Nichola Stevens (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
omgplsstop) wrote2018-03-11 12:02 pm
omgplsstop) wrote2018-03-11 12:02 pm
Wil, go put some shoes on. You’ll burn yourself
There was so much information spinning around Nichola’s head as she returned to the studio. She just didn’t get it. That was the worst part. Wilford did a lot of stupid, impulsive things because he was Wilford, but this didn’t seem like him. People who fucked around with saves didn’t do it for fun, or because they felt like it. They did it because they wanted something.
What did Wilford have now that he didn’t have before? What did she? What had she gained from Wilford’s stupidity?
She’d never let him forget how he’d stolen her job. Ever. Nor had she ever admitted that it had worked out quite well for her in the end. But now she was left with a heavy feeling of dread. Had he shoved her out like that, all those years ago, because he knew something would happen? He’d shoved other people out of their positions and taken over, so her situation wasn’t exactly unique. It was just what he did - he would walk into any room in the world and act like he was in charge, and he was just brash and obnoxious enough that people went along with it.
Was the show what he wanted? He didn’t seem to act like it. He always seemed bored and tired, like he’d rather be literally anywhere else. It certainly wasn’t the money he cared about. Sure, he had a nice house now, but he’d had money for a nice house long before they moved out here, and still he stayed in his empty, unfurnished apartment, driving around a car that was held together by bees up until the very end. He could have bought a place that would let him keep his dog, instead of having a friend take care of it.
Not a friend. He stashed it at the bar, apparently. And kept it from ageing for as long as she’d known him.
Was that what he’d wanted? The dog to live forever?
No. Because he wouldn’t have brought Buster here now if he had.
Everything flew through her thoughts faster than she could process as she rushed through the halls, trying to divert some of her brain power to solving a puzzle. She checked a few rooms, going down a mental list of known hiding places, before opening the door to a supply closet.
“What are you doing in here?” she asked, watching Billy jump at the sudden intrusion.
“Not hiding, apparently.” He poked at a Tupperware bowl full of some sort of rice something and relaxed just long enough to notice what was probably a sour expression on Nichola’s face. “… What’s up?”
Nichola took a deep breath, looked over her shoulder, and stepped into the closet with Billy.
“How did you and Wil meet?” she asked as she closed the door behind her.
Billy shrugged. “On an assignment.” He took a bite of his rice, and suddenly his eyes lit up. “No, he was being hazed. I do remember. It was this fluff piece on a surgeon, only the entire block was in a timelock. Wil accused him of being the scummer, which I thought was just, you know, him being pissed off about being sent out there. But then he wound up being right about it and there was this huge police investigation, and he got to follow the entire thing.”
Nichola crossed her arms over her chest and sighed.
“He just knew?” she asked.
“Well, it was obvious somebody was doing it. I swear, we were there for two days. It was bad.” Billy watched her for a few moments, apparently forgetting all about his rice. “Why?”
Nichola tried to find the right words, but now that she had the chance to actually express her concern, she didn’t feel so confident all of a sudden. It felt like a betrayal to even think it now that she had an audience. Still, she took a deep breath and shook her head.
“Do you remember the rumours about him?” Nichola asked. She remembered rumours, but maybe she was remembering them wrong.
Billy shrugged. “Yeah, he started them himself, didn’t he? He’s always been good at deflection like that.”
“Right,” Nichola said. The ex that fucked him up. Or at least, that was the assumed story, since he never actually talked about it. But those who knew him closely assumed was easier to be known for being some slutty little twink than someone who was absolutely terrified of other human beings.
Unless there was no ex, and the rumours were true, and whatever had fucked him up had happened after the point he’d reset to.
“I think he’s scumming,” Nichola said abruptly. It didn’t feel good to say it.
Worse, it didn’t seem to sit well with Billy, which just made her feel even more wrong for saying it.
“That’s… a pretty big accusation. How’d you come to that conclusion?”
She knew she shouldn’t have gone to Billy. As much as they acted like they hated each other sometimes, he truly was Wilford’s best friend, and had been mother-henning him since they day they met. Wilford may not have been the scrawny, damaged little weirdo he used to be, but Billy had never really got out of the habit of treating him like that’s what he was.
