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The Stump

by The Brain of Lazarus

Summer was in its last waning throes. August had come, and with it a final season's battle-cry, where days burned their hottest. Flora trembled under the gaze of the day's mighty eye, a cool breeze became a hot breath, and just around the corner the feeble stirrings of autumn approached, bitter and lazy.

For Michael, there was some familiarity to it. He was raised in the guts of the south, down from a little Georgia suburb where hot days tempered a resilient pride. Still, the warmth out here made him feel more a stranger than anything. It wasn't so much the heat, more that it was a native's fever dream. Michigan was a beautiful place, and Juniper was right to convince him to come here, but he wouldn't pretend it was his home.

Not yet.

It was a painful thing to admit, as he started to shore up for the day. Harrison was coming back into view and soon he'd fall into his new routine of anchoring up at Harbor Park, but as much as he practiced the fisherman, played by old "soldier," he couldn't shake his reservations.

He checked in with John - everyone's favorite fat Scottish hound - after he anchored "The Partisan." A few bites of friendly chat and a promise to slice off some fresh lake trout assured Michael first ship out tomorrow, though folks weren't really the competitive type around here. Still, it was a matter of covering all ends to him even if he wasn't in enemy territory anymore.

He made his way, penning down coordinates for some Chinook he spotted. Some of the locals paid well and since summer was winding down they'd be out of season soon. Not a major concern, not with his benefits, but a distraction at least.

There was something bittersweet on the way back home. Every day was a trial in waiting, an attempt to start strong and finally be confident enough_this_ was what he wanted to do. It was so idyllic, how could he still have reservations? Coming south from Harrison he could take in the majesty of Lake Huron, reflecting on where he'd been and where he was going. He was happy out there at the mercy of a peaceful lake. He was happy coming home, coming to Juniper, feeling complete in ways he never thought he would.

And then he wasn't.

The long drive back on 24 to Graybush was the loop. The reminder. Caught between purpose and love, neither here or there. For a while it felt like an endless road, a direction without cause. Was this who he was now? Was this what he wanted? He would ask himself every time. But each morning he'd come back to Huron and its lingering gulls and mysterious depths, and every evening he'd see Juniper and get a life's worth of wisdom over the course of one night. He told himself yes. Then he'd drive. Then it was no.

He sighed when small Graybush came into view, a smaller town not too far out from Harrison. He was both relieved and remiss. Juniper and he staked out a home through some bought property in the forested area surrounding the town, secluded by a road leading to the pocket of their home. Here he forgot the stranger that was himself. Here he could hope this was the night the questions inside would get their answer.

Steadily the evening sank in. Michael pulled up through their gravel drive way, dodging a stump that plagued them since their move, parking the pickup. Home came into view, a lovely two floor all wood brick house which they worked hard to renovate.

In the fading the light, Michael smiled. His eyes caught the silhouette of Juniper on the porch, and suddenly all doubts vanished from his mind.

The pickup truck rumbled to a halt and Michael stepped out, greeted by the warm embrace of evening air, of home. The place where he wasn't a stranger.

He approached the porch, noting a dot of ember, Juniper caught in porch light, nursing a cigarette. All at once, it him again, this person he was with. Deep russet fur with snowy spots freckling across her frame and muzzle, lingering blue eyes as deep as the Huron, sleeveless white shirt accompanying working pants to accent her deer-chimera body.

He fell in love again.

She saw him wave, and he gestured to the cig. "Menthol?"

A head shake. "Mm, I know, I know. I'm cutting down, I promise. Just the one today, thanks to yours truly."

She pointed down the gravel path, towards massive tree stump.

Michael joined her on the porch, putting an arm around her. He squinted to focus on the rebellious shape.

"You tried taking it out?"

She stamped out the cigarette, pressing muzzle to his cheek.

"I tried the easy way. No grinders around. Oscova was my first thought, but hardware said my best bet was Lupton. I guess there's no demand for clearing trunks around here."

A sarcastic chuckle. "That's on the other side of the damn state. All the way out there?"

"All the way out there. Then there's licensing and operating heavy machinery and shipping it out. Then daily rentals. And the no doubt enthusiastic crew that'd love to come along."

Minor details, he thought. "You could handle it on your own." She never let big projects stop her.

"Come on. You can see me in one of those?"

A nod. "I can see a lot of things."

"Well, beyond prophetic speculation I took a shovel and mattock around the edges. Unfortunately, turns out our friendly stump has an extra thick root the size of your arm. Maybe more."

