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tumbleassbitch · 1 year

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Heavy is the Crown

Fandom: The Quarry Characters: Travis Hackett, Laura Kearney, Max Brinly Read on Ao3 It’s amusing, if not completely surreal, to watch him set up the hair products in a row like soldiers. He marches away with the tub and reappears with the sound of sloshing water.

“Wow."

Travis scrutinizes her with narrowed eyes. He must decide she isn't mocking him because the corners of his mouth turn down in a self-deprecatory smirk.

“I take my job seriously.”

Request from @midnightanddiamonds: A few days after losing her eye in the jail, Laura struggles to put her hair up post-shower. Travis sees her pain and frustration, so offers to help her.

Laura barely remembers the morning after losing her eye.

She slept for most of the day, exhausted from her body’s efforts to mend the new hole in her face. The only reason she woke up before dinner is because of her bladder, and in the struggle to stagger to the toilet, she nearly knocked over a cold mug of coffee.

To her growing disdain, it’s appeared every morning since. She spends each breakfast glaring at it, watching the little curls of steam gradually fade into the air. Max hasn’t mentioned the odd shift in the sheriff's behavior, and that tells her everything she needs to know.

Pity coffee is the worst kind of gift.

Or maybe it’s bribery, given the weighted glances. The way he adopts a smug look when she drinks it dry. Whatever the reason is, he won’t stop bringing a new batch of coffee each morning in the same white, impersonal mug.

That’s all there is to this place— stark walls and cold floors, a marching uniform and badge. There’s no sign that the living reside here.

Well, aside from the birthday card in his office. Mama’s boy, she thinks with no heat, releasing a breath that could pass as a laugh. Go figure.

“Did you say something?” Max’s voice carries down the hall.

There’s no point in responding. Pain has a way of clearing a path through the bullshit, and over these past few days, several foundational truths have been laid bare.

One, she will be carrying the summer of North Kill for the rest of her life.

Two, her and Max have been on different paths for years.

Three, she can’t figure out her fucking hair.

Keeping the bandage on is a non-negotiable, which leaves her having to crane her neck out of the spray lest she gets her socket— eugh, fuck— wet and infected with whatever virus strains dwell in the shower units. This leaves her hair in a perpetually low, greasy ponytail that enables the bandage to wrap around her head without trouble.

It’s such a small, miniscule problem in the grand scheme of Laura Kearney’s Fucked Life™, but haircare is easier to focus on instead of the fact that it’s been a month in this prison cell.

That, and the entire werewolf situation.

As if on cue, Max calls out again. “Laura?”

“I didn’t say anything,” she yells back, though not unkindly. “I’m just— I need to rest . Okay?”

“Yeah. Totally.” Silence settles around them like the air of a tomb.

Totally. She’s totally fine.

Just a few weeks ago, she thought they would be married someday. They were going to be physical therapists and veterinarians, working together to put a little bit of good back into the world. A dream couple.

What a load of shit. Laura runs her fingers through her hair for the thousandth time, wincing at the limp strands. She can practically hear her mom scream in horror.

Your hair is your crown. Her husky voice rings clear as day, complete with the smack of spearmint gum that she always chews in place of smoking. Don’t wear it like a cavewoman!

I can’t help it, Laura thinks back, staring at the gray wall like it’s a mirror. I’m in jail. I never made it to camp.

If she thinks any longer about her mom, she’s going to cry, so Laura just tugs harder at her greasy hair. Just a few days ago, she was detangling it in the shower with cheap conditioner. Now she can’t even put her face under the spray.

Fuck.

She can’t cry. If she cries, Max will hear, and that will be more awkward and unnecessary than anything. It’s a good enough incentive that her eyes remain dry when dinner comes around and the familiar fall of black duty boots echoes down the hall.

He passes by her cell, and as she’s done for the past thirty-three days, Laura makes sure he feels the weight of her stare. He pays her no mind as he sets down the tray.

Laura clicks her tongue with disdain once he leaves. It’s tomato soup tonight. Great.

