Hello and welcome!

This story is a continuation of Pink and Baptize Me In, you can find the links on my main page, and if you are so inclined you can read those stories. Where Pink and BMI were first person POV from Stan's side, Who Answers is from Red's side. Both Pink and BMI contain mentions of suicide, lots of turbulent emotions, mentions of alcoholism, and such so please be prepared for that. Who Answers will continue to be in the same vein, though not with so much of the suicide and self harm as the first two.

Red is going to be attempting to learn how to live life a bit differently than before, and change is sometimes a very difficult thing.

Chasing ghosts was no way to live. I knew that, I'd known it since the day my dad died. I'd chased his ghost for years, hounded it, begged and pleaded with it in every dream, waking or not. Now the ghost was a shadow and I couldn't remember his face anymore, couldn't remember his voice, and the memories that remained had grown tainted by the chase. In the desperation to catch a ghost I'd lost sight of my dad, and all that remained was a dark form in my memories.

I lay in bed, wide awake and staring at the line of morning slowly making its way across the ceiling. Stan was asleep, snoring slightly and drooling on my shoulder where he'd rested his head. We'd had back-to-back appointments at the counselor the day before. The emotional strain always left Stan wiped out; he crashed hard and slept deeply enough that an explosion wouldn't have woken him. I just left those meetings feeling raw and bruised. I didn't like having my emotions probed, despised the feeling that I was being bullied into speaking. I'd promised Stan, though, and I was resolute in that promise. Besides, while Stan went every week I only went once a month and that was a small price to pay to work towards a better home life.

Still, it took a lot out of me to make it in each time. The sessions brought up feelings, and the feelings brought back memories of my dad - or rather, memories of when dad stopped being around.

Some memories were better left buried.

I wanted to get up. No, I wanted to sleep. I really didn't know what I wanted. The air seemed heavy, maybe a storm was coming, and I was finding it hard to breathe. Stan shifted at my side, the arm he'd laid across my chest curling around me slightly. I envied his peaceful slumber, though I knew that there was no way of knowing what state he'd be in until he woke. I traced a finger lightly over the line of his bicep, down the curve of his elbow and across his forearm. He'd lost some muscle mass the past couple years, he wasn't playing football anymore, but he was still toned enough that I could feel the definition. He'd managed to keep up a workout routine, despite no longer playing sports. It gave him something to focus on, something to drive him. I envied him that as well.

Carefully I maneuvered myself from under Stan's arm and propped his head on the pillow. He continued sleeping without a hitch, though a slight frown curved his lips. Gently I stroked his hair back from his forehead, ran fingertips lightly over his cheek, and his expression relaxed again. Quietly I padded out of the room, closing the door softly behind me. I headed to the kitchen, aching for a cup of coffee, but found I'd woke too early for the coffee maker. It ran on a timer, set to start brewing at six fifteen, just right to be piping hot when I usually woke up. I considered running it early, but decided to wait it out. If I ran it then the coffee would be cold by the time Stan got up, and there was no sense running the coffee maker twice. We really should invest in a Keurig, I thought. It had all those mocha caramel kahlua flavored coffees Stan liked.

I wandered into the living room, glancing around aimlessly. I liked waking up early but being unable to sleep all night was a different beast. My fingers wandered over the edge of the tv stand, I shoved the coffee table with my foot to straighten it out. The sun was beginning to shine through the slats in the blinds and one streak of light hit me directly in the eye as I neared the window. With a grimace I turned back around and settled heavily on the couch. I felt bone deep weary, wasted, drained and finite. My fingers tapped against the couch arm restlessly. Outside the window a robin called, another answered. I frowned at nothing and stared in the direction If the dark tv screen.

I hated spring.

Kyle came to the shop sometime after lunch. He'd made a habit of it the last few weeks after he was given a new shift, coming over a couple of times a week for an hour or so before his shift started. He'd page through the tattoo binders and chat with Oliver and just BE, just exist, an extra presence I couldn't quite get used to.

I'd never had much of an opinion of him growing up. He was there, just like everyone else, a peripheral body shape at the edges of my attention. He was an Other in our majorly white Christian town, but he tried to fit in, and I'd placed him firmly onto the "Wannabe In Crowd" list in my head and promptly stopped giving a crap about him early on. Then high school came and things got shaken up for a lot of people. Still, if it wasn't for Stan I wouldn't have paid him much attention anyways. In Crowders were annoying, but the brand of anarchist Kyle had been the first two years of high school had bordered on dangerous.