One might not expect someone of Juniper's stature to work as hard as she did on the yard, but, it was one of her projects, and she was proud of it. Though, Michael wrestled with the thought.

"Do you need help?"

A better way to put it was did she want help.

"Mm, I can manage. I know you've got the docks. Prime season's almost over too, right?"

His grasp faltered a bit, but she was right.

"Yeah. I can make time on the weekends, though. I wouldn't mind."

She kissed him again on the cheek, gently leaving his grasp to open the door. "It'll be okay. I think I'll need to order a better axe. I don't think those roots will quit any time soon with what I've got. Did you eat, by the way?"

She knew he didn't, but it was her subtle invitation otherwise. Michael shook his head, following her inside.

Dinner had been set with a mix of mushrooms, squash, and onions coupled with thin pork slices and a vegetable entrée for Juniper. She was still a herbivore, but always cooked hardier meals for Michael, even though she never partook herself.

At the table Michael started into it, taking on the lightly salted mushrooms first. Juniper set him a can of Old Wesker's beer, taking one herself, sitting with him.

"So? How'd the catch fair today?"

Juniper was careful to not instill routine; it was what made them feel trapped in the first place down south, after all. Just the mulling over same topics, day after day. However, her inquiries were always genuine and perceptive, engaged rather than distractions.

"Lots of lake trout, which was nice," he answered, taking a sip. "But I swear I've found a little spot where Chinook are in deep. You know I'm half tempted to get a new rod just for them." The kings were hell on wire and had a damn good pull, Michael remembered.

Juniper pecked away at her meal. "You don't want to net them?"

He didn't answer immediately. Perhaps she was confident in her decision, but, Michael wasn't ready to let the trunk issue go. He wanted to be part of her work, for once.

So he tried. "Net might catch too many, or too little. Haven't checked with regulation either. Last thing I need is Johnny Law slapping my ass for nothing."

Juniper laughed, so he went further.

"I figure they require a more personal touch, you know, like you with the stump."

For a moment, the blue lapis of her eyes met the muddy green of his. She was perceptive, and he didn't want to seem needy.

"You know," he added, "I bet I could trade a few favors with fresh Chinook or trout. Some of those boys love it right out of Huron, they might cut me a deal for better equipment."

Juniper cast him an intrigued look. "It wouldn't surprise me at all. But you don't need to, I just have to do a few online searches, nothing special."

Michael submitted with a nod, but again, felt somewhat deflated. They'd finish dinner with a chat, discussing her harvest, tilling, all the heart she put into the earth work. She sipped the rest of her beer and started to the sink, scrubbing off the plate.

Maybe it was the alcohol, but Michael refused to give up.

"Do you not want my help, J?"

Her ears flicked and she stopped. "Wait, what?"

"I know this means a lot to you. Working on the home and everything. You've done amazing work, J, and I know you could handle it all on your own. . ."

Those blue eyes engulfed him again. She wore a frown, concerned.

"But," she prodded softly.

"But, we work together, don't we?"

Juniper faded, holding her arms with a pang of realization settling over her.

"Shit. This is really bothering you." A sincere response, one of concern and reflection, rather than admonishment.

She grabbed another Old Wesker, a habit of seeking creature comforts while working through problems.

Michael wasn't interested in becoming a sobbing, bleeding heart which would fall to pieces simply because the deer wasn't giving him attention all the time. But he didn't want to be closed out either, not entirely.

A sip. "This _is_about the trunk, right?

He nodded. "You've got every reason to handle your projects the way you see em'. I mean, I couldn't tell you the difference between an onion and an orchid. It's important, I get it. But I think we can tackle this thing together. We can share some of what we do, I figure."

Juniper consolidated his words. She didn't need convincing; she didn't live to cause Michael pain, just as he wouldn't her.

All the same, she knew the dangers of a misplaced cause. She knew he still carried the weight of the peace corps, the doubts he had, the nagging idea he couldn't help anyone. From that, she learned, sometimes what he wanted could hurt him the most.

Or was she letting ambition get the better of her?

"I know, Michael," she replied with nothing but kindness in her tone. "If it's really bugging you, well. Of course I want your help, nothing would make me happier."

He noticed some vacancy. "But," he encouraged lightly.

She shook her head, sipping on the Wesker. "No but. I guess I was just thinking about dad again, out there."

A second time, Michael was taken off guard. The old stag was a loving, supportive person, from what Juniper had told him. He never would've connected the dots here.