Nichola sighed again. “You know that place he goes sometimes? I found it a couple weeks ago, and mostly I’ve just been going back to annoy him. But he…” she almost said he has friends there, but that felt wrong before she even said it. “He knows people there. I think he’s pissed off people there, and they were very ready to gossip about him. I think they were probably just glad to have someone to bitch at who’d understand.”
Billy watched her critically the entire time, but she tried not to see it. This was a reporter skill; not a producer skill. All she could do was keep rushing forward and hope she said the right things.
“One of them told me about the time you guys apparently went up to Canada to do a piece on the Washington twins.”
Billy’s expression changed from one of criticism to concern. “We never went to Canada. That was distinctly someone else’s problem. He made a very big deal about that.”
“Uh-huh,” Nichola agreed. “Except this guy told me that everyone got killed up there.”
Billy shrugged. “That happens all the time. If he was the last man standing, it was probably his reset.”
“Uh-huh,” Nichola agreed again. “Except, the other guy said something else. A few things, actually. He said Buster isn’t actually a surprisingly spry elderly dog. He’s probably about three years old.”
“What? How? I’ve had to put up with that dog for a lot longer than three years.” Billy put his lunch down and sat forward in his seat, suddenly invested in this conversation.
“Buster didn’t live with some mysterious friend that lived out of town. He kept Buster in his little pocket dimension. Apparently things don’t age there.” The more she said, the more serious the accusations felt, leaving a sour feeling in her stomach.
“What else did he say?” Billy asked slowly.
This was the most damning of all. It was the part she didn’t want to actually give voice to, in case it was true. She checked to make sure the door was closed, and stepped closer to Billy.
“He said,” she started slowly, suddenly unsure what to do with her hands. “That when he met Wil, he was about the same age that he is now. But that he’s been much younger since that.”
She wondered how much silver she’d get for this betrayal.
Billy took a deep breath and buried his face in his hands, shoving his glasses off so they almost fell onto the floor. He slowly exhaled, staying like that for a long moment.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
“I literally don’t know why he’d lie to a stranger. He seemed pretty eager to tell me, like he thought he’d be getting Wil in trouble. But he didn’t really know what it meant.”
“If it’s true,” Billy started, taking another deep breath. “This is bad. But if this guy knew he was getting Wil into trouble, then he might have known more about it than he was letting on.”
Nichola nodded slowly. She didn’t want Wilford to be causing trouble like this. But if he were…
“Maybe you should talk to him,” Billy suggested. “He’s already done his ADR, so he’s probably gone back home if he’s not hanging out in his pocket dimension.”
“Yeah,” she agreed. “That’s probably best. I just…”
This sucked. She wished she hadn’t heard these things, because now she has to deal with them.
“I can’t cover for him. I’m not that good of a liar. And neither are you,” she said.
Billy made a sound that was trying to be a laugh. “Bitch, I’ve been lying for him and covering his ass for half my life.”
Somehow, that almost made her feel better. “Good. You can do the lying. But I guess I have to go do the shouting, first.”
Her thoughts drifted to dark places. She wondered how long Wilford would last in prison. He got bored and did stupid things so easily. It wouldn’t take much for something to set him off in an irrevocable way.
“Wish me luck,” she said, turning back toward the door.
“Hey,” Billy said quickly. “I know you’re still pissed off at him for other things, but you know him. Don’t do something stupid just because you’re angry over fireworks.”
Nichola nodded, but didn’t know what to say to that. Steeling herself for the battle ahead, she opened the door and slipped out of the supply closet. This was not going to be a pleasant conversation.
She could hear Wilford’s music as she pulled into the driveway. That was a good sign. It meant he wasn’t out causing more problems. It was also concerning, because it meant he was in the sort of mood that meant he was home at two o’clock in the afternoon. If he was in another one of his self-loathing, depressive ruts, this conversation was going to have to wait. She didn’t want it to wait.
The landscapers had finished sorting out the path to the back yard, meaning she didn’t have to cut through the house to find the source of the music. Which was perfectly fine, because the cactus in front of the downstairs door was still standing tall, in front of the door. She walked up the white concrete stairs, greeted halfway by Buster, obliviously unaware that anything was wrong.
“Close the gate!” Wilford shouted at her over the music.
Nichola glanced back to make sure the gate at the bottom of the stairs was closed, and continued to head up the stairs.
“What are you doing out here?” she asked as she reached the landing, finding Wilford actually in his pool on an inflatable lounger while he read something on his iPad. A small flock of rubber ducks floated around him, each holding its own can of beer low enough in the water to keep it cool.