Even though it’s been a few days without her full periphery, she’s still exhausted. Simple actions like brushing her teeth take actual brain effort to accomplish.

So, of course he’d pick tonight as the first time to serve them soup after weeks of microwaved meals. If she were normal, she’d probably enjoy it. It looks good, almost homemade.

It’s not a big deal, she decides quickly, shutting down a surge of helpless rage. It’s not like she’s here to impress anybody. Besides, these aren’t exactly her best clothes.

I’m not going to be the guest of honor at Fashion Week, I’ll tell you that much, Max’s words from so many moons ago comes to mind.

How little they knew back then. How much she’s changed.

The first spoonful’s destination is her lap, and the next few tries make her shirt and pants fall victim to dozens of tiny tomato splatters. Finally, once the damage has already been done, she resigns herself to drinking straight from the bowl.

It’s delicious. It’s fine. It’s stupid.

It’s a strategy she should’ve thought of before the mess, but she at least had try to live like before. Because if she can’t fucking eat soup, then how is she going to live in the real world?

Hell, if she even makes it back to the real world. It’s clear Max has all but given up on leaving this place, and Travis believes she’s some brilliant scientist who can bail his sorry ass out of this mess.

She surges up from the floor, regretting it almost instantly by the way her ears fill with static, and flops onto the bed. Blearily, Laura takes in the tiny splatters across her clothes.

In the fading light, they almost look like bloodstains, which is kind of poetic. Each tomato-red drop symbolizes a stab to her dignity.

Breathe in, hold. Breathe out.

When Travis returns for their empty trays, she’s still laying on the cot and trying her best to block out his existence. He’ll walk to Max’s cell, and the scuff of his shoes and chime of his keys will mark when he kneels to grab the tray.

Then, he’ll grab hers and vanish for the rest of the night. They’ll have maybe thirteen hours or so before he comes back with breakfast. Like clockwork.

Except, while she’s studying the dirty ceiling to guess how many spots are mold and not just flecks of minerals, the sound of heavy footfall suddenly slows to a stop right outside her cell.

She blinks open her remaining eye. “Is there a problem, officer?”

He’s staring at the floor.

She tracks where his eyes are boring holes into the cement, and oh. It takes a moment to notice the mess she made, and it’s a wonder how she didn’t notice it before. The near-permanent frown on his face deepens into a scowl, which sparks her embarrassment into fury.

Laura makes a show of swinging her feet over the edge of her cot and saunters over to the bars. The way he scans her person, stiffening up like a robber who’s just been caught in the act, feels like an injection of dopamine into her bloodstream.

Good. She’s pissed.

“Y’know,” she begins casually. “I would’ve appreciated some food that didn’t need so much…” she trails off with a theatrical squint, then snaps her fingers. “That’s right, hand-eye coordination.”

Travis has the good grace to look remorseful. “I see that, now.”

“That must be nice,” she retorts sarcastically.

He looks off to the side, avoiding her melting glare. "It… Nevermind.”

She raises a sarcastic brow, but doesn’t have a chance to call him out on the abandoned thought.

“What’s going on over there?” Max’s voice rings out. Neither of them respond.

When he deigns to look her in the eye again, his frown is softer. “I’ll find something more suitable to your situation for future meals.”

Situation. It sounds so… clean like that. Like he wasn’t the one who chained her to the pipe in the first place. Even now, her arm still aches with the burn. It’s dulled with whatever pain meds Travis has been giving her, but it serves as yet another reminder of North Kill’s claim on her.

Travis sucks on his teeth, looking all at once like he’d rather fall through the floor than be anywhere near her. “How about I take you to get cleaned up? I’ll get you a change of clothes.”

“Do I get a shower, too?” Max calls out.

“Would you shut your goddamn mouth?” Travis yells back, and some of that familiar steel rises to the surface. She hadn’t realized it was absent.

The last thing she wants to do is be upright, if she’s being honest, but her restlessness has only gotten worse now that her perspective has shrunk. She may be exhausted, but her mind’s never been more awake. A little semblance of freedom might do her some good.

