#he's so sentimental EUGHGGHAGHa tearing fabric with my teeth

[whereisyourstar]

So Should I?

Part 5 of the Stand By, Hold Back, Be Patient series

Part 4

Rating: SFW

Word Count: 7.6k

Warnings: Minor descriptions of harm to an animal, mentions of blood, mentions of animal abandonment, reader will never have savings again, is it really baby trapping if the baby is a dog and Jason loves it

The day is completely perfect. There's a light, faintly floral breeze carried from somewhere with wildflowers, and the sun just at the beginning of its descent is ever-so-slightly shaded by fluffy clouds. You're sat on the steps of the porch, soaking it all in while ostensibly reading a book. The pressure is on to finish it, the W.F. Muriel library back in town will be wanting it back in just a few days, but you're having a hard time keeping your eyes open at all right now, let alone on a page. The day is just so nice, and the air is cool on your neck, and it's so easy to just lean your head against the screen door and doze.

Heracles snores from somewhere behind you in the enclosed porch, and you smile. It's a lazy day, no walks planned for either of you, and you think that you both deserve this opportunity to do nothing but exist for a while. There's a comfort deep down in your bones being here right now—thanks, no doubt, to the fact your adrenaline hasn't had a reason to spike for days.

To that point, it's been two weeks since you last saw Jason. No visits, no chance encounters in the woods, not even a glimpse when you rumble to and from town in your truck. He's just…not in the area. Which, honestly, is a good thing. You've reminded yourself nearly every day of these last two weeks that it's actually a very, very good thing when a murderer isn't hanging around. You're relieved…kind of. A part of you, louder than you'd like it to be, is a touch insulted. You know he hasn't been visiting for you, but he'd seemed genuinely interested when the two of you were talking in the forest. He asked your name. You did research for him. Was it something you said? Was pushing the croissant onto him some kind of woodsy faux pas that you're not aware of? (You figure the towel you wrapped the croissant in is out there tumbling around on the forest floor now, because it definitely hasn't made its way back yet. At the very least, you hope some of those cute, fat birds you see on walks are able to use it for nesting material.) You can't help but feel it's your fault he's not around, and that makes the absence worse. Like you came on too strong, somehow, and scared him off. God knows it's not your first time getting ghosted by a guy, but this one does sting more than most. Add it to your list of accomplishments: successfully infodumped on Jason Voorhees and ran him off.

It sucks the most for Heracles, obviously, so you've been doing your best to make up for Jason's absence in the meantime. The older couple that runs the only cafe in town that'll let you bring a dog inside has taken a quick shine to him, and you've had to turn a blind eye more than once when Mrs. Fletcher "accidentally" drops a slice of bacon on the floor for him. They're good people, and despite Mr. Fletcher's insistence that it's not right for someone to be living out in those dangerous woods alone, they're nice to talk to. You like them, and Heracles does too, but that doesn't stop him from whining sometimes when you're walking back to the house, his big head turning this way and that in search of the person he misses most.

This train of thought wrenches you out of your dozy, comfy mindspace, and you force yourself to return to the book with a bit more force. You're out here to enjoy yourself, not get caught up in wondering where some guy is. Granted, Jason is quite a bit more than some guy. Whatever else he is to you, he's not entirely human, and that by itself marks him out past just some guy status.

As if summoned by your brain finally getting reinvested in the story, something comes crashing through the trees that surround your house with a urgency that says he doesn't care at all about doing this quietly. You catch sight of the mask first, then the rest of his massive frame barreling forward, and you're on your feet in an instant. Because that is undoubtedly Jason Voorhees, and not for the first time, you think he's really here to kill you. One hand goes to the handle on the frame door at your back, and the other touches the shape of the hunting knife on your hip, hidden by your shirt. And it may actually be the death of you someday, because while every instinct is creaming at you to get inside, you wait. You're grimly interested in what could compel a man to move like this if not to murder you.

Heracles is bouncing off the walls of the enclosed porch, all high pitched yips and the thunderous sound of his paws hitting the floor as he dances. At least someone is happy to see him. After this long, you're more than a little wary.

