The Orchard

Directly follows Protection

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Weir remembered the day he got married.

They handed him a document, and told him to sign it. The very same day he was given new quarters to share with his new wife. With the understanding that one of them could move out once they gave the Corps what they wanted.

His wife was another P12, a Psi Cop like him, though he’d never met her before.

Weir had never had anything particular against his wife. It’s just had they the choice, they never would have chosen one another of their own free will.

They didn’t really speak these days.

Weir, head rested on John’s chest as he slept–dreaming of a farm, except the horses were giant cats–wondered what it might be like to have a real wedding. With someone he loved.

A man sat down beside, and he had to do a double take.

“Will?”

“Hello, John.”

The black Psi Cop uniform was neat and pressed. His hair all in place. Clean shaven. Healthy. He looked good.

“How do I know–” Bradford paused considering how to phrase this, but came up with nothing better than “–How did I know you’re really you?”

You never know with Psi Corps.

Will laughed, looking down at his lap where his hands lay folded.

No other answer was forthcoming, but then Bradford had answered his own question, hadn’t he?

“I need your help.” Will lifted his gaze to look at the TV set high on the ceiling. The news was still trying to play catch up while also feeding their viewers the fresh reports coming in. There was so much information now that the war was over.

Enough that some things would slip through unnoticed, he was sure.

‘Trap!’ Psi Corps trap!’ Bradford’s mind screamed, loud enough to give Will a minute flinch.

“What do you need?” Bradford asked aloud. He wanted to take Will’s hands, but they were in public.

He focused on the thought, imagined doing it.

Will’s fingers curled.

Ms. Elena Dragunova was the greatest hunter on the east coast. Some might say, the greatest hunter currently living in the United States.

Hunting animals had lost its charm five years ago, which gave her a loss over what to do next. Being introduced to Konstantin Volikov at a party in New York had turned into a blessing. He introduced her to a world where the game was always far larger and sometimes infinitely more intelligent.

The Reaper Moon Lodge has its…quirks, but the people of Arkham tolerated them for all they did to keep the nastiest of monsters away. Cultists and Eldritch things had come to learn to be wary of the Lodge’s grounds. People knew where to run if set upon.

Few abominations were daring enough to step foot on their lands.

‘Will Weir’ proved to be the exception. Always accompanied by that Investigator it managed to charm. Or mind control, if you believed Volk’s accusations.

Weir was mute. Either out of choice or a continuing inability to understand the body it inhabited, Dragunova did not know.

It certainly understood language when spoken too, but its understanding of social norms remained spotty at best. Proving time and time again this creature did not belong among them.

Though, admittedly, she had a time holding back her laughter when Weir picked up one of their hound’s balls and threw it across the dining room. Pointing after the the thrown ball. Its look expectant.

Volk’s face went white with rage.

If Mr. Bradford hadn’t rushed in to see what all the yelling was about, there might have been a very dead alien bloodying up the carpet. He dragged off his partner who was still unperturbed by the fact Volk had reached for his knife.

Weir waved goodbye at them as Mr. Bradford dragged him out the door.

Will, he’d come to realize, thought of everything non-human as a type of dog…and Bradford wasn’t all that certain he didn’t see some humans as loveable dogs. Like Mr. Volikov who owned the Reaper Moon Lodge. The man disliked Will with a passion, but Will regarded the constant derision like you would a particularly loud canine.

This wasn’t true of all humans. Lily and her father were fully fledged individuals beings in Will’s eyes. As was that Dr. Tygan, and a number of others. Not all of them were people Will liked. Dr. Goodchild at the Asylum, for example.

Bradford couldn’t figure out a rhyme or reason behind it. He suspected it was a cultural thing unique to extradimensional non-corporeal entities. A stark reminder Will didn’t see the world like he did.

All this in mind was the reason Bradford was unsurprised when Will’s first instinct upon seeing a night-gaunt was to try and teach it how to fetch.

Will and the new puppy were inseparable from the moment he saw it.

Bradford leaned his hip against the couch, looking down at the dozing pair. Before it was a struggle for Will to get dressed, but now Currer (the name after some author’s pseudonym) got Weir out the door early every morning. The exercise did Will a world of good.

Bradford usually stayed behind. Will was hungry when he returned. Bradford wanted to capitalize on it while it lasted.

“It was like this with Jane too,” Will had told him while playing tug-o-war with Currer. “Caring for her was the only reason I got out of bed in the morning when I first got her. After the incident in Afghanistan.”

But Will had more reasons now, he told him.

“He’s just more insistent I get my ass dressed than you are.”

And he really was. Currer had Will up at the crack of dawn each morning. Not that Will was still asleep at that point, but he’d be content to lay in bed until noon.

Bradford leaned down and gently brushed hair away from Will’s forehead.

He opened his eyes.

“I fell asleep?” Will blinked, groggy.

“Currer had you out there chasing rabbits for hours. You deserved a power nap,” Bradford said.

“Mm, cats. He wanted to play with the cats.” Will sat up, disturbing Currer. He scratched behind his ears to settle him. “But they didn’t want to play with him.”

He looked at the clock. 

“I need to work on the shed.” Will looked down at the puppy. “Okay, boy, break time’s over.”

The dog whined as Will tried to shift him off.

Will stopped.

“Help?”

Bradford scooped Currer, up, getting another distressed noise.

“I know, I know. I’m a poor substitute,” he said.

“You’re a wonderful man, he’ll see that soon.” Will leaned over the couch, kissing his cheek.

“I’m not the one who sneaks him food under the table.” Bradford set a wiggling Currer back on the couch.

“You have no proof!” Will called over his shoulder.

Currer jumped down to follow on Will’s heels.