"Thomson? Why?" he asked carefully.

The russet deer took a long draft. "Oh, I dunno. I guess I had to show myself I don't need to be coddled to get things done."

She set the drink down on kitchen counter, realizing. "Not you, I meant. You don't. He just had those ways."

Michael cast his eyes at the wood floor a moment. He understood. "You didn't want someone to come and swoop in. Thom did that, right? Always tried to save the day."

A frown became a smile. Relief swept over them both, as Juniper took Michael's bare plate, setting it in sink.

"He could see a forest fire in the middle of a thunderstorm."

Michael stood to join her at the sink. There was a sort of benign cruelty to Thomson. He always wanted his daughter to be safe, taken care of, without worry. At the same time, he was sheltering, perhaps even faithless.

"What a terrible comparison huh?" she would say, smiling at Michael. "Comparing my future husband to my dad."

A chuckle. "You're a regular Oedipus."

She laughed again. "That's, mmm, not how the story went."

He gently nudged her in the side and she playfully pushed into him, before they settled together for a moment.

"At any rate," Michael added, "That's not what I'm trying to do. I think. I know. You could get this on your own, given the time."

She beamed a little, stronger for his confidence. Though she had to wonder, if there was something else to Michael. She cast a line in the lake of Michael, to see if something else might surface.

"I guess, maybe, we're both trying to prove something," she said with a glance to him.

The young man's features didn't change. His green eyes, like moss on rock, kept to the wall. Brown hair swept to the side, a bit of shadow on his face, just like the man returning after his first "tour." So was it still with him, she wondered, his time out there. Was Michael trying to save someone else through her? Trying to save "that one?"

If there was another motive, Michael didn't say. Or wouldn't. But she trusted him to tell her, and didn't pry needlessly.

Before Michael could add, a loud chime came from the living room.

"Oh, dammit, think that's mine."

Evening was in full swing as the sun subsided and insects began their chorus. Michael figured it was about that time.

"You go ahead, I can get the dishes," he said. Most like it was Juniper's old friend from Grane's Haven; they always kept in touch and Michael knew it was important.

She set down her beer and kissed him again. "Thanks sweetheart."

Eventually the evening settled with Juniper catching up while Michael sifted through television news. They took some time to research a few options for the trunk: better pick mattocks, stronger shovels, chains, making sure the pickup could handle the deadweight.

Before they clambered into bed, for once, Michael did not feel lost for tomorrow.

-

"Sky looks like it wants to fall out."

The sky was painted with a feeble gray, the sun unseen behind a veil of pale clouds. It was early morning, the air humid and ripe for a storm. Michael and Juniper had adorned work clothes, off to Graybush to pick up a few supplies after Michael turned out early from fishing.

"What did Mickan say?" Juniper asked.

Mickan, voice of local weather.

"Partly cloudy, actually. Maybe chance of rain late evening."

They were on the way back, coming through Kavo road. Juniper was nursing a coffee while Michael regarded the sky with mild concern. Rain itself wasn't the issue, it was mud. They'd have to dig in around the stump to start things out and last thing they needed was a trapped pickup or unyielding ground.

"He calls that chance?" Juniper intoned skeptically.

"What, you're not afraid of rain now are you?"

He felt her playful eye roll.

"I better tell John and Scover. Boy they'd get a real kick out of this, I tell ya."

She started to laugh. "Oh, what? No, come on!" A nudge to his sides.

They kept at it for a while, passing along friendly jokes. Michael had found Juniper's humor was reassuring. She was serious in pursuit of things, but always without pretention. Genuine, friendly.

When they returned, the trunk appeared a lot more formidable than Michael recalled. It was a brute of a tree, and unfortunate they had to cut it down, but it certainly left an obstinate mark. He could see where Juniper had worked into the ground, and again where one of the larger roots had taken a few axe blows. He parked a little past it, stepping out, snapping on his work gloves.

"You sure the four wheel's gonna be enough?" he called over to Juniper, who was changing shoes for heavy boots. They had her Blazer too, but perhaps she felt inclined to trust his judgment call.

A cheery smile. "We'll find out."

Opening the back, they started retrieving tools. Juniper had grabbed a much sturdier axe, since the other had been completely dulled. The others were extra pick mattocks and heavy duty spades, with an industrial strength chain.

Juniper finished off her coffee, taking a shovel and patting around the stump with the head.

"No turning back now," she tossed with a friendly wink.

Michael agreed with a chuckle.