“Reading about health code bullshit. What’s it look like?” Wilford says.
“God, I wish I had your complexion. I’d turn into a lobster after ten minutes,” Nichola said as she walked over to the pool and sat down in a deck chair that was under the most amount of shade.
Without looking at her, Wilford reached out for one of his rubber ducks and tossed it toward Nichola. For some reason, she was surprised that the can it was holding hadn’t actually been opened yet. “Cute,” she said, pulling the beer out of the duck.
“What are you doing here?” Wilford asked. “If it’s to lecture, you can give me my beer back and leave.”
Nichola started to open the can, but set it down instead.
“I’m not here to lecture,” she said. “But I do have to talk to you about something.”
Even behind his sunglasses, Nichola could see Wilford rolling his eyes. “Oh, good god,” he muttered.
“Someone said something to me, and I just want to know if it’s true.” She felt a tightness in her chest, dreading that he’d confirm it.
“I’m very busy reading about health code bullshit. Go away,” Wilford said, turning his attention back to his screen.
Nichola started to ask what he was talking about, but stopped herself before she got sidetracked by something trivial and stupid.
“Someone told me you’re save-scumming,” Nichola said abruptly, getting it all out of the way and in the open. “I need to know what you’ve done to put me in danger; what you’ve done to put Dennis in danger, and everyone else.”
Wilford dropped his iPad onto his lap and looked over at her. Behind his sunglasses and moustache, his expression was almost completely unreadable, but she could see the stiffness in his shoulders, and hear the irritated huff that came from him. They stayed silent, staring at one another for a long moment. Nichola didn’t want to break the silence to plead for an answer, but the longer the silence dragged on, the more she knew she’d have to.
“Wilford, what have you done?” she demanded finally.
He huffed again. “Nothing. Get the fuck out of my yard. And close the gate behind you.” He picked up his iPad again and resumed his reading.
“Just like that? You’re not even going to offer me an explanation?” she asked. “I know where you kept Buster all those years. I know he’s not as old as he should be because of it.”
“Leave.”
“I just want to know when. Was it before you stole my job, or after?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. For the last goddamn time, I did not take your job. You were in the fucking website room. Yeah, I took your story. So fucking what. Look where you are now because of it.” He acted like he wanted to slap his iPad down, but lacked a suitable surface on which to do so. “And you know what? I took your story the first time around too. And I made sure it took just as long to break as it did before, because I am not a goddamn idiot. I know what happens when you fuck around with timelines and Events.”
Nichola felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. She’d wanted to hear him deny it, and to tell her to get fucked a few more times. Instead, he’d admitted it, just like that.
“Why?” was all she could ask.
This felt like the price for her betrayal. Now she’d been betrayed by one of her best friends.
“Doesn’t matter. It’s done. It was a stupid fucking idea anyway.” She could hear the resentment in his voice, so she knew that much at least was true. But that didn’t make it any easier to deal with.
“Wil. What was the purpose of doing it if you weren’t trying to change anything?” she asked.
Wilford looked back over at her.
“I need to know,” Nichola insisted. “As much as I love you, I am not going to lie for you when the cops come to my door. How deep does this go?”
“Do you want to know what I changed?” Wilford asked. “Fine. I got fucking shot. That sucked. Wish I could have avoided that, since I don’t remember how I did the first time. And I bought a different house when we came out here, because I didn’t remember liking the old neighbourhood much.”
“We moved out here last time?” Nichola asked.
That was… that was good. It meant they had more or less followed the same trajectory, so there was likely little gain.
It didn’t make any of this feel any better though.
“Do I get to know why?” she asked.
She could practically feel Wilford’s tension from where she sat. He was silent for a long while again, neither looking at her nor at his iPad.
“Do you remember that fucker you brought on the show a few months ago? Because you thought he’d boost our ratings?” he asked.
“You mean when you dyed your hair pink like an idiot? Yeah, I remember. What does he have to do with anything?”
“You didn’t recognise him?” Wilford asked.
Nichola shook her head. She’d heard of him, but really had no idea who he was.
“I did. Because he’s been putting his nose in every big story since Slenderman. He was real involved with old Slendy. It made him cocky. But I forgot about him until Fazbear’s re-opened last year and those kids started going missing again. And I saw that fucker’s face in some picture or something. But that was weird, because I’d reported on his death after Slendy. I definitely remember saying the words ‘hit by a bus.’”