Jason doesn't give you a chance to say anything, because as soon as he's stepped through the last of the trees, he's signing your name. His shoulders heave with how heavily he's panting, you can hear every breath clear as anything. He signs your name near-frantically, then beckons you with a universal come here movement. You can just make out the shine in his eye and its boring into you with an intensity that makes you feel his urgency.

He's not killing you yet, so you release the handle and take a singular step down. "What's this about? What's wrong?"

He shakes his head, clearly frustrated and more animated than you've ever seen him, and fumbles with his hands when he signs you, touches his chest, then points off in the direction he just came. Dog, he signs, then shakes his head when he haltingly spells out Heracles' name.

Connections lock into place. "There's a dog out there? Is it hurt?" Yes, he signs instantly. You feel your stomach drop. "Oh, shit, okay—do you think we can help it? Can you take me there?" Another yes, and he's trying to get you to come forward again, but you've already turned around to get a look at Heracles through the screen of the door. "Okay, okay, um—stay here, Heracles. Stay. We'll be back. Please stay." There's no way to latch the screen door from the outside, and Heracles is probably strong enough to push it off its hinges without a problem anyway, so you really, really need him to listen to you.

Bless his little doggy soul, because though he quivers with excitement, he sits down on the floor and does not move.

You're down the steps without a second glance, and you say as you go to Jason, "I'm not as fast as you, but I'll try to keep up. Let's go."

It's all the encouragement he needs. He's pushing back through the trees instantly, clearly not interested in wasting time. He doesn't run, not quite using that insane, coming-to-fuck-you-up speed he's capable of, but you're pushed to something close to a sprint to keep up with him. The mostly walks have been doing you good, clearly, because it takes several minutes of twisting between trees and narrowly avoiding roots before your lungs start to really burn. This terrain isn't great for running to begin with, both uneven and steadily inclining, but Jason's massive stride makes short work of it, so you do your best to not fall. You don't want him deciding you're not worth the effort to wait for and just leaving you here, not with your sense of direction so completely reliant on Heracles. Then you remember that even he was panting when he got to you and if you had the air to groan, you absolutely would.

There's a stitch in your side that's gone from uncomfortable to pure agony when Jason abruptly just stops, and it's all you can do to avoid crashing into him. You have half a mind to tell him off for not giving you a warning, while the other half thinks about how incredible it would be to just keel over and rest right here on the forest floor, but neither is an option when you hear the unmistakable whine of a dog in pain.

You're pushing ahead of him before you've anywhere near caught your breath and your heart breaks into a million frantic pieces. Jason was right, there is a dog here, and it is very badly hurt. The sharp smell of its blood settles in your stomach with a wave of nausea, just as its panting, wide-eyed look cranks your sympathy up to eleven. It's a smaller dog, less blocky in the shoulders than Heracles, with long fur that's all chocolate and off white where it's not stained with blood. It lays on its side, its breaths shallow and pained, and from this distance you can see exposed skin and ragged-looking punctures.

You take a step forward and the dog growls hard. It can't have the energy to get up and snap, not with that injury on its side, but its eyes are white around the edges while it tries to keep you, then Jason, in its sights. "Shhh," you hush, lowering yourself so you don't look as threatening, then motioning for Jason to do the same. In your peripheral, you see him hunch in on himself, the white of his mask trained forward on the dog. "Hey, it's okay, we're not gonna hurt you. Can I come closer?" The dog whines again, but it doesn't growl, so you take another step. Then another, and another, until you're right up on it and you can lower yourself down to your knees. "That's it, that's a good puppy. Please don't bite me, there's a good puppy."