“Okay,” Laura replies back neutrally, and his shoulders relax ever so slightly.

He nods once, a short and stiff gesture of civility, and disappears with the trays. When he returns, they fall back into the routine that was established on Day 1.

Hands through the gap. Cuffs on the wrists.

The shower is nice, if not awkward like the rest of them. She can’t help but feel like a sausage on a roller as she rotates in and out of the spray, careful not to get her bandages wet. When the water shuts off, she towels down quickly to don the fresh set of clothes.

Wordlessly, Travis secures her in handcuffs once more, and off they go. Back to her box. Except this time, it’s hard to ignore how he continues to sneak glances at her. She’s able to hold it in until they’re almost back to the holding cells before cracking.

“If you’re going to look, at least pay me for my time.”

He almost trips at her outburst, devolving into a particularly nasty scowl before visibly wrestling with his next words.

“You didn’t wash your hair,” he says. As if that makes his gawking any better.

Laura bristles at the observation. “So what?”

By the way his typically sullen face slowly edges towards a grimace, he knows he’s in dangerous territory.

“I can’t get my… my socket wet,” she snaps. He looks away with a wince. “It’s too risky, which means that I can’t exactly douse myself with water.”

“Look,” he settles on. His expression reads both awkward and exasperated. “I can help you.”

“Help me… with my hair?” she repeats dully.

He stares off at a point over her shoulder. “It’s ethical to help someone under my care with basic hygiene while they’re otherwise incapacitated to do so.”

“We’re gonna talk about ethics, now?” she throws back, but it’s without heat.

Travis looks at her with an unreadable expression. Their silence drips with words unspoken, but she can hear them all the same. A part of her knows that he can, too. She loathes the familiarity that accompanies this breed of hatred.

Nothing quite describes the way her stomach squirms at the notion of Travis’ hands on her body. Still, Laura’s always taken pride in her hair. Having a hairdresser as a mom will do that, and the state that it’s in now is only going to get worse.

Travis shifts on his feet. The longer she waits to answer, the more he looks like he’s about to say fuck it all and walk away.

“Fine,” she blurts, then narrows her eyes. “But don’t make it… weird.”

“I’d say the same for you,” he says brusquely.

She expects to go back to the showers, but he guides her into the main room instead. It’s dimly lit by just two overhead lights, and the place looks just as empty as it had on the full moon. Not for the first time, she wonders what exactly the deal is.

“Where is everyone?”

Travis takes a moment to reply, grabbing one of the chairs off the table. “It’s a sheriff’s precinct. I’m the only one here.”

Instead of roughly shoving her into place like she’d expect, he guides her into the chair. The snap of the handcuffs on the stairwell echoes loudly through the room.

Travis doesn’t linger. He moves with precision, vanishing down the hallway and reappearing with a plastic tub. She cranes her neck to observe as he sets up the table with a look of concentration.

Bottles of hair products, a brush, towels, and a first-aid kit are laid out on the table like a row of soldiers. It’s amusing, if not completely surreal, to watch him finish setting up and march away with the tub, reappearing a few minutes later with the sounds of sloshing water.

“Wow.”

Travis scrutinizes her with narrowed eyes. He must decide she isn't mocking him, because the corners of his mouth turn down in a self-deprecatory smirk.

“I take my job seriously.” Travis’ expression shifts into something more hesitant. “Let’s remove your bandage first.”

“Right,” she says. Of course he’d be taking it off.

It's not like she hasn’t removed it since that first night; she's been checking for infection twice a day. But this will be the first time anyone else will see it.

Gently, almost reverently, he starts to unwrap her bandage. The moment fresh air hits her skin, she can't help but tense up. She's exposed.

Travis takes a sharp breath as he scans her over. If the wound disgusts him, he doesn’t show it. He looks as if he’s committing her inner flesh to memory.

“Lean back,” he murmurs.

A sense of unease pricks at the back of her neck, but she complies, exposing the pale column of her throat. He places a soft towel over her face.

