'Sweet Vengeance' (Beckett Version)

[Alternate Text:. An image of molten gold that is resplendent with fine ripples within it. ‘Sweet Vengeance' acts as the title in a severe ebony font.]

Beckett's cute, little sneeze is followed by a dry cough that instantly redirects your focus to see the dust settling. It's not so much 'settling' as it is wheezing out of the bookshelf's crevices, creating a fine sprinkling of gray specks in the warm lamp light. He weakly bats it away since his other hand is latched onto an old book. It must have been shoved in the very back, one of the few remaining on the emptied shelf.

You're concerned enough to abandon your own organizing efforts at your grandfather's desk. "How bad is it on the creepy scale?" you wonder, handing over a bottle of water to him before he can ask for a drink. "You're holding it all weird, like it's bound in human flesh instead of leather. So, above a seven…?"

Beckett's sip stutters; he narrows his eyes at you for even daring to crack a scary joke right now.

Your smile turns falsely innocent when you indicate how he's grasping the book's spine with the very tips of his fingers, practically pinching it rather than completely allowing his palm to rest on it. It's actually impressive given its tome-like width. "Here," you offer, smoothly freeing his hand of the book to then replace it with your own. It's a familiar handhold, but the tension that's stiffened his fingers shouldn't be there. "I'm guessing I won't receive a rating?"

"You could never scare me, so negative infinity," he replies, lightly swinging your hands. "But that"—Beckett uses the water bottle to point at the newly relocated book, sloshing it around with the authority of holy water—"definitely does. Ghosts shouldn't be messed with. Ever."

"I'm sure they feel the same way," you quip, except he isn't going to give you a smile, not when you're at a dead man's cabin after dark. It wasn't supposed to take this long to sort your grandfather's library. You edge closer to the desk, feeling the slack between you and Beckett tighten up when he pulls back on your hand, a much firmer warning than what you're used to.

He won't be indulging your humor tonight.

Too much has happened…

"They usually don't feel the same way as us," Beckett disagrees. "I mean, based on most movies, they're always upset about something."

"Vengeful?"

"No, mostly upset," he insists. "Kind of cruel too. If we find an ouija board, I'm out…"

"Well, I guess I would be too." You raise your linked hands up into view to make a point before setting a less creepy book on top of the old one with a careless thud. The title had 'Spirit Tethering' in it, but you couldn't discern the rest, or at least peering at it now would be insensitive. Sofia and you can come out here later to check it out while Beckett is busy with Mrs. Dorran. "A positive is that we're almost done; plus, our pizza should be—"

The lights abruptly guttering out quite literally ruins your efforts to lighten the mood.

"It's a fuse," you automatically supply a reason as soon as Beckett's grip pressure increases even if your head snapped in the direction of the desk.

"I have my flashlight."

"You still carry it around?" you ask. "All the time?"

LED light fills the office; he directs the beam at the cluttered desk and then the windows that look out onto a pitch black night. It's a crescent moon tonight. "Of course," he exhales shortly, not quite an exasperated scoff but close to it. "I'm the 'best friend', so it fits. I need all the help I can get."

"We're not going there again, Bee."

Beckett says nothing more on this tense subject; however, the shadows created by the minimal light source only make it harder to read his expression when he glances away to the door. They dapple slightly. His weak frown seems to contain something more darkly melancholic, unless it was simply a trick of the lackluster light. You're taking it too seriously. "Let's just leave. We're not going to be stupid and try to fix it ourselves now, okay?"

"Thank God, okay," he echoes your remark.

The two of you cautiously navigate the eerie cabin, sticking close together and finding each creak a bit more sinister. Adding furniture to the rooms could help suggest some life in the space; it still feels paused in time, sadly waiting for a man who won't be returning home. It doesn't seem to have been a happy place to live since your departure from Fernweh, a solid fortress that slowly turned into a self-imposed prison.

"What about our pizza?"

"What?" you distractedly reply.

"As in paying for the pizza," Beckett quickly corrects himself, reluctantly stalling by the door. "We'll have to leave cash for the delivery person, to be fair. Not that it's, like, a massive priority over dying, but it still wouldn't be—"

You only momentarily let go of his hand to pull some bills, likely too many, from your wallet.

Beckett smiles weakly following your decisive action until a loud, metallic bang sounds.