The dog allows you to brush your fingers through its dirty, matted fur, and you carefully inspect the wounds. The punctures are still somewhat fresh and deep enough to make your stomach writhe, oozing blood when the dog tries to sit up. You glance where the dog is looking and see that Jason is right there, crouched down and staring. It whines, looking from you to him with a trembling lower jaw. God, you hope he didn't do this to the dog. This looks like a bite to your inexpert eyes, and you don't think Jason goes around biting things to death, but the worry is there. You haven't come anywhere close to forgetting the way he drew that machete back when Heracles rushed to protect you. Still, you have to work with what you've got, and you do not want to deal with a strange dog biting you because of him. "Shh, it's okay, puppy, he's here to help you." You reach further up and press your fingertips to the dog's head and oh, your heart aches when it leans into the touch, its tail swishing once across the forest floor. To Jason, just as softly, you say, "We're going to have to move it. Do you have—?" And you stop yourself short, because you realize that of course Jason wouldn't have a blanket, or a towel, or anything to wrap the dog up in. All he has is that same green work shirt, jacket discarded with the nice weather, and you can't make yourself ask that he take it off. So you take a half-second to ask the universe why me before you shake your head, mutter a "never mind", and remove your own thankfully oversized t-shirt.

You don't allow yourself to focus on the way the air feels on your skin, or to think too hard on the bra you chose to wear today, and you certainly don't linger on the heat creeping up your neck from where you can feel Jason's attention. All that matters is the dog.

It cries out when you wrap it up in your shirt, but you do it fast and give it hushed apologies the entire time. You gather it into your arms—so light—and stand, nearly knocking into Jason's shoulder from how close he was crouched next to you. "All right," you start, voice more unsteady than you'd like. You're having a hard time looking at him just now. "I think you need to carry it back to my place. It needs a vet, and it needs one fast, and between the two of us, you're less likely to drop it by accident going back." It's downhill, sure, but that terrain isn't about to play nice with your equilibrium to begin with, and certainly not with your arms occupied. Jason starts a little when you adjust the dog, but you're not really looking for an argument, so you just move in close and press the bundled up creature to his chest. Your face scrunches up reflexively when you smell him—old blood and sweat and sebum and whatever else is on him—but the important thing is that he cradles the dog in a hold very much like your own, and the dog doesn't lose its mind in the process. It gives one singular warning growl, then decides it isn't worth the energy.

Jason does run this time. He's sprinting through the forest at breakneck speed and you, shirtless and still winded, have to use every last bit of your energy reserves just to not lose sight of him. Goddamn but the world has been missing out on a track star, his stride is just devouring his self-set path.

The world is spinning slightly when the forest starts to look familiar again. Every breath is like a million needles in your lungs, and there doesn't seem to be enough of it, but you finish strong. Jason's waiting for you outside the porch, and Heracles is bounding around at his feet—so that stay command definitely has its limits—when you finally break through the last of the trees. Sweat pours down your face, you're overheated and gulping down breath, but there's still work to be done. No passing out on the job, much as you'd like to.

"J-just need to get my…keys. Be right back." And in saying it, you realize that you left your house, completely unlocked, with your keys still in it. What a fucking day.

You grab your keys, your water bottle—half full and heavily needed—and make a pit stop to your room for the first clean shirt your grab. The tank top is as good as anything, so you wriggle into it, pick up your stuff, and are back out the door before the spots have even started to clear from your eyes. Jason can't speak with his arms full of dog, so you ask him to help you bring it to your truck, and his nod works as good as anything. You jog to the awning side of the cabin and, with some back-and-forth between you and Jason, manage to get the dog situated safely on passenger seat of the truck. For your part, you've never regretted more not having a backseat—fuck but maybe you should have dropped that extra 500 for the smaller, quieter car with more than two places to sit—so you just clip the seatbelt and pull it as tightly as you dare around the dog.

Then it's just…doing the damn thing. You shut the door and look up at him. You haven't had a moment to really process the last what, hour of this day? And you still don't, but you look up at Jason, and you can tell he's stressed. There's enough tightness in his body language that it would be comical if the situation weren't so serious. You just hold his eyes as reassuringly as you can while still trying to catch your breath. "I'll call the vet on the way over and make sure they're ready for the dog, um—will you be here when I get back?" He's just staring at you, head bent at an awkward angle to fit under the awning, but he manages to nod and a bright spark of relief catches in your chest. No time to examine that reaction. "Good, thank you. Can you keep an eye on Heracles until then? I don't think he'll go back in the house if I'm not there and I think…well, I know he missed you. So." The finish is awkward, punctuated by a half-shrug, but the point is there. A final nod, and Jason glances at Heracles, who has been driving himself to distraction waiting for attention from the man, like he's noticed him for the first time.