With one of her senses gone, she’s acutely aware of just how close they’re sitting. The light puff of their breaths mingling together, the whisper of his sleeves as he moves behind her. She’s startled when his fingers loop under her neck, but he’s only lifting her head to place another folded towel for support.

“Comfortable?” His voice is low.

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m going to start rinsing your hair, now,” he announces, and while she’s privately thankful for the warning, it’s bizarre to hear him say it out loud. This is actually happening.

Warm water blessedly trails over her scalp for the first time in days, and god, she missed this. He pours until her hair is thoroughly drenched, and then works in the shampoo until it forms a nice lather.

Her stomach clenches. It’s been so long since she’s felt a friendly touch, and the sensation summons a notion of complicated grief. The stress of having her wound exposed begins to thaw. But at the same time, it’s Travis. Her knuckles turn white with how hard she’s clenching her fists.

“I’m almost done,” he says from above her.

“No.” The word leaves her mouth before she can stop them.

His fingers stop in their tracks. “...No?”

“I mean… no, it’s okay?” she says hesitantly.

Tragically, his fingers leave her scalp. “Are you asking me, ma’am? We can stop anytime if this makes you uncomfortable—”

“Don’t stop,” she commands. Soap crackles near her ear.

Travis clears his throat, and his voice might as well be a clap of thunder.

“Roger that,” he says, and there’s no way she imagines the smile in his voice. He can probably feel her embarrassment radiating through her scalp.

After a quick rinse, he adds a dollop of conditioner and spreads it from roots to ends, working out every knot until his hands glide through like water on glass. Her hair can’t possibly be detangled any more than it already is, but Travis continues his work.

His blunt nails lightly scratch her scalp as he works, and Laura releases a content sigh, sinking further into the chair. The repetition is soothing, and even the near-constant throb in her eye socket has mellowed into a dull ache. But more than that, it’s nostalgic.

Claire Kearney always takes her time working with hair. Her mother’s hands, gentle and thorough, have a way of making someone feel like they’re worth the time.

A wave of home-sickness hits her. Laura bites her lip to keep it from trembling.

All too soon, he rinses her off, squeezes out the excess water, and tightly wraps a towel around her head.

“All done,” Travis says roughly, stepping to the side of her chair.

Laura straightens up, removing the towel from her face. Every muscle in her body is stretched and relaxed as if she just underwent a full body massage.

His eyes are dark and heady. Belatedly, she holds a hand up to her face.

“Thanks—”

“I could—?”

Both stop.

“...You were saying?” she asks hesitantly.

“I could help you keep it out of your eye,” he says. There’s no mistaking the uncertainty in his voice.

Is he… offering to style her hair? And if he is, why would he do any better than her?

She’s pretty confident that he’s a single man, and it’s hard to say whether or not he has any children. This place is barren of any family photos or signs that he has a life outside of these four walls. But what’s the worst that could happen?

Besides, the devious part of her mind whispers, it means he’ll be touching you longer.

And that is definitely not a train of thought to dwell on. Laura nods, feeling like she’s entered a fever dream. Something like satisfaction graces his lips before it vanishes as quickly as it appeared.

“I’ll be right back,” he promises. Travis doesn’t meet her eyes when he takes the tub away.

She studies the array of hair products more closely, and this time, spots the hair ties already laid out. He planned this.

Or, at the very least, he hoped that she would agree to it. Laura waits for the rush of dread or repulsion, but it never comes.

Maybe she’s too fucked up. There was never a chance that she’d get out of this unscathed. Her face is just the tip of the iceberg.

She did tell Max that their resident sheriff has a soft side. but this feels more personal. Perhaps Travis Hackett is afflicted with the same curse as the rest of humanity: loneliness.

When he returns sans-tub, she tries her best to decipher his mood. See if there's any Silence of the Lambs-shaped flags that could tip her off to this turning into a nightmare.

He looks more at ease than she’s ever seen him. In his element.

Figures. One of them is handcuffed, after all.

He’s silent as he unwraps her hair. It falls past her shoulders in damp waves. He stands back, regarding her with a keen eye.

“What kind of braid would you like?” he asks.

Max is probably wondering what's taking so long.