Nichola suddenly remembered how that interview had gone. Extremely poorly, for one. But also laden with confessions that Wilford barely had to work for.
“So, you, what? Reset fifteen years just for one interview? Why?” It still didn’t make any sense.
Wilford shrugged.
“I don’t know. But I wished I hadn’t the second I did it.” He picked up his iPad again and resumed his reading.
Nichola mulled that over. Impulsive and ill-thought was exactly Wilford’s way of doing things, which made a lot more sense than anything her brain had invented. It still didn’t really make sense even then, but it was an acceptable amount of nonsense.
“Thank you,” Nichola said, hoping she’d feel better in time.
Wilford responded with the uncomfortable grumbling noise he made when anybody thanked him for anything.
“Now, why are you reading about health code?” she asked, eager to change the subject to something less uncomfortable for both of them.
“For my restaurant,” Wilford said.
It took a second for Nichola to parse what he’d just said. “What restaurant?” she asked.
Wilford paused before answering. “The one I bought last week?”
Nichola’s eyes widened so much, they hurt. “What? Wilford!” She threw her hands into the air, and decided she wanted that beer after all. “I mean, as far as impulse decisions go, this isn’t the worst one you’ve told me about in the last ten minutes. Why do you need a restaurant?”
Wilford shrugged. “Seemed like a good idea. Didn’t immediately regret it, so it can’t be that bad.”
“Do you know anything about running a restaurant?” Nichola asked.
“Nope,” Wilford said, shaking his head. “That’s why…”
He trailed off and sat up quickly.
“Where’s my dog?” he asked, looking around the walled yard.
“Uhm.” Nichola stood up and looked around as well. “Buster! Come here, boy!” she called out.
Normally, he’d bark and come crashing over. But the yard was totally silent.
“Oh, fuck. Where is he?” Both doors leading inside were closed, so Nichola started heading back down the stairs.
“I told you to shut the fucking gate!” Wilford shouted over a sudden amount of splashing as he rushed to get out of the pool.
Before she even got to the stairs, she could see the gate below standing wide open.
“Oh, fuck, Wil. I think he got out.”
This was her payback. She spared a glance back at Wilford, hoping he wouldn’t lose his mind over this, and ran down the stairs, calling for the dog. Down on the street, there was no sign of him. Since he wasn’t some old, crumbling dog, he could probably get pretty far on his own, and who even knew how long ago he’d escaped.
Nichola pulled her phone out of her jacket pocket and pulled up Tweetr, taking only a few seconds to post a picture of the dog with an announcement that he’d gone missing up in the Hills. It took a little longer to swap over to the show’s account, to repost the message, and then to hop over to Wilford’s account to do the same. After that, she zipped off a text to Billy to tell him to let the media team know to start verifying any responses that might come in. Everyone at the studio knew Wilford’s dog, so it would be fairly easy for them to recognise him in any pictures that were posted.
By the time she was finished with that, Wilford had made it down the stairs, having apparently stopped to find a shirt first.
“Why didn’t you close the fucking gate?” he shouted, trying to avoid stepping onto pavement that had been in the sun recently, since hadn’t had the time to grab shoes.
“I thought it was closed! I’m sorry!” It had looked closed.
Wilford started to step out toward the street, but afternoon sun on the pavement didn’t make that an easy task for him.
“Wil, go put some shoes on. You’ll burn yourself,” Nichola said, trying to corral him back toward the house.
“Where’s my fucking dog?” he demanded. She could already hear the desperation in his voice.
He’d squirrelled the dog away into a pocket dimension for 15 years so it didn’t get old, and after all that, she’d gone and let it out. This was probably something people went to hell for.
“Go inside and put on shoes,” she said, trying to keep her voice level. “I’ve already let people know. We’ll go call animal control and see if they’ve already picked him up, or if not, have them keep an eye out for him.”
Wilford wasn’t going to calm down. She’d always suspected that the dog was some sort of support animal, which was why she was so nervous about how old it was apparently not getting. Seeing him get so agitated so quickly, she was surprised she hadn’t realised on her own that he would have found some way to make it live forever.
“We will find him,” she said, trying to pull Wilford away from the street and back toward the house. “Let’s go inside and put on shoes first, and then get your phone in case someone finds him and calls you.”