Leaving your dog and your still unlocked house, holy shit, you can't believe you forgot again, with Jason shouldn't be the weight off your shoulders that it is, but it allows you to refocus entirely on the new dog. You know Heracles is safe with Jason, and the worst he'll do with your house, if he even realizes you left it unlocked, is maybe just let himself in? Touch your stuff a little? Which, honestly, is fine. Fair trade for being so good with Heracles.

The dog whines continually through the drive, which breaks your heart into even smaller pieces, but there's nothing you can do about it. The whining is a good sign, it means the dog is alive, but you're already swearing to get a first aid kit together if this vet visit doesn't completely decimate what's left of your last paycheck. As it is, you take the first red light in Crystal Lake proper to give the dog a drink from your bottle, and the pale pink tongue that comes sweeping out is barely encouraging. Blood has already started to saturate the shirt it's wrapped in.

You're left to wait when the dog is finally handed over to the vet. The receptionist up front must see how visibly upset you are just standing there, so she tries to coax the dog's history from you. When you say it must be a stray and that you found it in the woods, she heaves an incredibly long-suffering sigh. "Yeah, that's a popular spot to dump animals, unfortunately. People just take them to the walking trails around there and leave them. Poor little thing…it was lucky you came along when you did." Not a single question for what you were doing out there, which you're grateful for—you're a little too strung out to hear another warning about how dangerous those woods are right now—so the two of you commiserate over how much people suck for a while. When she's called away with work more important that you, you take a seat and are treated to a visit from the only other animal and owner duo in the front office. Wriggles the turtle is a delight who lives up to his namesake when you stroke your nails over his shell. His owner, a kid who can't be older than fifteen, is awkward and a little sullen, but you do your best to keep the conversation going since it seems like she really does want to talk. If you can get Jason Voorhees to talk to you—and you do not think about you may or may not have scared him off before today—then dealing with weird teens is nothing.

By the time the vet in charge of the dog's treatment is finally able to break away and talk to you, it's been just over two hours and your phone battery has died. She's a tired-looking woman, short and draped in robin blue scrubs, who wastes no time with pleasantries. "She's stable now, and we've gotten her stitched up as well as we're going to be able for the time being. Depending on how tonight goes, she should be able to go home before the week's out, and provided she doesn't do anything strenuous, we're looking down the barrel of a full recovery. Looks like whatever had a hold of her left before it could do any permanent damage. Now," and here she crosses her arms and gives you an appraising look, "I'm required to inform you that she is microchipped, and the owner's name pulls up as a Mr. Ernest Lennox. I'm assuming that's not you? Or a boyfriend?" You shake your head and she sighs. "All right, well, we'll be contacting Mr. Lennox as soon as we can to let him know we've got his dog. Maybe he's looking for her. I doubt it, but what I need from you is confirmation that, should Mr. Lennox not claim this dog, you intend to take full responsibility for her vet bills. I hate this part as much as anyone, but we've had too many injured dogs come in and not enough people taking responsibility for them, so I'll need your signature before we proceed."

"What happens if I don't sign? If her owner doesn't want her?"

The vet doesn't flinch when she says, "Euthanasia. Quick and painless."

And obviously you're not going to let this dog die after you nearly burst a lung trying to save her in the first place. Your throat tightens at the thought. So you just rub a hand over your suddenly very tired eyes and say, "Yeah, that's fine, I…kind of figured I was going to pay for this anyway. I'll sign, no problem."

The vet cracks a smile at that, something brief and relieved that lights up her whole face, and she grabs the paperwork herself. She gives you a rough estimate on the bill and when you grimace, rushes to explain the various payment plans available. But you do sign and try to look over the payment plans like a responsible adult should.

With a promise to call you tomorrow depending on Mr. Lennox's decision, there's nothing to do but drive back home and wait.

It's full dark when you pull up to the house, the headlights of the truck briefly bleaching everything yellow-white before you back under the awning and kill the engine. Your body is feeling the exertion of the day now, all your limbs shake like jelly as you try to compel them into getting out of the truck, and you're exhausted mentally as well. It takes everything you have not to crumple into a boneless pile the second your shoes hit the grass.