The two of you remain frozen by the front door as the noise continues, echoing through the empty spaces of the cabin. Is it safer inside or outside…? It's hard to pinpoint where the sound is coming from as it continues in a jarring beat around the cabin. While crime waves are common in summer months, you doubt Fernweh will ever follow typical conventions. This doesn't feel like a home invasion or an attempt to steal copper wiring from an air conditioning unit. How could a book do this?

"We should run for the car," Beckett whispers. "That's pretty much always the right choice…"

"We're not in a horror movie!" you snap, equal parts frustrated and upset over this running comparison. He's right in some aspects, but the thought of those dumb tropes about who's killed off first being true isn't remotely funny at all. "You're so much more than my best friend."

. . .

Beckett appears completely stunned. You can both see and feel it from how the handhold slackens; now, you're the only one holding on. His flashlight beam wavers from the door, training on you so you're forced to squint slightly until he adjusts it, but those lost seconds of being unable to see his wide-eyed stare seem vital.

Did you miss something…?

Were his hazel eyes gleaming because of the LED light reflecting off the metal door or from tears pricking them at your sudden harsh tone?

"[Name]," he says your first name oh-so-softly. "I was being serious. I just want us safe is all…"

"I'm—I want that too. I didn't mean to—"

BANG! BANG! BANG!

"Later," you decide. "Later, but I'm sorry."

Beckett's reassuring squeeze to your hand is all you needed to finally open up the door, ready to get the hell out of the cabin. One foot makes it onto the front porch, while the other one never does. The wood turns slippery, almost greasy, so there's no traction as your leg slips out from under you, unable to support your weight when you were ready to jog away—to get the hell out.

Beckett is the only reason you end up in an awkward squat rather than flat on your back; he immediately tries to stabilize your fall.

An opened pizza box skids across the wooden planks, propelled by you slipping on the cheesy meal inside. You're still catching your breath from the mixture of fear and adrenaline, rising up from the ground when he suddenly lets go of your hand. Unexpected laughter cuts into the sound of your heart thudding in your ears; it's mean-spirited, a deep chuckle entirely at your expense.

"I fucking told you someone lives here now! It wasn't a prank order or some ghost. Shit."

"Shut"—he breathlessly laughs again—"up, Greg!"

Movement near your left side comes to an abrupt end when Beckett's light trains on a man followed by a hissing spray of frothing liquid. It is closer to a pressurized jet that's aimed at the guy who can't contain his laughter. You snap your head around to see that Beckett looks absolutely livid. The few tears in his eyes aren't your fault. He's angry; so angry, he's tearing up, and you know he dislikes this fact about himself.

"My eyes?! My tongue—oh—it burns!"

The man stumbles back, nearly off of the front porch, while he's frantically swiping at his face. A clang sounds from the large pizza pan he dropped to try and soothe the caustic burning; that’s what was making the noise, like how old films used sheet metal to produce rumbling thunder sound effects, a trick.

"He pepper sprayed you?!"

"Leave!" Beckett shouts over their combined whining. "We're calling the cops!"

The actual pizza delivery guy collects his friend who isn't in a uniform before he falls over. They  clumsily scramble back to their car in a mess of limbs including at least one trip during the rushed retreat. Beckett keeps the flashlight trained on them like it's a spotlight while his hand still raises the small canister of mace, index finger poised on the nozzle. He doesn't lower it even after the car rapidly speeds off from the cabin.

You're still trying to process what happened.

It wasn't the ghost book’s fault, just some mean people.

"…I was going to give them a 25 percent tip…"

Beckett mumbles that statement, voice coming out a little faintly despite how his grip on the mace canister must be near bruising. He steadily avoids eye contact when you shift to completely face him. A single tear slides down his cheek, but you grip his wrist before he can self-consciously wipe it away, unwilling to risk any chance of contamination with the pepper spray. There is tension in his arm; he still allows you to get closer despite looking down. "I know you were, because you're too sweet for this world, Bee."

His eyes flick up to meet yours, more molten than usual due to the moisture gathering in them, but it's then that you realize honey and melted gold can sometimes look similar in certain stages.

Beckett is upset, but he was also vengeful on your behalf.

You wrap him up in a hug that he instantly accepts, slotting into place within your arms while tucking his head closer to hide away until he gets a handle on his emotions.

It's just the two of you now; that is what's best.