That seemed to get through. Wilford nodded and turned to head back up the stairs. Nichola watched him go, knowing that she was being punished for sticking her nose in where it didn’t belong. Once Wilford was up the stairs and out of sight, she sighed and looked up the number for animal control.
What did Wilford have now that he didn’t have before? What did she? What had she gained from Wilford’s stupidity?
She’d never let him forget how he’d stolen her job. Ever. Nor had she ever admitted that it had worked out quite well for her in the end. But now she was left with a heavy feeling of dread. Had he shoved her out like that, all those years ago, because he knew something would happen? He’d shoved other people out of their positions and taken over, so her situation wasn’t exactly unique. It was just what he did - he would walk into any room in the world and act like he was in charge, and he was just brash and obnoxious enough that people went along with it.
Was the show what he wanted? He didn’t seem to act like it. He always seemed bored and tired, like he’d rather be literally anywhere else. It certainly wasn’t the money he cared about. Sure, he had a nice house now, but he’d had money for a nice house long before they moved out here, and still he stayed in his empty, unfurnished apartment, driving around a car that was held together by bees up until the very end. He could have bought a place that would let him keep his dog, instead of having a friend take care of it.
Not a friend. He stashed it at the bar, apparently. And kept it from ageing for as long as she’d known him.
Was that what he’d wanted? The dog to live forever?
No. Because he wouldn’t have brought Buster here now if he had.
Everything flew through her thoughts faster than she could process as she rushed through the halls, trying to divert some of her brain power to solving a puzzle. She checked a few rooms, going down a mental list of known hiding places, before opening the door to a supply closet.
“What are you doing in here?” she asked, watching Billy jump at the sudden intrusion.
“Not hiding, apparently.” He poked at a Tupperware bowl full of some sort of rice something and relaxed just long enough to notice what was probably a sour expression on Nichola’s face. “… What’s up?”
Nichola took a deep breath, looked over her shoulder, and stepped into the closet with Billy.
“How did you and Wil meet?” she asked as she closed the door behind her.
Billy shrugged. “On an assignment.” He took a bite of his rice, and suddenly his eyes lit up. “No, he was being hazed. I do remember. It was this fluff piece on a surgeon, only the entire block was in a timelock. Wil accused him of being the scummer, which I thought was just, you know, him being pissed off about being sent out there. But then he wound up being right about it and there was this huge police investigation, and he got to follow the entire thing.”
Nichola crossed her arms over her chest and sighed.
“He just knew?” she asked.
“Well, it was obvious somebody was doing it. I swear, we were there for two days. It was bad.” Billy watched her for a few moments, apparently forgetting all about his rice. “Why?”
Nichola tried to find the right words, but now that she had the chance to actually express her concern, she didn’t feel so confident all of a sudden. It felt like a betrayal to even think it now that she had an audience. Still, she took a deep breath and shook her head.
“Do you remember the rumours about him?” Nichola asked. She remembered rumours, but maybe she was remembering them wrong.
Billy shrugged. “Yeah, he started them himself, didn’t he? He’s always been good at deflection like that.”
“Right,” Nichola said. The ex that fucked him up. Or at least, that was the assumed story, since he never actually talked about it. But those who knew him closely assumed was easier to be known for being some slutty little twink than someone who was absolutely terrified of other human beings.
Unless there was no ex, and the rumours were true, and whatever had fucked him up had happened after the point he’d reset to.
“I think he’s scumming,” Nichola said abruptly. It didn’t feel good to say it.
Worse, it didn’t seem to sit well with Billy, which just made her feel even more wrong for saying it.
“That’s… a pretty big accusation. How’d you come to that conclusion?”
She knew she shouldn’t have gone to Billy. As much as they acted like they hated each other sometimes, he truly was Wilford’s best friend, and had been mother-henning him since they day they met. Wilford may not have been the scrawny, damaged little weirdo he used to be, but Billy had never really got out of the habit of treating him like that’s what he was.
Nichola sighed again. “You know that place he goes sometimes? I found it a couple weeks ago, and mostly I’ve just been going back to annoy him. But he…” she almost said he has friends there, but that felt wrong before she even said it. “He knows people there. I think he’s pissed off people there, and they were very ready to gossip about him. I think they were probably just glad to have someone to bitch at who’d understand.”