But Jason's there, just like he said he would be, coming around the back of the house with Heracles at his heels. You summon a smile for your dog, who breaks into a run just so he can more quickly jump all over you, and you use some unknown reserve of energy to bend down and kiss the middle of his big, happy head. You're leaning against your house for support when Jason makes his way over, shoulders tense while he signs dog yes?

"She's okay," you tell him by way of greeting. "They're keeping her at the vet for a while, there's…they're going to try to find her owner first. Make sure she's not missing. But the vet seems confident that she'll recover just fine. Apparently they see a lot of coyote attacks, and she's in better shape than most." A massive yawn interrupts you and you're not feeling entirely awake right now. "Mm, sorry, I'm more tired than I thought. Lots of running today. The vet's going to call me tomorrow with updates."

Even in the dark and your exhausted state, you don't miss the way the tension just leaves Jason's shoulders. "You were really worried about her, weren't you?" you ask, and Jason's immediate yes hits you in a very soft place. You smile. "I was too. Thanks for bringing me out to her, and for not abandoning me in the woods—I know I slowed you down. Would've really sucked to leave a half-naked corpse behind." You're tired enough to joke about it now, but both his hands both twitch at the exact same time on either side of him, and you breathe a laugh. He can't be more uncomfortable about that than you were—serves him right for not being magically prepared for any situation thanks to his ghostly powers. Or however it works. "But we saved a dog today, so, y'know, perspective. We did a good thing, go us." This is delirious enough that it actually wakes you up a bit, helps you remember exactly who you're talking to. You straighten and rub a hand over your face, suddenly nervous. "Mm, okay, that's my cue to get to bed. Uh—I'll see you tomorrow? To let you know how things go with her?"

There's no hesitance in his nod, which brings back that little relief spark, nice and warm in your chest. For the dog, obviously—it's nice that you won't have to hunt him down, or wait until the next crisis to give him a news update—but also for that part of you that's still nursing the insult of his absence. And you are entirely too tired to think about it. So you thank him again for watching Heracles and manage not to collapse long enough for Jason to get a final pet in, then you tell him good night. The entire thing is so normal, so completely mundane, that it just serves as a strange cap for this weird, exhausting day.

The call comes mid-morning the next day, informing you that, to no one's surprise, Ernest Lennox suddenly has no knowledge of having a dog and can't imagine how his name got attached to that microchip. The responsibility for her care transfers entirely to you, like you promised, but the new vet on the other side of the phone is diligent in reminding you that this does not mean you have to adopt her. But you know as well as anyone from your consistent scouring of the local animal shelter's page that they're struggling to adopt out pets at the same rate they acquire them and the word euthanasia keeps circling in your thoughts. Plus, there's a bond there now—you can't save an abandoned creature's life then not care for it.

So you tell the vet that you'll be happy to bring your dog home when she's fully cleared. Then you stand up, stretch, and prepare to tell Jason the news.

He's exactly where you left him an hour ago when you ran out to the truck to grab your water bottle and he popped out of the treeline, scaring the daylights out of you. Those two weeks where your adrenaline levels returned to more or less normal are certainly up now, but even as you explained you had work to do and that you'd come tell him as soon as you knew something, you couldn't bring yourself to be upset about it. Rather, while you walk up to him and watch him watching you, you can't help but feel…pleased. And a little bad that he's just been standing here while you half-heartedly worked inside. Does he ever get bored? Do his legs get tired? What's his daily schedule like if he can afford to just stand around for an hour waiting on you?

"So," you start once you're a normal talking distance from him, "good news first: puppy's okay and she's responding great to treatment. Mediocre news: her piece of shit owner abandoned her out here on purpose, so I'm taking care of the vet bill." Fascinating minute reactions from Jason to both pieces of news—any physical stress he loses when he learns the dog is okay is gained back tenfold when you say the word abandoned. You remember how he reacted when you told him about Heracles' former owner, how he's always very careful with that wildly wagging tail, and feel something click in your brain. The mass murderer that stalks Crystal Lake is very keenly attuned to the injustices of animals, it seems. You're not sure how those mental gymnastics work—how does someone kill people so mercilessly, yet draw the line at animals? Wherever that soft spot comes from, you're all too happy to use it. "Now, for the part I really need your opinion on. I want to bring her home, here, to…you know, live with me. And I've kind of already told the vet I'm adopting her, but since I live here on your say-so, I wanted to check: are you okay with another dog hanging around full time here?"