“I don’t really have a preference, I guess,” she replies slowly.

He purses his lips in consideration. “I know what would work well for you.”

It sounds ominous when he puts it like that, and for a second she imagines him strangling her with a towel. Instead, he takes the wide-tooth comb and begins to run it through her hair, lightly tugging apart the wet strands until they fall neatly behind her back.

Laura releases a slow breath. “How do you know all of this?” she asks, twisting to look at him. He blinks at her sudden attention.

“I mean, not to be offensive or anything, but you don’t seem like the kind of guy to know anything about women’s hair.”

He raises a brow. “Is that right?”

It’s an easy answer. Max barely knows anything about hair despite having a twin sister.

“Tell me that you look like someone who knows how to take care of long hair,” Laura says, “and we’ll call it even.”

She practically hears him roll his eyes.

“I thought millennials were all about progressive mindsets,” he deadpans.

“I used to believe a lot of things, too,” she says bitterly. “I guess we’ve both been let down.”

That seems to sober him up. Travis clears his throat. “Alright, then.”

Deft fingers separate her hair into sections, and she’s surprised when he begins clipping the pieces into place. Out of the corner of her eye, his blurred figure looks more wraith than man.

Travis breaks the silence. “I have a niece.”

Caution turns into curiosity. Laura moves to face him, but he gently directs her head forwards. He starts the weaving high up on her scalp, marking the start of a braid that’s already beyond her ability.

“Her ma died in labor, and my brother… y’know. Wasn’t in the right mind all the time. It made sense to learn some basic hair skills for little girls in case they were ever needed.”

“Were they?” she asks quietly.

His lack of an answer says it all.

“Ah,” she says.

“My brother is a good man,” Travis says with a note of defense. “We all need help sometime, and he figured it out eventually. It’s just what family does.”

She tries to picture it: a faceless infant girl whose mother is long gone. A father who may as well have passed, too. The only person willing to step up for her is a man who locked up two strangers in the name of family.

Speaking of which, “How did your niece turn out?”

“Just fine.”

Laura allows herself to slip away, focusing on the way his hands move in her hair.

“My mom mostly raised me all on her own. She taught me how to change a tire and throw a punch. We even took a few self-defense classes together.”

Not that those were very useful, in the end. “What else did you learn?” she asks.

“That was it,” he says bluntly.

Laura frowns in consideration. “Really? Have you ever been married?”

He sputters indignantly. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“Most bachelors I know can’t really cook.”

He’s silent for a moment as he ties up the first braid. Finally, he answers begrudgingly, “I s’pose I brushed up on the family recipes in case a good meal was needed.”

And there it is. The soup.

The neat little image of Travis Hackett that she built up in her brain is now marred with a jagged crack. She can’t quite wrap her head around it. He made them a fucking homestyle meal and she’s losing her shit, and for what?

"It was good. The soup, I mean." Travis' hands pause in their twists, but he doesn't give a response. She doesn't need one.

“How long did you have her for?” Laura hears herself faintly ask.

“I’m not talking about that subject,” he says.

His voice is neutral, though there’s an underlying current of threat to his words. The primal part of her brain pings the danger.

“Is that why your family’s at the bottom of a well?” she asks softly.

“No, that’s not— That has nothing to do with it.”

“But I thought—”

“You thought wrong.”

“Okay,” she says quickly, just as he’s about to pull away.

“My niece is one of the sweetest people in the world,” he says firmly, though his touch remains light. “None of this mess with you or Brinly has anything to do with her.”

Travis pulls her hair a little too tight, sending a jolt of pain through the wounded side of her face, and Laura grunts. Instantly, he lets go as though burned.

“I’m sorry,” he says, almost as if in reflex.

It’s funny that of all the things to apologize for, this is it. A strange air settles over them.

“It better fucking look good,” she says finally, resisting the urge to hit something.

There’s a phantom tug where her eye used to be, and if she still had one, it would be tearing up with the pain. The rest of her body is electric with rage. And, infuriatingly, delight.