Billy watched her critically the entire time, but she tried not to see it. This was a reporter skill; not a producer skill. All she could do was keep rushing forward and hope she said the right things.
“One of them told me about the time you guys apparently went up to Canada to do a piece on the Washington twins.”
Billy’s expression changed from one of criticism to concern. “We never went to Canada. That was distinctly someone else’s problem. He made a very big deal about that.”
“Uh-huh,” Nichola agreed. “Except this guy told me that everyone got killed up there.”
Billy shrugged. “That happens all the time. If he was the last man standing, it was probably his reset.”
“Uh-huh,” Nichola agreed again. “Except, the other guy said something else. A few things, actually. He said Buster isn’t actually a surprisingly spry elderly dog. He’s probably about three years old.”
“What? How? I’ve had to put up with that dog for a lot longer than three years.” Billy put his lunch down and sat forward in his seat, suddenly invested in this conversation.
“Buster didn’t live with some mysterious friend that lived out of town. He kept Buster in his little pocket dimension. Apparently things don’t age there.” The more she said, the more serious the accusations felt, leaving a sour feeling in her stomach.
“What else did he say?” Billy asked slowly.
This was the most damning of all. It was the part she didn’t want to actually give voice to, in case it was true. She checked to make sure the door was closed, and stepped closer to Billy.
“He said,” she started slowly, suddenly unsure what to do with her hands. “That when he met Wil, he was about the same age that he is now. But that he’s been much younger since that.”
She wondered how much silver she’d get for this betrayal.
Billy took a deep breath and buried his face in his hands, shoving his glasses off so they almost fell onto the floor. He slowly exhaled, staying like that for a long moment.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
“I literally don’t know why he’d lie to a stranger. He seemed pretty eager to tell me, like he thought he’d be getting Wil in trouble. But he didn’t really know what it meant.”
“If it’s true,” Billy started, taking another deep breath. “This is bad. But if this guy knew he was getting Wil into trouble, then he might have known more about it than he was letting on.”
Nichola nodded slowly. She didn’t want Wilford to be causing trouble like this. But if he were…
“Maybe you should talk to him,” Billy suggested. “He’s already done his ADR, so he’s probably gone back home if he’s not hanging out in his pocket dimension.”
“Yeah,” she agreed. “That’s probably best. I just…”
This sucked. She wished she hadn’t heard these things, because now she has to deal with them.
“I can’t cover for him. I’m not that good of a liar. And neither are you,” she said.
Billy made a sound that was trying to be a laugh. “Bitch, I’ve been lying for him and covering his ass for half my life.”
Somehow, that almost made her feel better. “Good. You can do the lying. But I guess I have to go do the shouting, first.”
Her thoughts drifted to dark places. She wondered how long Wilford would last in prison. He got bored and did stupid things so easily. It wouldn’t take much for something to set him off in an irrevocable way.
“Wish me luck,” she said, turning back toward the door.
“Hey,” Billy said quickly. “I know you’re still pissed off at him for other things, but you know him. Don’t do something stupid just because you’re angry over fireworks.”
Nichola nodded, but didn’t know what to say to that. Steeling herself for the battle ahead, she opened the door and slipped out of the supply closet. This was not going to be a pleasant conversation.
She could hear Wilford’s music as she pulled into the driveway. That was a good sign. It meant he wasn’t out causing more problems. It was also concerning, because it meant he was in the sort of mood that meant he was home at two o’clock in the afternoon. If he was in another one of his self-loathing, depressive ruts, this conversation was going to have to wait. She didn’t want it to wait.
The landscapers had finished sorting out the path to the back yard, meaning she didn’t have to cut through the house to find the source of the music. Which was perfectly fine, because the cactus in front of the downstairs door was still standing tall, in front of the door. She walked up the white concrete stairs, greeted halfway by Buster, obliviously unaware that anything was wrong.
“Close the gate!” Wilford shouted at her over the music.
Nichola glanced back to make sure the gate at the bottom of the stairs was closed, and continued to head up the stairs.
“What are you doing out here?” she asked as she reached the landing, finding Wilford actually in his pool on an inflatable lounger while he read something on his iPad. A small flock of rubber ducks floated around him, each holding its own can of beer low enough in the water to keep it cool.
“Reading about health code bullshit. What’s it look like?” Wilford says.
“God, I wish I had your complexion. I’d turn into a lobster after ten minutes,” Nichola said as she walked over to the pool and sat down in a deck chair that was under the most amount of shade.