And oh it feels like a gamble, prodding around the edges of the agreement already, but you're sure you're reading him right. He just stares at you while you silently steel your resolve, trying not to give away how nervous you actually are asking this. Then he tilts his head, not like he's letting it loll to the side, but like it's something intentional—like he needs to see this, or you, from a new angle. His breathing is even, hands still, and eyes hidden by the mask, but you can feel yourself being inspected. The urge to cross your arms over your chest and back off is only barely squished down.

Yes, he signs. And, shocking you to the core, he adds: thank you.

Did you teach him that? You can't remember, and it doesn't even matter, because you are abruptly overjoyed. You beam at him, already running through a list of the million and one things you need to do before bringing another dog home. "Yes! That's so great, um—thanks!" He stares, and while that isn't necessarily weird for him, it does make you feel a little shy. You don't expect people thank him for anything—for good reason—and you've just been piling it on recently. Are you making it weird? Do you care if you're making it weird?

That should, realistically, be the end of the conversation. The news update is given, you've gotten something you wanted—this is usually the part where he leaves. But he doesn't. At first you think he's just waiting for his requisite Heracles time, so you let Heracles out and watch with a nice fluttery feeling in your chest when Jason thunks his hands over Heracles' ribs in what's become a customary greeting, but even when Heracles wanders his way back to you…there's this sense of lingering. You're not really operating on a timetable with how flexible your job is, and it seems he's not busy with murder, so you both stay. Right there in the small clearing around your house that makes up a yard, remarkably similar to the first time the two of you spoke, only now you're not feeling particularly scared. Damningly, you're not even feeling uneasy.

You end up perched on the hood of your truck, not willing to stand when the option to lean presents itself, and just talk. You sneak some questions based off observations in there—("So do you like all animals? Or is it just dogs." Dogs. "You're missing out on appreciating the chubby little birds around here with that mindset, but I get it. Wait, if you like dogs so much, were you actually going to kill Heracles that first night?" Yes-no. "Did you want to?" No. "Huh. Well I'm really glad you didn't." Yes.)—and find yourself getting far too comfortable smiling up at that blank face.

Which means that you do, actually, have to inform him that he hurt your feelings. Just a bit. In a roundabout way.

"I've been waiting to tell you the rest of that story, by the way," you remark after Heracles has gone in for another round of pets from Jason, who kneels to pay special attention to Heracles' ears. The way his mask snaps up to you makes your breath hitch. "The Golden Fleece one. It's not every day I talk to someone who cares who Chiron is. I don't know, maybe I just read you wrong, but it seemed like you were having a good time. Were…you…?" The last part comes out unintentionally, a case of your brain screeching to a halt and your mouth going along without it. You abruptly drop your eyes and opt to stare at your left hand, splayed over the faded paint of the truck. You hadn't meant to actually make it a question, thereby opening yourself up to having to explain.Time to change the topic. "I'm, um, going to have to think about a name for the new dog. Maybe Medea, she marries Jason in the myth, but that gets…complicated. And not Hera, that'll get complicated in real li—oh."

How did he do that? While you've been babbling and undoubtedly making a fool of yourself, Jason has silently closed the space between the two of you. You don't even realize he's moved until his shadow falls over you and his massive hands land on the hood of the truck behind you, a metallic thunk that makes you jump. In the span of however long you took your eyes off him, he has completely boxed you in.

All you can do is tilt your head back and meet the twin voids of his eyes. You scarcely dare to breathe. "…is this your way of telling me to shut up?"

Jason slowly moves his head side to side. No.

That's not exactly a relief. "Then I'm not…entirely sure what's happening right now." You're instinctually leaning away from him, but if you moved forward just a little, you could tap his chest with your forehead. He's eating up your personal space like he has a right to it. There's that sense of anything could happen that you've had with him before, but it's not entirely unpleasant this time. Your heart is racing, adrenaline spiking, and you can't entirely blame fear for it. How long has it been since you were this close to someone and it didn't send you into a blind panic?