“I never intended for you to get hurt,” he says. A hand strays to her shoulder for a fleeting touch before returning to the braid. Goosebumps bloom in its wake. Part of her mourns that she can’t see his face. A greater part of her is glad that she can’t.

“Intentions don’t matter.” She stalwartly focuses on the mineral spots in the stone. “Not when it comes to this.”

“Understood. I didn’t mean for it to sound like— I’m not—” Travis falters, starting over. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

“Tell me what it looks like.”

He snorts humorlessly. “You don’t need me to spell it out for you.”

“Yeah, I do.”

Laura’s startled by the sincerity of her words. Hearing him say it outloud is important. She needs to know that he gets it; that this isn’t just some fucked up power move or some ploy for forced companionship. She needs him to take accountability.

“It looks like I’m insane,” Travis says slowly. His fingers pause in their nimble twists. The heat of his palm rests against her cheek. “It looks like you’re never getting out of here.”

“Am I?”

“Yes,” he says desperately. His voice is laced with such conviction that she isn’t sure who it’s meant for. “That’s never changed. You and Brinly will be free to leave once this is over.”

Laura draws deep for a patience she isn’t sure exists.

“And what does that mean?”

“You said it yourself. You want to cure Max, right?

“Of course I do,” she says calmly.

“Well, work with me to find a cure, and you’ll be free to leave,” he replies confidently, and that just doesn’t cut it.

“Travis,” she stresses. “I’m here. I want to work with you. I’m trying so fucking hard, but you’re not letting me.”

“I tried,” he starts to defend, but she cuts him off with a raised hand.

The handcuffs slide up the rail with a metallic clink.

“Not hard enough,” she says.

Travis doesn’t have anything to say to that, opting for a hair tie around the last braid as a response.

He steps around her, and she’s hit with the full weight of his stare as he assesses his work. This time, she does not flinch when his eyes land on the shredded half of her face. His lips quirk downwards. He moves for the first aid kit on the table, the afterthought in the onslaught of hair products.

“Your eye—”

“I want to see my hair,” she declares. He blinks.

It’s gratifying to watch how his expression morphs from shame to a satisfied, if hesitant, breed of pride.

Travis detaches her from the stairwell to re-cuff her. His arm loops through hers in a mockery of a chivalrous hold. Together, they pass through the empty room like ghosts.

The fluorescent light in the shower room is unforgiving. Their reflection is one of duality. The picture perfect scene of a cop and a victim. The longer she stares, the more those lines bleed together.

She surveys her appearance with the same numb detachment that’s lingered since the full moon. It’s a dual Dutch braid, the kind that she begged Max’s sister to help her with before a date in their senior year of high school. Even with the extra help, they couldn’t get the lines quite right. The result was so ridiculous that she ended up covering them with a headband.

These braids look nothing like that girlish attempt. Travis laced her up like a corset.

The sections closest to her scalp are thin and elegant, but as the braid continues, the loops fan into a full gleam of amber and gold. Her hair was transformed into cuffs not for shackles, but for ornament.

She looks like a queen returning from battle.

Travis fidgets beside her, and the nervous movement draws her attention like a hawk. She's become hyper aware.

Now that the pieces have been laid out, it takes no effort at all to put them together. Laura studies the clean and pressed lines of his uniform, how they paint a stark contrast to the weariness of his face. The proud sheen of his badge, and the patch of stubble he missed in the morning shave.

The gleam of her hair, now fashioned into a crown.

This must be it. Whatever the well is, this must be the rope that’s kept Travis Hackett from plunging down with the rest of his family.

There’s nothing soft or personal in this place because this is who he is. The work. The purpose. North Kill can’t claim him because he’s sunk his claws into it for purchase.

And if she can give him something else to sink into, then maybe that’s how she’ll crawl out, too.

“Well?” he asks.

It’s a wonder how she didn’t see it before. He’s holding his breath, and it’s all for her.

“I love it,” she says.

Her smile is full of teeth.

#the quarry #the quarry fic exchange #the quarry fanfic #travis hackett #laura kearney #hackearney #hackearney fic exchange #and max was there

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