Without looking at her, Wilford reached out for one of his rubber ducks and tossed it toward Nichola. For some reason, she was surprised that the can it was holding hadn’t actually been opened yet. “Cute,” she said, pulling the beer out of the duck.
“What are you doing here?” Wilford asked. “If it’s to lecture, you can give me my beer back and leave.”
Nichola started to open the can, but set it down instead.
“I’m not here to lecture,” she said. “But I do have to talk to you about something.”
Even behind his sunglasses, Nichola could see Wilford rolling his eyes. “Oh, good god,” he muttered.
“Someone said something to me, and I just want to know if it’s true.” She felt a tightness in her chest, dreading that he’d confirm it.
“I’m very busy reading about health code bullshit. Go away,” Wilford said, turning his attention back to his screen.
Nichola started to ask what he was talking about, but stopped herself before she got sidetracked by something trivial and stupid.
“Someone told me you’re save-scumming,” Nichola said abruptly, getting it all out of the way and in the open. “I need to know what you’ve done to put me in danger; what you’ve done to put Dennis in danger, and everyone else.”
Wilford dropped his iPad onto his lap and looked over at her. Behind his sunglasses and moustache, his expression was almost completely unreadable, but she could see the stiffness in his shoulders, and hear the irritated huff that came from him. They stayed silent, staring at one another for a long moment. Nichola didn’t want to break the silence to plead for an answer, but the longer the silence dragged on, the more she knew she’d have to.
“Wilford, what have you done?” she demanded finally.
He huffed again. “Nothing. Get the fuck out of my yard. And close the gate behind you.” He picked up his iPad again and resumed his reading.
“Just like that? You’re not even going to offer me an explanation?” she asked. “I know where you kept Buster all those years. I know he’s not as old as he should be because of it.”
“Leave.”
“I just want to know when. Was it before you stole my job, or after?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. For the last goddamn time, I did not take your job. You were in the fucking website room. Yeah, I took your story. So fucking what. Look where you are now because of it.” He acted like he wanted to slap his iPad down, but lacked a suitable surface on which to do so. “And you know what? I took your story the first time around too. And I made sure it took just as long to break as it did before, because I am not a goddamn idiot. I know what happens when you fuck around with timelines and Events.”
Nichola felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. She’d wanted to hear him deny it, and to tell her to get fucked a few more times. Instead, he’d admitted it, just like that.
“Why?” was all she could ask.
This felt like the price for her betrayal. Now she’d been betrayed by one of her best friends.
“Doesn’t matter. It’s done. It was a stupid fucking idea anyway.” She could hear the resentment in his voice, so she knew that much at least was true. But that didn’t make it any easier to deal with.
“Wil. What was the purpose of doing it if you weren’t trying to change anything?” she asked.
Wilford looked back over at her.
“I need to know,” Nichola insisted. “As much as I love you, I am not going to lie for you when the cops come to my door. How deep does this go?”
“Do you want to know what I changed?” Wilford asked. “Fine. I got fucking shot. That sucked. Wish I could have avoided that, since I don’t remember how I did the first time. And I bought a different house when we came out here, because I didn’t remember liking the old neighbourhood much.”
“We moved out here last time?” Nichola asked.
That was… that was good. It meant they had more or less followed the same trajectory, so there was likely little gain.
It didn’t make any of this feel any better though.
“Do I get to know why?” she asked.
She could practically feel Wilford’s tension from where she sat. He was silent for a long while again, neither looking at her nor at his iPad.
“Do you remember that fucker you brought on the show a few months ago? Because you thought he’d boost our ratings?” he asked.
“You mean when you dyed your hair pink like an idiot? Yeah, I remember. What does he have to do with anything?”
“You didn’t recognise him?” Wilford asked.
Nichola shook her head. She’d heard of him, but really had no idea who he was.
“I did. Because he’s been putting his nose in every big story since Slenderman. He was real involved with old Slendy. It made him cocky. But I forgot about him until Fazbear’s re-opened last year and those kids started going missing again. And I saw that fucker’s face in some picture or something. But that was weird, because I’d reported on his death after Slendy. I definitely remember saying the words ‘hit by a bus.’”
Nichola suddenly remembered how that interview had gone. Extremely poorly, for one. But also laden with confessions that Wilford barely had to work for.
