when you hadn’t set foot in a church since the ripe old age of twenty-one. In near slow motion, the guy’s face grew rosy, then a light pink, to finally end in a deep scarlet. His brown eyes turned black and angry, his nostrils flaring ominously. With an animal-like growl, he leapt from the floor and jumped up onto the bed, his longish blond hair tumbling into his face.

“What the fuck have you done to my clothes, you fucking maniac?” He yelled, proceeding to swing the lamp at Hank like he was, in fact, a certified maniac. To avoid death-by-ghastly-heirloom , Hank stumbled back, bumping into the dresser, causing Walter’s collection of model airplanes to fall to the hardwood floor with a succession of crashes.

“I swear to God, you motherfucker,” the stranger howled. “If you touched me, I’m gonna fucking kill you.” The stranger’s broad chest rippled with panic, his eyes wild and unseeing, almost as if he was driven by pure unfiltered fear and instinct. Sighing, Hank dropped to his knees with a wince and started gathering the planes from the floor. Some had landed under the bed and his knees were already protesting over the hard surface. Attempting to bend and reach under the bed was not going to be doing his back any favors, either. Leaning up, he held his hands out in front of him in the universal calm down, I’m not dangerous gesture. Looking at the stranger, he tried to make his voice as low and unthreatening as possible.

“I did not touch you in any inappropriate way, okay? I helped you, actually. I could’ve left you to rot or freeze to death, but that’s obviously—and, I’m starting to think, unfortunately—not my nature. Alright? So, calm the hell down, will ya?” The stranger stood shaking on top of the crumbled sheets, his chest heaving with panic. If it weren’t for that foul mouth of his, he looked almost like a fallen angel who’d made an emergency crash landing on Hank’s guest bed.

“What… What’s that in your hand?” His voice trembled, his brown eyes squinting curiously at Hank’s right hand.

“Oh, this?” Hank opened his hand, inspecting the small plane. “It's just some old model airplane, I guess. Just some old piece of junk.” The guy seemed to deflate, anger slowly evaporating as he dropped to his knees on the bed, his face growing increasingly more interested as he finally let go of the lamp. What an odd picture he made, sitting all naked and handsome—because there was no doubt the stranger in Hank’s bed was very handsome. But mostly, he just looked lost, eyes fixated on the small plane as if it would somehow prevent him from spinning out of control again. Squinting even harder, he licked his chapped bottom lip.

“No, it’s not,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse from screaming. “It’s not junk.” He swallowed a couple of times. “It’s a Bristol Blenheim,” he whispered in awe, an excited glimmer replacing the confusion in his eyes.

“A what now?” Hank asked, brushing at his sweaty forehead, still panting from the excessive excitement during his usually quiet morning routine.

“A Bristol Blenheim,” the stranger repeated softly, his voice now entirely devoid of any kind of anger or aggression. “Can I see it?” He held out a shaking hand towards Hank. “I’ve never seen a model of one before. They’re pretty rare.”

“Uhm, sure.” Hank held out the plane and dropped it in the palm of the guy’s hand. “A Bristol Blen… a what?”

“A Bristol Blenheim.” Eagerness was painted all over the younger man’s face as he inspected the small plane. “It was a British light bomber,” he continued, speaking to no one in particular, it seemed. “It was built by the Bristol Aeroplane Company, hence the name.” Who the hell used the word hence anymore? A fallen angel with the mouth of a sailor and the vocabulary of an 18 th- century poet, apparently. “It was used regularly during the first two years of the Second World War by the RAF. It was designed by Frank Barnwell, a Scottish Captain and aeronautical engineer. He also designed the Bristol Fighter and the Bulldog…” He trailed off, twisting and turning the small plane in his hands, a mesmerized expression on his sweaty face.

“So, the Brits used it?” Hank had gotten strangely interested, the soft melodic voice of this remarkable stranger alluring now that he’d stopped throwing curse words at him.