He felt his grip white-knuckle around the shovel leg. Excitement, he wagered.

She began again. "We've got to dig up the rest, create more space to work in. Some of these roots are dug in hard."

She gestured to her area. "Can you take this side? And give us about, mm, two feet to work with? Out that way?" A point behind her, towards the forest.

A familiar twinge went through him. The old ripped dirt, the words like orders, the scent of earth, heavy metal mixed with soil work. Something, like a far off call, a voice he couldn't hear.

He shook it off, nodding. "Cut the roots after, I imagine."

"Mmhm," she agreed. A prod to the roots. "Here's hoping. White cedar, tough old bastard."

Tough, Michael thought. Tough like Kensey shouting orders on mangled road. Tough like the earth.

He took a breath. Tough like Juniper.

Think of her.

"Made the mistake of getting in your way."

Leaving the spade in ground, she went for a pick mattock. "Well, guess the old guy was ambitious himself," she remarked, coming back to the stump and taking a clean, graceful swing near it. "Paid a price."

Metal bludgeoned soil and a familiar sound took hold. Michael recognized it. He didn't want to. He tried to switch gears again, standing where Juniper asked.

Spade dug into ground. "Price? What'd you mean?"

More strikes into dirt. "Well, look around. All the trees stuck together right?"

Not wanting to lag about, Michael started to meet her strikes in tandem. Where she'd loosen up the earth on her side, he'd shovel on his.

"This one, he wandered out. Much harder to move a forest then a single tree." Another swing.

Michael gave a forced chuckle. "I dunno, given the time I'm sure you could take a forest."

She offered soft laughter.

Michael would continue to wrench into the ground, but every time something inside him felt . . . off. He did everything he could to hang onto Juniper's words.

"What? No!" she chimed playfully. "It's too ambitious, see what I mean? If this tree grew with the others, it would probably never get cut down. Probably."

Heavy breaths and grunts dotted her words, pace picking up. Despite the strange momentum of distress welling up, Michael was surprised. He never really saw her at work. Well, he did, but not like this. One look at J and you would never assume the deer was as diligent as she. It was beautiful.

Then the clank of metal to wood pulled him out of it.

He tried shoveling again. "So um. Taking it out because, uh. What, reminds you of something? Dangers of being ambitious?"

Her ears wiggled, but Juniper didn't pick up on his struggling tone. "Haha, never thought of it -" a few more breaths, "- that way."

She paused a moment, wiping her brow, leaning on the mattock. "That and we really need this out of our future driveway."

Michael heard her, his moss eyes lost in the mud of the ground.

"We need to clear out these bodies. Get a ditch dug, throw them in. Don't mark them, don't need those fucking INC vultures all up our ass about it."

His head snapped up, eyes wide with fear. "What?"

Juniper glanced. "Driveway. Need one. Trunk goes away. Remember?"

Michael shook his head quickly, feigning normalcy. "Right, right."

The deer regarded him curiously, though not with alarm. And, not wanting to cause any, Michael sank the spade head back to torn earth. He was about a foot in. Just focus on the work, just focus, he told himself.

Another lunge into the ground. He grunted, wrestling free clumps of soil. Where he expected to reveal a root, something else was there. Looking back at him.

He froze. His breath shortened. A pale, bloated shape was mixed with the deep till. Drained of life, full of vindication. Mouth agape for a dead man's breath. Glassy eyes affixed to Michael's, staring. Cavernous wound in the head.

The memory tore open.

"Shit."

Unsteady, panicked breaths hissed through clenched teeth and he drew back. The world became a blur. He couldn't feel the shovel leave his grip, or his stumbling away, his rush to the porch, his near collapse. His heart throbbed with fearful, drumming pounds. Fingers wrapped around wood railings, digging so hard it nearly splintered into palm. His eyes snapped shut, hoping to hold close a tomb of slumbering memories.

He was a stranger in his home.

He didn't feel the pale sky or hear the waning calls of Juniper. He felt the Srae Ambel road swallow him whole, like rotting mud. He heard voices, loud and harsh, cracking like whips over the dread roll of APC and trucks. He saw the shapes, lifeless, in inhumanely orderly rows. His hands gripping provision shovels, next to the Carver, the yelling Kensey, the Lobek nowhere to be found.

"Michael?"

He turned, Carver's silhouette a black ghost under the tyranny of the sun.

"Michael!"

