Chapter Text
Montana
September 2004
Casey once told Zeke that in his imaginings and hallucinations and waking escapes, back in That Place, he had envisioned an ending where he walked off hand-in-hand with Delilah, while Zeke got to be the new star of the football team, and date Miss Burke.
“You made me a jock?” Zeke asked in great amusement. He let the bit about Miss Burke slide.
“Well, I couldn’t just let you go back to selling scat and porn out of the trunk of your car,” Casey answered, part in jest and part in defense.
“Yeah, but couldn’t I have cashed in on my sudden fame and parlayed it into a career as an ill-behaved rock star?” Zeke shot back, grinning.
“Zeke, you have no musical talent.” Casey sounded both exasperated and fond.
“Neither do rock stars,” Zeke said easily, and Casey laughed.
_____
“It’s going to start soon, isn’t it?” Casey asked Stokely one day. “The invasion or colonization or whatever we’re supposed to call it. It’s almost here, isn’t it?”
"No," Stokely said, startled. She leaned forward in her chair. "Casey, no. Don't you understand? It's already started, it's already happened, it's happening now. We aren't trying to stop them from taking over -- we're trying to take it back. We're trying to keep them from having everything."
"But, but, then was," Casey stumbled over the words, shock on his face. "Then was Herrington just the beginning?"
"Oh, Casey." Stokely's face seemed almost tender to Zeke. "Herrington was so far from the beginning. Herrington's nothing more than a footnote.”
Footnotes, Zeke thought. That’s what we are. Scribbles in the margins.
And for the first time, he wanted something more than to be forgotten.
_____
At the end of August, Dr. Stanley went back to Illinois. The psychiatrist was always circumvent when talking to Zeke regarding Casey’s health, but Zeke took his departure to mean that despite the nail-chewing and insomnia, the bouts of depression, the occasional surges of anger, Casey was as well as he was going to be.
“There’s someone else here for me to see,” Casey said absently when Zeke asked about it. “And I can call Dr. Stanley.”
He didn’t seem inclined to say more, so Zeke didn’t ask more.
_____
It always came back to the three of them, Zeke realized, he and Casey and Stokely. Sometimes he thought they were stuck forever in that trashed locker room.
But he never could quite forget, no matter how hard he tried, that before that, before it was over, Stokely had turned on them.
It wasn’t her, he reminded himself. It was never her. But then, he’d stopped trusting even himself a long time ago.
_____
One of the envelopes said “Zeke” and the other said “Casey.” Flipping his open, Zeke found a new self, complete and ready made.
“You’re sending us away?” Casey asked, looking at the contents of his own envelope. His voice was raw and painful in Zeke’s ears.
“Your call,” Stokely said, quietly. It was early afternoon, and the local diner was empty save the three of them, but none of them really spoke freely anymore. “Stay or go. The keys are in the car; there’s cash in the envelopes. You can come back to the ranch, or you can . . . go.”
“Just like that?” Zeke said, and Stokely nodded.
“Just like that,” she said, and met his eyes. She looked down a moment later, suddenly awkward. “I’m leaving,” she said.
“Leaving?” Casey asked. “To go where?” and Stokely shook her head.
“I can’t,” she said, and Zeke could hear how difficult it was for her to get those words out. “If you come back, if you’re with us . . .” She trailed off.
Casey was clutching his envelope with white-knuckled fingers, but his eyes were fixed on Stokely’s face. “Stokes,” he said painfully, and she leaned over suddenly and grabbed him in a fierce embrace.
She let go just as abruptly a moment later, and lurched to her feet. For a second, Zeke thought she was going to say something more, but instead she just pressed her lips together, and left.
He wondered if she had been going to plead with them to stay, or to go.
Casey’s eyes followed Stokely through the windows, down the street, until she turned the corner. When he looked back at Zeke, his eyes were huge and sad.
“What do you want to do, Zeke?” he asked.
Zeke shook his head. “Your call,” he said. “Just say the word.”
Casey looked out the window again, toward the corner Stokely had disappeared around. “No,” he said. “It’s not my call. You came to get me. You didn’t have to have this life. If you want to walk away, I’ll understand. I’ll come with you. I promised, Zeke.”
Zeke let out his breath in a short, harsh laugh. He looked at his envelope, and let his fingertips brush over it. He thought about years on the run, of dealing drugs and stealing and lying and fighting to keep them alive. He thought about Casey, rocking with his skinny arms around his legs and crying out for Zeke to help him. He thought about his hands around Casey's neck, how fragile the windpipe had been underneath them.
He didn't want to go back to that place, either.
"Zeke," Casey said, putting his hand on top of Zeke's, and Zeke made himself look up. Casey's eyes were clear and deep and unwavering. "Aliens are taking over the world. Weigh it."
Zeke looked away, out the window at the people going about their ordinary lives, getting groceries and washing the car and picking up the kids and stopping at the post office. They scurried about, buried in their own anxieties and responsibilities, blithely unaware of what was going on all around them, in the margins of their lives. He thought about going to school, and getting a job, and starting a family. He thought about living an ordinary life, where he could sleep at night and didn't know the proper way to kill an alien. He thought about Herrington and its pleasant, tree-lined streets, and packed Friday-night football games, and all the good, ordinary people who populated it.
Then he took a deep breath and turned his hand so he could curl his fingers around Casey's. He looked Casey in the eye when he spoke.
"Let's get the fuck out of here," he said.