“Yeah. Its virgin flight was in 1935 and it was used by the RAF during the war…” A faint blush swept across his cheeks. “I already said that, didn’t I?” He looked at Hank curiously, his brown eyes no longer wild and apprehensive. “Who are you?” he whispered, tilting his head to the side, his shaggy hair brushing against his naked shoulder.

“My name’s Hank. Hank Dietrich,” Hank held up a hand in warning. “And no, before you freak out again, you’ve not been catapulted back in time and taken as a German prisoner of war.” A weak smile tugged at the younger man’s mouth, then he nodded.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so. Am I still in Nebraska then?” he asked carefully.

“Yes, you are. Hayley’s Peak, to be exact.”

“Why… what happened to me?” he held up his right hand and inspected the gauze-covered skin. “Oh, yeah… I hurt my hand.”

“Yeah, I found you in my nephew’s shelter yesterday and I brought you here. You were… You were all cold and wet. That’s why I took off your clothes. I’m… I’m not some pervert, if that’s what you think,” Hank murmured, his gaze turning towards the guestroom window. “The weather ain’t exactly great for sleepin’ in shelters with a fever and an infected hand.”

“I… I’m sorry about before. I… I just…” The stranger spoke, and Hank turned towards him again. He looked frail somehow. Embarrassed. The cautious look in his eyes spoke to something—some protective part—deep inside Hank.

“Nah, you’re good. Don’t worry about it.” Hank shrugged. “Who knows how I’d react if I suddenly found myself stark naked in a stranger’s bed?” A quiet chuckle slipped from the younger man’s torn lips.

“Still… I must’ve looked like a crazy Hun coming at you like that…” He brushed the back of his uninjured hand against his sweaty forehead, the small plane still clasped securely in the palm.

“A Hun?” Hank asked.

“Yeah, you know. The nomadic warriors who terrorized Europe in the 4 th and 5 th century,” he replied as if he’d just mentioned some mundane, common knowledge.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t know about that.” Hank shrugged apologetically, suddenly feeling like exactly what he was. A middle-aged, uneducated nobody from rural America. Looking down at his rough hands, oil smears around his nails, cuticles torn from manual labor every day of his life, he asked, “So, what’s your name then? I assume it isn’t Hubert the Hun?”

Again, that breathy chuckle swept towards him, only this time, the smile reached all the way to the stranger’s eyes, setting them on fire.

“No,” he laughed, shaking his head, a wayward straw-blond lock spilling onto his forehead, covering the small pale scar. “It’s Finn.” Finn.

“As in Huckleberry?” Hank grinned.

“No, well, yeah, but no.” Finn chuckled. “I think from the mad behavior you’ve just witnessed, it’s more like the Irish Finn.” He blushed again and the pink spilled like watercolor down his neck and settled in the small hollow between his prominent collarbones. It was the weirdest conversation that Hank had had in ages, if ever. A naked encyclopedia of a man sitting in the middle of his guest bed, holding a model airplane in his hand, a look of subtle awe on his face like he was holding some rare gemstone.

“The Irish Finn?”

“Yes. It’s actually Fionn in Irish. Finn is the anglicized version. He was a…” Finn paused, biting his bottom lip, the blush increasing. “He was a mythical Irish warrior. Kinda like a folklore hero. A mythical creature.”

“Yeah, that seems more like it.” Hank laughed, too, now. “So… Finn the Hun, now that we’re properly introduced, let’s get you some clothes. It’s only strangers I allow to run around my house naked.”

“Oh, okay. Thank you, Hank. For… you know…” He looked at his naked groin, embarrassment pouring off him.

“Yeah, you’re alright.” Hank nodded. “Underwear is in the top drawer. T-shirts and pants in the third. Help yourself.” He nodded again at the dresser behind him.

“Okay. I’ll put the model planes back up on top. Sorry about that. Do you remember how they were?” A timid, apologetic smile tugged at Finn’s mouth, and it was just now that Hank realized that a small pale scar tore through his upper lip, too, aligning with the one through his eyebrow. As if some artist had swept a paintbrush along his face, just missing the pointed tip of his nose and the rounded chin. It had been hidden under a cluster of sporadic freckles, but he noticed it now as more mid-morning light spilled through the linen curtains.