A sound from a thousand miles away. Carver's mouth moved, but it wasn't his voice. A frail echo, lost in the noise of something else. All he could feel was the weight of bodies wrapped in an uncaring plastic, the shouts of the broken and ruined, the chagrin, guilty movement of his digging.

"Michael, what's going on?"

It was Kensey, angry and anxious. Calling his name, again and again.

No. No it wasn't.

It was. . .

Juniper's features rushed into view. Like pulling himself free from suffocating tar, the world around him came back. Pain was the first sensation, his hands burning from the tight knuckle grip on porch railing. The gloves kept them abated from splinters, but they felt raw and furious, like the people so harmed on by roadside.

The burning skyline subsided. The hectic movement of soldiers and marching faded. Greeted again was the faint quiet of Michigan forest. Wide eyes, blue as a deep lake, dove into Michael, worn by an expression of frightened worry.

"Michael. . ." A lower tone, almost pleading.

His eyes stung, his heart pulsed in painful waves, his breath strained.

"Gimeminut," he mumbled. "Okaymmokay. . ."

Things moved in a blur. He barely felt himself sit on porch steps, clutching his hands together, trying to pick himself back up. This wasn't supposed to happen.

Juniper had eyes on him, piercing and perceptive. She went through it, over and over in her head. One moment he was digging and the next he fell apart, frightened, distant, in pain. A wash of frustration, concern, and fear bogged down on her. He wasn't telling her something. He_didn't_ tell her anything.

These moments were rare, but a grim reminder. Far back in the pit of Georgia, when they were entrenched at Grane's Haven, he told her a lot about his time overseas. The things he saw, the things he did, what he didn't do. Sometimes he would fall apart, and she never blamed him. There were only so many tools available, only so many ways to process those happenings. Perhaps pieces of him could never leave Cambodia.

After a few moments of bare silence, he finally spoke.

"I'm okay," he muttered.

Juniper shook her head. She whispered a 'dammit,' pulling out a cig in front pocket, lighting it.

"Michael, I won't do this."

She stood over him, sipping at cigarette. She hated seeing him this way, but she would not be a leaf in the river.

"I'm not playing the helpless girlfriend who gets strung along. You need to tell me what just happened." Her tone was filled with a kind, quiet begging.

He resisted. The last thing Michael wanted to admit to himself was the weight hanging inside.

"I thought I was over this," he whispered. He wanted nothing more than to get back up and back to work. But he fell, back into the mud. He was sinking.

Don't save me, he thought. Let me find my own strength for both of us.

A long sigh. Juniper flicked and stamped out the cig. "Let's go inside."

-

Sitting at the kitchen table this way felt shameful. Michael was enthroned upon his perceived failures, at the mercy of the moment. He was left to wait. Juniper was in the living room, her voice serene but filled with a controlled worry, trying to get a hold of Dr. Burne, his psychiatrist. Problem was, Burne was all the way out in St. Ignace, and usually couldn't take appointments so late in the week.

These were Juniper's concerns, not Michael's. He wanted to persevere through it on his own accord. He hated feeling weak, powerless. Waiting for figures above to find a way to best "deal" with him.

Juniper found, as she spoke to Burne, he couldn't come in time to lend a hand, at least not by weekend's end. But as they talked, perhaps it was for the better. He gave her the means to be a stone against rushing tides. And, if anything, she wanted to be the one to help, not sat on the sidelines.

After a while, she hung up with a resigned sigh. All the same, she gathered herself.

Let me help him, she thought. Let this make us stronger.

Michael hadn't moved much, and didn't regard the russet deer as she returned.

"Dr. Burne isn't free until next week," she intoned, taking a seat opposite of Michael.

A frown tugged at her. "But I have a feeling that's what you wanted."

Her eyes held him, studious, waiting. Hoping he would break open and tell her something, anything.

"I told you, I'm fine." A lie.

"I definitely don't believe that," she said, though without accusation or reprisal in her tone. "What I do believe is that you're hiding something. And you're a hypocrite."

The challenge was genuine, not scornful. Perceptive rather than insulting.

Michael shook his head. He kept his roots buried, not wanting them pulled out. But he already felt Juniper's mattock swing into the hard clay of his resilience.

"I'm not, I'm fine. Not a. No."

She wasn't deterred. "Michael."

Please, look at me, he could hear her say through name. Eyes went to hers. The muddy green met deep lake blue.

She began again. "Yesterday you asked me. 'Aren't we supposed to work together?' And, I let something get in the way before I realized you were right. But right now, you're acting alone."

Still nothing.

