better man/worse than nicotine » arthur ketch

three: don't make me get my gun.

you shine in the dead of the night/and i was the first to fall

A week passes. Absolutely no word comes from Ketch.

            Apparently his "keep in touch" plan fell through. And I can't say that I'm complaining.

            I can practically feel myself walking a little taller around the bunker. The past week has been from hell – except the day Eileen visited. Other than that, when it's just been me and my brothers, I have done nothing but tiptoe around them.

            I don't know why, either. Same as with the "if you wanted to kill me, you would have already" argument, I really believe that if Ketch was going to rat me out to my brothers or the Men of Letters, he would have already. And I would already be facing consequences.

            But I'm not. And he's been silent.

            I remember being paranoid the first couple days, thinking they would somehow know he had been here. Thinking Sam might've accidently ventured into the wrong room and seen the wrinkled sheets from where Ketch slept. Thinking somehow, they could sense he had been there.

            But day in and day out, not a single mention of the British Men of Letters was made. Granted, since they returned from Site 94, they have tried keeping things from me. I made the mistake of opening up to them about how difficult those weeks were without them, and now I can tell they think they need to protect me.

            But it never works. I always ask questions and force answers out of them, so I'm not upset.

            It isn't long before they find another hunt, though. Sam finds this one. It's a mysterious case in Nebraska, one that he thinks is the doings of a hellhound.

            Goodbyes are said, and updates are promised, all while I remind them not to get on any government official's bad sides. Again.

            Half of me expects Ketch to come strolling in as soon as the Impala's tires leave the premises, but he doesn't.

            At least, not that quickly.

            Shortly after I've gotten halfway through a book I had picked up earlier when the boys left, I hear the bunker door open and footsteps sound down the spiral stairs. I smirk, shaking my head when I look up from the book, spotting a certain Arthur Ketch walking into the library.

            "Knocking is a thing of the past now, I see."

            "Yes, and apparently all you do is read."

            I go to glare at him, only to find he's smirking at me. Teasing. He's teasing me.

            "Well," he continues along, the smirk only becoming haughtier as the seconds pass, "I'm not an idiot, I come bearing booze."

            I raise my eyebrows. "Smart man."

            He walks over to the cabinet, reaching under and grabbing two glasses. "I'm in no shape to get my ass kicked tonight," he pauses, glancing at my leg, "and you don't appear to be in the shape to do so."

            I sigh. I'm the idiot, leaving my leg propped up on the chair next to me like this. If I wanted to keep all of my secrets from him, I'm certainly doing a piss-poor job.

            "Yeah."

            He takes the bottle out of the cylinder it comes in, and it's my first time realizing that he brought different whiskey this time. Not in a paper bag.