“No worries,” he mumbled. “I’ll get you some water and some broth while you get dressed. You must be hungry.”

“Yeah, I am, I think. Thank you, Hank.” Finn rose from the bed as Hank headed for the door. “Oh, Hank?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you have a dog? I thought I heard one before.” There was a light eagerness to Finn’s voice, like when he’d spoken about the Bristol Blenheim.

“Well, I’m lookin’ after my nephew’s dog.”

“Yeah? What kinda dog?”

“It’s a black lab. His name’s Louis. He’s a brat with a pea-sized brain, but he’s a good enough boy, I guess,” Hank sighed.

“Can he…?” Finn hesitated. “Can I have him in here? With me?” There was a childlike tone in the younger man’s voice. An odd loneliness to his modest request that weirdly spoke to the loneliness inhabiting Hank’s own soul.

“Yeah, sure. He’s been dying to get in here, anyway, ever since I brought you home.” Finn smiled as he rose from the bed and stood in front of the old cherry wood dresser. The unblemished skin on his slender back was nearly as pale as the snow covering everything outside. Hank looked away, somehow feeling like he was trespassing, despite Finn being naked all along. It was different now that he knew his name. It felt… wrong somehow that he’d seen Finn naked and exposed like that.

“Was he… Was he in here at some point? Or maybe it was something I dreamed. Because I could’ve sworn that someone licked my face.” He remained facing the dresser as he pulled open the top drawer, the muscles of his broad shoulders flexing. “And I… I assume it wasn’t you, Hank.” Finn didn’t need to be facing him for Hank to tell that he was smiling. Teasing.

“No, it wasn’t me,” Hank replied. “I’m not one of those Huns, as you call ‘em.” Reaching for the door handle, he slowly opened the door and peeked out before opening it completely. He knew by now that Louis—no matter how braindead he appeared most of the time—had some quite spectacular ninja moves. It wouldn’t be the first time that he would come bouncing out of nowhere. He at least wanted to give Finn a chance to get dressed first. “I’ll be right back with your water. I’ll heat up the broth, too. It’s real good. It’s from our local diner. Chicken.” God, he was rambling now, wasn’t he? It was just that it’d been so long since he’d had someone to talk to. Since Colton moved out last year, he’d only had Eugene and now Louis to talk to when he was at home, and that eventually got weird, too, when you didn’t get a reply. Sure, he had Til and Vern and people around town, too, but it was a different kind of conversation that he longed for. The one you only had with someone who knew you thoroughly and intimately.

“That sounds awesome. Thank you, Hank.” Awesome. No one spoke like that around here. Awesome wasn’t a word you threw around in rural Nebraska. Stellar, yes. Grand, for sure. But not awesome. That sounded like one of those West Coast tourists who breezed through town in the summer. Awesome this and awesome that. If it had been Eugene, it would’ve been sick or dope. Yeah, even after all those years in Nebraska, you hadn’t been able to take that California boy out of Eugene.

“Oh, Hank?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you happen to know where my backpack is? I have my glasses in there and I’m really quite useless without them,” Finn squinted, and it was only just now that Hank realized that he’d been doing that a lot, Hank mistaking it for confusion.

“Yeah, sure. I put it in the mudroom. Where’re the glasses?”

“In the front pocket. Thank you, Hank.” Hank. It’d been a long while since someone had spoken his name with such comradery, almost. Of course, people around town called him by his name, but it sounded different in his own home, a sense of familiarity in the way Finn pronounced his name.

“No worries. I’ll be right back.”

Closing the door carefully behind him, he headed towards the kitchen. Starting the kettle, he looked out of the kitchen window at the snow falling steadily, covering every surface. It’s snowing, my love. It’s really coming down now. And there’s a stranger in our house. His name’s Finn and he sounds just like you. All educated and shit. He looks a bit like you, too. Not as pretty, of course. No one’s as pretty as you, my love. You’re still the prettiest boy I ever saw…