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“Fucking hell Jon—”
Heart in his throat, head still fog-heavy from sleep, body fighting the strong urge to fight and flee simultaneously…sleep-filled hazel eyes narrowed in on spindly fingers gripping at an acoustic guitar with skilled familiarity. “—athan?”
He’d simply stumbled into the kitchen with the groggy intent to brew a coffee, only to jump out of his skin the moment the fluorescent light blinked on and there appeared the source of the unsettling music that he hadn’t truly registered was echoing through the farmhouse. In his defense, he was never all there for the first hour of being awake. And it was an odd sight indeed witnessing his boss/partner/ex-psychiatrist leaning against the countertop and strumming at a guitar. A guitar, somehow, Remy had no idea even existed—let alone that Jonathan knew how to play it.
Even now, Dr Jonathan Crane—the man, the myth, the monster—could still be a total mystery.
Shrouded in gloom. Wild-haired. Wrapped in a burgundy dressing gown. Without his round-glasses shoved up his long nose, blue eyes stared intensely into Remy as if he was the one interrupting. Long fingers continued to pluck absentmindedly at taut strings.
“You’re not meant to be awake for another two hours,” Jonathan said, deadpan, after sweeping an assessing gaze over his befuddled freckled-features. “That’s usually when that bullhorn you call an alarm goes off.”
Remy blinked. Annoyance tugged at him. It was too early for heart attacks and mind games and snark. But, well, he supposed that was what he had signed up for.
“Uh, it’s New Year’s Eve?” He croaked, shrugging his shoulders. “I always wake up a few hours early to mentally prepare for the worst AFD of the year.”
Jonathan raised a copper brow. “Pardon?”
“It’s hospitality slang for ‘all-day flexi’ or, more commonly, ‘all fucking day’.” Feeling devious, Remy added in a scoff. “Makes sense you wouldn’t know, Mr PHD.”
To avoid Jonathan’s penetrating gaze and flared nostrils, he simply continued his task of making himself a coffee. To do so he had to swerve around Jonathan’s long-limbed body as the older man, as usual, simply refused to move from his static posture. As he did, he snuck a glance as the kettle steadily broiled. Remy noticed the heavy shadows circling his permanently bloodshot eyes. Unsurprisingly, he must have stayed up all night working.
“Sooo, what’s with the guitar?”
“It helps when I’m brainstorming.”
“Ahh, I get it. It’s like chewing gum while studying, right?”
Jonathan let out a short hum. Not exactly a sharp dismissal but also not an invitation to disturb him further. However, the longer the silence between them dragged—not a true silence, what with the kettle whistling and the old floorboards with their incessant creaking—the more Remy’s ears perked up and, after a few extra seconds of foreboding string-plucking, he realised he recognised the panic-inducing tune.
“Wait—that’s from that movie you like. Halloween, right?”
A fond smile tugged at the corner of Jonathan’s lips, reluctant but not hidden. “It is.”
“Creepy and yet nostalgic. Hm, suits you.”