"Michael I'm not mad at you. I could never be, not with everything you went through. But if you think you can just. . . wake up one day and feel like everything's the way you want, well. I'm sorry, you'll be just like a deer in the headlights. Stuck and waiting."

There was a long pause, a wait to see if Michael would speak. When he didn't, she smiled. Oddly, she chuckled.

"When I was younger, just a little girl, dad was planting a tree in our backyard. Mom was very proud of Michigan and wanted us to have a white pine, you know? Show some spirit,"

Michael was silent. Instead of a pick, she was using her hands. Gently, sweetly pulling away the mud, reaching into the tar of his resistance, looking for him.

"That weekend they got some family and friends together. And I reaaally wanted to help, Mikey. I wanted to be out there, sweating it out, with my own shovel and everything. I begged dad and he just smiled, hugged me. Know what he said?"

Michael gave a weak "no."

More laughter from her. "He said, 'I'm sorry sweetie, you're not strong enough yet.' I mean he wasn't wrong. I tried picking up a shovel and fell over cause' I couldn't keep it balanced. But you know, even though I wanted it, and my heart was there, and I was probably as driven as him? Well. . ."

With all sincerity, in the most caring way possible, she leaned.

A little shrug. "Michael. You're not strong enough. Not on your own."

The mud cleared, and he felt her pull him out.

He wanted the road left behind to disappear. He wanted to leave it back in Haven, to give himself a fresh start. To give Juniper the life she deserved. But he couldn't. Not yet.

"But, it's alright," she continued. "You_aren't_ alone. We do it together now, remember?"

Michael felt childish, having closed himself. Weak and incapable. He prayed to the altar of himself that he could just overcome, but, it wasn't so. The russet doe, the anchor to his storm, she was right.

There was a moment, a pause, and then a breath. He nodded, Juniper attentive, ear's forward, waiting.

"It was the Srae Ambel road."

Realization crept over Juniper. ". . .you saw him again?"

He nodded, and began to explain. She knew from their time back in Georgia, when he discussed his first tour, he was responsible for a lot of things. Blood he couldn't wash away. Blood of the angry and frightened trying to provide for their families, and were left with nothing but violent measures to resort to. It ate at him, when he let it. Back then they were the International Peace Corps, but all Michael found was a position as a glorified bodyguard.

From this, Juniper knew about the farmer, the one Michael couldn't shake. Perhaps he was never meant to.

But he never told her they were buried, cast in the ground to be forgotten. The families left behind might never have found them.

After he told her, there was a moment of relief, at least partially. Juniper studied the words, without judgment.

"So, digging reminded you of that?" she asked. Michael offered a rasped 'yes.'

"You know I don't blame you for any of it." Her hand came to rest over his on the table.

His voice was low and bitten. "I know, it isn't that. I just. Wanted to be normal."

Soft, silk fur hand squeezed through his fingers. "Well, normal isn't why I started dating you. But you have to accept, Michael, it can't just go away."

She glanced to the kitchen window. "Hmm. I think that's all for the stump. Might have to call out for a grinder after all."

At once, Michael's features changed. Frustration bore through him. "What? No! No. I'm not, no. I'm not giving up."

Juniper was taken aback. She blinked, ears flicking anxiously. "Michael? Come on. You just said this is what caused you. . ." the word didn't come easy. "Pain. It caused you pain. Why would you-"

"Because. Because you'd be with me."

A small sigh. "I was just with you. Why would it be different?"

Eyes went downcast, focusing on their mingling of hands. Michael could feel her worried expression fall over him. Perhaps it was a bad idea, he couldn't trust himself.

But, he could trust her.

"Because you know."

Juniper was beside herself with concern. She saw a lot of things. His frustration, his pride, his sorrow. I get it, she'd think, I get you want to prove something to yourself.

She thought to Burne, what he said. How she could help Michael get through this, every step of the way. Not pulled along, not pushing in front, but next to him, bit by bit. But parts of her were afraid. Go out with him; risk him falling apart from another trigger, where she could've stopped it. Or, would things be different this time?

"Michael, I'm not sure."

Upon those words, he dared not fail her. "If something happens, I'll do whatever it takes to get better. I won't fight you on it. I promise." He squeezed her palm back.

"I wasn't working with you, even when I said I wanted to," he admitted. "I wasn't honest, and, I don't know. Hiding it from you, like I hid them. Maybe that was part of it."

For a moment, Juniper closed her eyes. She took a long, slow breath, looking to Michael again.