He's clearly not interested in talking the usual way, so you have to cast your mind back—what did you say to make him react like this? Were you too familiar? Or is this a positive reaction? Can looming like this be positive?

Another gamble, and if this one pays off, you'll buy a lottery ticket. "You make me so nervous," you tell him, a little above a whisper. "I never know if I'm saying the right thing, or if you even care, so I—I just keep talking around you. Incessantly, like now, and like…a few weeks ago, in the forest. And I think I made you uncomfortable, or upset, or…something, because it took a crisis for you to come see me again. See Heracles, I mean, but also…yeah, I was hoping that I was part of the equation, too. Somehow." And you do finally allow yourself a full breath, and the scent of him—an olfactory assault, the rancid smell of old blood strong enough to make your stomach flip—actually makes it easier to speak. You haven't even been this honest with yourself, but here you are, spilling your guts to a blank mask. "I meant what I said, we did a good thing, and I'm glad you got me so I could help. Just—I need you to tell me if I should back off. I know I'm assuming a lot based on one agreement, and if you're really just tolerating me because I'm attached to Heracles and you couldn't care less about anything I say, then that's fine. I'll stay out of your way when you want to see Heracles, or the new dog, and I'll mind my business. So…should I?"

Your heart is beating out of your chest. Asking him this while he basically has you pinned to the hood of the truck is scattering your senses too fast and widespread to catch them, but you know one thing. You are much, much less scared than you should be.

Jason makes you wait for it. His breathing is getting erratic again, like he can't pull enough air into his lungs, and you find yourself staring at the place his mouth should be. And asking yourself, for the very first time, if you would like to know what is underneath that mask.

Then he shakes his head, a definitive no, and you nearly collapse back on the hood of your truck when stress you didn't even realize was there rushes away, but he's not done. Jason lifts one of his hands and spreads it dead center on his chest, points two fingers toward the eyes of the mask, then turns them on you. He signs your name with a forcefulness that makes your heart do a little leap.

Whatever he just said was positive, you think, but it takes longer than normal to parse it out. You could blame being caged in like this, that you're feeling uncomfortable, but the sun overhead catches the glint off his eyes and you can see just how intensely he's actually looking at you, and—yeah, that's not it. But you do force your brain into overdrive, knowing that you've been silent for just a moment too long. "You want to see me?"

He nods and finally, finally straightens back up, putting a respectable amount of distance between the two of you again. Despite everything, you're caught by a strong urge to reach up to those wide shoulders and shake him. Which you don't do, obviously, but it's a near thing. He clearly has a concept of personal space, and while you're not displeased that he invaded yours, you still have no idea why he felt the need to get up close like that. But then again, you don't understand most of what he does, so the status quo hasn't changed too much.

You hop off your perch a moment after, glad for the distraction Heracles offers by pawing at your leg for some attention. From the ground, not quite looking at him, you say, "Well, I…want to see you, too." Then you ignore your still-racing heart and smile in his general direction, "So, you know, come back as much as you'd like. Or disappear long enough for me to go trudging into the woods after you, where I'm one hundred percent going to get eaten by a bear or something. Your choice."

Jason's shoulders lift a bit, just like they did the last time you said something he might have thought was funny, and you can't help but dissolve into a breathless little laugh of your own. This is your life now. Semi-pathetically asking serial killers to keep hanging out with you. And maybe you are losing it out here, isolated from the world, because Jason's hand shoots out to rub at your dog's neck until those bright little eyes roll back a bit, and you think you could do much, much worse.

The new dog has all of three hours to settle in at your house, a howling Heracles trapped in your bedroom until he's calm enough to make an introduction, when you catch that now-familiar shape in the treeline. It's an unspoken thing the two of you have established in the past couple days—he always shows up from the same direction, right out of the trees that face the front of your house, and you've taken to leaving the curtain on the window near the door open, so you know when he shows up. Not the most efficient system, and he's already had to tap on the window when your back was to it just to get your attention, but it works.