“So, you, what? Reset fifteen years just for one interview? Why?” It still didn’t make any sense.
Wilford shrugged.
“I don’t know. But I wished I hadn’t the second I did it.” He picked up his iPad again and resumed his reading.
Nichola mulled that over. Impulsive and ill-thought was exactly Wilford’s way of doing things, which made a lot more sense than anything her brain had invented. It still didn’t really make sense even then, but it was an acceptable amount of nonsense.
“Thank you,” Nichola said, hoping she’d feel better in time.
Wilford responded with the uncomfortable grumbling noise he made when anybody thanked him for anything.
“Now, why are you reading about health code?” she asked, eager to change the subject to something less uncomfortable for both of them.
“For my restaurant,” Wilford said.
It took a second for Nichola to parse what he’d just said. “What restaurant?” she asked.
Wilford paused before answering. “The one I bought last week?”
Nichola’s eyes widened so much, they hurt. “What? Wilford!” She threw her hands into the air, and decided she wanted that beer after all. “I mean, as far as impulse decisions go, this isn’t the worst one you’ve told me about in the last ten minutes. Why do you need a restaurant?”
Wilford shrugged. “Seemed like a good idea. Didn’t immediately regret it, so it can’t be that bad.”
“Do you know anything about running a restaurant?” Nichola asked.
“Nope,” Wilford said, shaking his head. “That’s why…”
He trailed off and sat up quickly.
“Where’s my dog?” he asked, looking around the walled yard.
“Uhm.” Nichola stood up and looked around as well. “Buster! Come here, boy!” she called out.
Normally, he’d bark and come crashing over. But the yard was totally silent.
“Oh, fuck. Where is he?” Both doors leading inside were closed, so Nichola started heading back down the stairs.
“I told you to shut the fucking gate!” Wilford shouted over a sudden amount of splashing as he rushed to get out of the pool.
Before she even got to the stairs, she could see the gate below standing wide open.
“Oh, fuck, Wil. I think he got out.”
This was her payback. She spared a glance back at Wilford, hoping he wouldn’t lose his mind over this, and ran down the stairs, calling for the dog. Down on the street, there was no sign of him. Since he wasn’t some old, crumbling dog, he could probably get pretty far on his own, and who even knew how long ago he’d escaped.
Nichola pulled her phone out of her jacket pocket and pulled up Tweetr, taking only a few seconds to post a picture of the dog with an announcement that he’d gone missing up in the Hills. It took a little longer to swap over to the show’s account, to repost the message, and then to hop over to Wilford’s account to do the same. After that, she zipped off a text to Billy to tell him to let the media team know to start verifying any responses that might come in. Everyone at the studio knew Wilford’s dog, so it would be fairly easy for them to recognise him in any pictures that were posted.
By the time she was finished with that, Wilford had made it down the stairs, having apparently stopped to find a shirt first.
“Why didn’t you close the fucking gate?” he shouted, trying to avoid stepping onto pavement that had been in the sun recently, since hadn’t had the time to grab shoes.
“I thought it was closed! I’m sorry!” It had looked closed.
Wilford started to step out toward the street, but afternoon sun on the pavement didn’t make that an easy task for him.
“Wil, go put some shoes on. You’ll burn yourself,” Nichola said, trying to corral him back toward the house.
“Where’s my fucking dog?” he demanded. She could already hear the desperation in his voice.
He’d squirrelled the dog away into a pocket dimension for 15 years so it didn’t get old, and after all that, she’d gone and let it out. This was probably something people went to hell for.
“Go inside and put on shoes,” she said, trying to keep her voice level. “I’ve already let people know. We’ll go call animal control and see if they’ve already picked him up, or if not, have them keep an eye out for him.”
Wilford wasn’t going to calm down. She’d always suspected that the dog was some sort of support animal, which was why she was so nervous about how old it was apparently not getting. Seeing him get so agitated so quickly, she was surprised she hadn’t realised on her own that he would have found some way to make it live forever.
“We will find him,” she said, trying to pull Wilford away from the street and back toward the house. “Let’s go inside and put on shoes first, and then get your phone in case someone finds him and calls you.”
That seemed to get through. Wilford nodded and turned to head back up the stairs. Nichola watched him go, knowing that she was being punished for sticking her nose in where it didn’t belong. Once Wilford was up the stairs and out of sight, she sighed and looked up the number for animal control.