He felt free of the mud.

"Okay."

Michael's thoughts rejoiced with gratitude, but he kept himself.

She leaned closer, and kissed him softly.

"But, lets uhh, wait after lunch, alright?" she added, glancing at the time. "You reaaally know how to waste a coffee."

-

Gentle embers licked the late evening sky. A soft fire crackled amidst the whining chirps of forest crickets, surrounded by a fortress of foot high brick. The scent of burning wood was thick in the air, offering cathartic retribution for all the frustrations it caused.

Juniper was content. She was resting, leaned back into cushion on bench, legs crossed. She sipped another Old Wesker, the rustic, hard flavor never more appropriate for this victory burn. It hadn't rained, thank Mickan's poor accuracy ratio, leaving the lumber dry and prime for tossing in the firepit.

Hours before, she was full of worry and fear. Marching out with Michael again, silently wandering back to the obstinate stump, its shape an ugly, quiet taunt. Every moment spade head dug into ground, she watched him, anxious, waiting for him to break down again. But he never did.

Every motion he took, she was right there, next to him. Every time reminding him of the fact, voice cool like a spring creek. The hole around the trunk grew deeper and wider, revealing its stubborn roots, and then. . . there was no need to dig anymore. Next came the axes, the two taking strong, swift swings into the hard white cedar. Hacking, loosening, pulling it out like a tumor.

And finally, it yielded. Michael chained the sonofabitch to their pickup and yanked it clear out. When it loosened, she saw him beside himself with joy. And it filled her with happiness. Despite the struggle, despite the pain, she was so glad he was with her. They embraced for a while, before Michael went inside to get himself something to eat.

She'd later come in to find he was asleep at the living room couch, so she let him rest. A big day. A lot bigger than Juniper ever expected.

For a while she was left to relax, until long doe ears wiggled and caught Michael walking towards the bench.

She took a sip of Wesker and waved. "Mm, hey. Finally awake."

He rubbed his face before sitting next to her. "That so. Huh, how long was I out?"

"Oh, three hours maybe. Really took it out of you, didn't it?" She gave a smile. "Oof, I hope the boys at the docks don't hear about this."

He chuckled, an arm sneaking around her shoulder. "Now why would I be afraid of that?"

"Weeell. Your deer girlfriend worked longer than you, didn't she? Aren't you supposed to be the stronger one?"

She started to laugh. Michael smirked, rubbing her shoulder. "Fair enough."

"Want a drink?" she offered, gesturing with foot to ice cooler. He shook his head.

"Don't think I should have the breakfast-of-champions so late," he said. Curious, he watched the fire with her, pointing to it briefly.

"Bit warm for a fire, isn't it?"

She nestled into him, head resting on his shoulder. "It fits. Ashes and dust. Or whatever the saying is."

It took him a moment to realize what she meant. "Wait, this is the stump?"

A soft laugh. "Well it was. Got an excuse to use the chainsaw again."

He feigned regret. "Oh, damn. Okay, now you have to promise you won't say anything."

She pushed on him a little, laughing again. "Safe with me," she said, sipping the Wesker. "How are you feeling?"

He let the warmth of her form bathe over him. Fulfilled, he thought.

"Like I belong here."

She pat his knee. "Did you need a nap to tell you that?"

"Apparently," he said sarcastically. "And maybe a really, really small part was you, heh." He felt her eyes roll.

"I'm glad I was with you, despite what happened," he added.

Juniper snuggled closer. "I am too. And hey, this saves us money. Instead of counseling, we can just cut down a tree."

Michael looked around. "Should the forest be worried?"

It was playful, but in a grim sense, also foreboding. With uncertainty, Juniper asked. "I don't know. Should it?"

A pause. Then, again realizing what it meant, he offered a slow head shake.

"I don't think so. No promises. But things are different." He regarded the fire, motioning to it. "Looking at this. You know what I see?"

Juniper's ear perked curiously.

"A burning skyline. All the boys, like shadows in the sun. I see what I left behind. But you know what? I'm not afraid of it. Not with you."

Juniper felt her heart leap. Some part of her fought the idea, that she was some kind of cure. Never liked to push or be pulled. But, then she reflected, this wasn't that. To have such an impact on someone, especially her soon-to-be. It was a unique sensation, and she was happy to have it.

She took another draft of the Old Wesker, before setting it aside.

"You know, I was terrified when it all happened. And then you wanted to go back and do it, I didn't know what to think," she intoned in a pleasant, yet melancholy sort of way.