The dog is a sweetheart. She's healing wonderfully, and though she can stand and walk around a little despite the bandages around her midsection, the various medications she's on keep her mostly laying down. Even still, she wags her tail every time you come near, and has greatly enjoyed nibbling on pieces of boiled chicken while you stroke her soft, long fur. Her bed is right next to Heracles', and you've already seen her stretch her neck out to sniff at the Heracles-scented fabric, which you find encouraging. God you hope they get along. The thought of rehoming her due to incompatibility makes your heart hurt.

When you see Jason's mask peering into the window from the treeline, you can't fight back your grin. He hadn't been around when you got the call that the dog was ready to pick up, which means there's a very good chance he has no idea she's here.

So you go to where the new dog is once again sniffing curiously at Heracles' bed and softly pet her furry head. "Hi, puppy. Someone's here to see you." You manage to coax her out of bed with a few gentle calls, reminding yourself that it's good for her to walk so her legs don't atrophy too much, and when she's gotten a full-body shake in, you unlock the front door and guide her outside.

This is how you end up sitting in the clearing across from Jason while he holds the sleeping dog in his lap. She went to him so calmly, tail lightly swaying, like she'd known him all her life. He had signed your name three times while she sniffed around his ankles, and it took the fourth to realize what he was asking you. Once you showed him where it was safe to pet her and where to avoid, he climbed so slowly onto the ground and had barely settled before she hopped daintily into his waiting arms.

You're just watching, legs tucked up under you. There's something so curiously gentle about the whole thing—you'd been worried the dog would take longer to warm up to Jason, considering the way she growled when you handed her off, but maybe she remembers that it was him who held her so securely on the way back to your house. She's clearly not scared of him now, snoring softly while Jason pets his still-gloved hand through her fur. He hasn't taken his eyes off her since the two of you left the house over a half hour ago, and you smile at an unexpectedly lovely thought. You are likely the first person to see Jason Voorhees so enamored with something in a very, very long time.

"She still needs a name," you whisper, careful not to wake the sleeping dog. "Her old papers have her as Russet, but she must not have been called that often, because she doesn't respond to it. And I can't just call her 'puppy' forever." Jason nods a little, just to show he's listening, but he's still completely wrapped up in the dog. "I think you should be the one to name her."

That gets his attention, and Jason's mask whips up to lock on to your eyes. The angle's no good to see how he's looking at you, the day's cloudy enough to shade in the eyeholes completely, but you can practically feel the shock from where you sit. If you stretched out your leg, you could touch his knee with the tip of your shoe. Not that you're going to, but the novelty of sitting this close is still there. "Look at her, look how happy she is. My name's on the papers, but she couldn't more clearly be your dog. You're the one that saved her in the first place, so it's only fair."

By now you've delved further into the myth with Jason, and gotten sidetracked on so many tangents prompted by his questions that he's got a wealth of mythical men and women to choose a name from, if he wants. Not that you expect him to stick to your silly little naming convention—though you've been considering Penelope, liking that it's so close to puppy—but it's nice to know he has the option.

You realize too late that you have no idea if he can read, let alone spell a name to you. He's got your name, as well as Heracles', down perfectly when he signs them, but is that just muscle memory? He's completely mute, as far as you can tell, and only knew a few signs when you met him, so you don't think it's completely unfair to assume he's illiterate—which means you stand to be a huge, inconsiderate asshole by asking this of him. But his memory is good, and he picks up on things quickly…you've been fingerspelling every word you don't know when you sign to him, which means you've been spelling out a lot of long, complicated names recently. Could he have picked up the alphabet just from that? God you don't know, and the last thing you want is to embarrass him, or insult him, or—

Completely immune to your inner turmoil, Jason gives the dog's back a brush with the back of his hand, then lifts it to sign: A-B-B-Y.

The weight lifts from your chest instantly. "Abby," you say, testing it on your tongue. His nod helps the stress melt from your shoulders, and you finally reach out to touch where Jason's petting has made her fur extra warm. She sighs contentedly in her sleep, and Jason's next exhale nearly matches it. You have to bite your cheek to keep from beaming. "That's perfect."