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this thread came to me in a dream (valentine teegarden returns from hell)
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“I’ll take care of the mail.”

He takes another sip of brandy.

“…I assume there’s a great deal of it.”

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"Only a little!"

Insofar as qualitative statements can be true, this one is false.

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He actually laughs, at that.

“…reading the mail,” he says, staring at his steeping tea. “I really can’t believe it.”

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"Neither can I."

 

They hit the books in earnest, after that. By the time school lets out, they've established that the Unitarians have rigorous background checks and a strictly-enforced two-deep policy -- which doesn't rule anything out, but does make it less likely -- the bodies aren't showing up around the full moon, one of them had children so they can't be virgins, and the local endangered salamanders are doing just fine.

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Valentine is flagging, somewhat, by that time. He misses whole sentences spoken aloud, scans lines of text again and again without comprehending them.

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When the door slams upstairs, he goes very still.

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"...do you want to see Cato right now, or should I distract him."

Or, rather: do you want to be seen by Cato, like this.

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“I’d rather not choose, thank you,” he says, mechanically, and then he stops and bites his tongue.

 

“…he’ll want to make sure I’m still here, I’d expect.”

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He could cry. He didn't know that spaghetti was bad -- that touching was bad -- that asking questions was bad -- 

 

"--if you lie down I'll tell him you're asleep and let him peek in."

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“…thank you. I’m sorry.”

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"Please don't be."

Off he goes to quiz Cato on whether he got notes from a classmate for his morning classes.

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“Nothing happened?” says Cato, conveniently skipping over the question of notes.

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"We worked on the lake monster until he started to nod off. He's -- not at a hundred percent yet. I think he's going to need a lot of rest."

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“…yeah.”

 

“Did he tell you what happened?”

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"He didn't want to talk about it."

And if Valentine writes up a summary, Cato doesn't need to see it.

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“—he has to at least tell us who got him.”

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"You're not wrong. Just -- maybe after he's managed to eat a full meal."

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“…he’s not eating?”

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"A little. And hydrating, so I'm not too worried."

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He hangs up his backpack, shucks off his shoes.

 

“I’m going to kill them. Whoever it was.”

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"Not if I get there first."

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He takes the stairs up two at a time.

When he comes back downstairs, he has his other backpack with him.

“Did he figure out the lake monster?”

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"He thinks it might not actually be a lake thing." And that was pretty much the only coherent insight he managed to articulate all day, but Camillo isn't going to say that.

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“Then why are all the bodies in the lake,” he says, skeptically.

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"Really convenient lake? Did it once, and why change what works?"

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