"You scared me. Felt like, you know."

There was no blame in her voice, though Michael understood. "Deer in the headlights?"

She nodded. Once more, kissed him warmly, lingering on cheek. "Don't scare me again."

And then she stood, carefully escaping his grasp. Body stretched, small tear tail wriggled. She turned to him, visage pleasant and happy.

"Now. I think I'll get ready for bed. Can you bring the cooler back in?"

A few minutes after she left, Michael watched the fire. His arms crossed, and he waited. His eyes grew sore staring at the light, and memories lingered, flashing through his mind. He felt the burning Srae Ambel road, the town behind caught in a blaze, the evening sun roaring over the horizon.

I'm okay with this, he thought.

Eventually, Michael rose to head inside. He took the cooler, setting it away with excess beer, deciding to head upstairs. He entered their bedroom, and saw Juniper, nothing but fresh shirt and panties, cross legged on bed, skimming through tablet.

She regarded him with a wiggle of ears.

"Fire still going?" she asked.

Yes, he said to himself. Yes it is.

He sat next to her on bed, words leaving him. Her innocent blue doe eyes watched him with an intrigue. Like a spark, he leaned to her, meeting her muzzle. She returned it tenderly, breaking for a moment.

"Michael?"

He was never much for captivating words, but he had a few. "I love you, Juniper."

It came over them, like a fever. Their lips pressed together, steady with hunger. Searching, exploring with tongue, breaths leaving in between smack of lip. Juniper would jostle off sleeveless shirt, exposing pert breasts, hidden by keep of white bra. Michael's hands slipped to her sides, caressing and rolling palms over the slim, soft contours of her cervine frame.

The rest of their tethers yielded to desire, as bra unhinged from torso and Michael's clothes left him. His masculine palms went to Juniper's haunches, rubbing and squeezing the supple, giving heft of her rear. She lied back, panties stripped down her legs, pressed into sheets, where Michael's mouth met the earth of her womanhood, mouthing at pubic tufts, kissing and licking into her slick nether lips. Her thighs spread, soft moans colliding with bedroom wall, head hung back, fingers petting through thicket of his brown hair.

When her mound was moist with sweet wetness Michael lifted himself, climbing atop her, again meeting her flurry of lustful, hungry kisses. No talk. No words left to spare, just the collision of their grunts and small cries, pleas for pleasure.

Her arms came around his shoulders, as her legs wrapped to nake hips. Michael pressed himself forward, masculine root lunging into suckling tunnel, crown wrapped by the hot silk of her sex. He called her name, with a mix of weakness and strength, trembling as his mast buried itself in the awaiting chalice.

Her plump breasts flattened into his chest, while he slowly drove into feminine cleft. He leaned, kissing at her cheek, then gently biting at neck, inciting approval, a sharp 'yes' painting his ears.

For once, Juniper felt like a leaf in the river. She could only do so much to touch, caress, hold. Every moment Michael lunged himself deeper inside, she lost a bit more control. All she could do was hold on. Pleasure sprang and rattled her from sopping womanhood, her body and mind lost in this mutual rush of unity.

Michael took and gave everything he had. His thrusts spread, feeling Juniper's grip to back, shoulder, waist, where ever she could touch, spurring him forth. He ached. His body begged for her. Need overtook him, to join together, as it always should be.

They released. Michael did everything he could to gauge where she was, to find her sensitive spots on body, encourage, tease them on, causing whines and moans to leap from her maw. When that rush of issue burst from his root, it mixed with the womanly nectar of her release, and they froze. Juniper clung to Michael just as he held her, twitching and buckling as they emptied out and were filled with the other.

Like a fever, it left them. Pangs of hot breaths hit the air, where Michael collapsed into the sheets. He held Juniper, who returned the embrace.

She exhaled, relinquishing all the day's struggle. "Mmm. I love you too, Mikey."

Despite things, Michael felt himself grow tired again, and fell asleep with her.

The following morning, Juniper was first to check the fire pit, which was nothing but gray ash, a thin snake of smoke curling through the morning air. She got herself and Michael breakfast ready, where afterward he went back to Lake Huron to hunt down the Chinook.

In work clothes, she wandered to the scar in the air where the old stump was, nothing now but churned soil. She could see the gravel path lead out to road now, unhindered.

She decided to head out to Graybush in the Blazer, find some deals on pavement cement. Life was good, she thought. The cigarettes didn't come with her.

At home, the ashes cooled, becoming dust.