He'd changed. I mused on that thought as I cleaned up my station and Kyle paged through a binder for the umpteenth time, chewing on his lip ring. He wasn't quite as impulsive as he had been then. He wasn't as explosive as he had been after Kenny left. But there was still a sharp sort of calculation about him, hiding behind the gray of his eyes. Waiting.

It scared me.

"Pick a design yet?" I asked, sorting through the clean needles I'd pulled out of the sanitizer.

"I d-don't know," Kyle answered, leaning back in his chair. He looked at me, "It's a b-big decision."

He wasn't looking for a design. He was looking for resolve. I wondered if Stan knew what he was planning, but doubted it. Stan would've brought it up if he'd had - which meant that I knew something about Kyle that he didn't. The thought made my skin prickle.

"Whatever," I packed the needles away and pulled the gloves off of my hands. Then, thinking my response had been a little too curt, I added, "Whenever you're ready let me know."

Kyle eyed me curiously a moment, but he grinned in response.

"W-well I have t-to get to w-work," he said, closing the binder and getting up. "I'll s-see you around."

I gave him half a wave as he walked back towards the front. I didn't mind his intrusions, though they sometimes set me on edge. We barely talked, and it wasn't as if we were hanging out because we were friends. Well, we were friendly to each other but we weren't exactly close. I appreciated his presence though, even if it made me something like nervous. It kept me awake.

I'd been supposed go over to Henrietta's for dinner and a movie that night, our bi-weekly ritual, but we had to postpone because her cat got sick. I felt for Jericho, I did, but it still irked me, and I left work feeling fouler than I had in a while.

I hadn't called Stan to let him know, so he hadn't been expecting me to be home early. Still, his surprise was of the happy sort, and he greeted me with a smile and a hug, and I was sharply reminded of the Stan I remembered from years before - before the secrets and the anguish and betrayals and the dead boys. Maybe the counseling sessions really were working for him. I hoped they were.

"No movie tonight?" Stan asked.

"Jericho ate a ball of rubberbands and Henrietta had to take him to the vet," I explained with a sigh. I sighed a lot lately, even I could tell. With a frown I tossed my keys towards the keyring holder on the wall. I missed, although they probably wouldn't have caught properly to hang anyways. It was a stupid and mindless thing to do but it matched my mood perfectly.

Stan looked down at the keys where they'd fallen, then looked at me. I shrugged.

"Are you going running?" I asked instead of answering his unspoken question. Stupid again because why else would he be wearing his running shorts and shirt and shoes.

"Yeah, I was going to take a lap around the park." Stan grinned. He'd started his runs to keep in shape, then he'd continued them to help take his mind off drinking when he went sober. At least he had a productive hobby that kept him going.

"Mind if I join you?" I asked, trying not to sound sour. I wasn't in the mood to sit at home, alone, waiting for Stan to get back.

"Yeah, if you want," Stan looked amused but had the presence of mind not to voice it.

I went to change, beginning to regrettably intrusion into his personal time. I hadn't slept the night before, I felt like shit, and now I was going to have to go running through the park, attempting to keep up with a guy who had years worth of built up stamina. Still, I got dressed into the only clothes I owned that passed for athletic: long black jogging pants, a random tee shirt, and a pair of sneakers I rarely wore.

The park was close by, and we walked over at a leisurely pace. The sun was out and the day was warm, and there were birds chirping in the bushes. I glared at them; they were no doubt the same ones that greeted me every morning outside the window, chirping as if they were seeing the sun for the first time.

"I know man, sparrows piss me off too," Stan commented in such a serious tone I had to chuckle. He grinned at me, obviously pleased he'd broken through my gloomy mood. What a loser.

And then we ran. Stan was gracious enough to slow down to my pace, although gracious was the sarcastic way of putting it probably. He was just being nice. Considerate in an actual way, not a condescending way. It was even pleasant, running with him, even if the sun did burn my eyes and my legs started aching long before we actually stopped. It felt like we were sharing something; I guess we were. It wasn't anything tangible, but it felt good.

We stopped finally at a water fountain. Stan looked barely winded. I felt like I'd just run a marathon while being rained on. My body was rejecting the idea of ever running ever again unless it's life depended on it and I was inclined to agree at the moment.

A few people passed us as we rehydrated at the fountain. They were running, and they looked cheerful and toned and good looking. And they all waved at Stan as they passed, and he waved back, and I felt a little sick but that was most likely because I hadn't run like that in years.

"Ready to go home?" Stan asked. I wiped water off my chin and tried to ignore the ache in my calves and the stitch in my side.

"Don't you usually stay out longer?" I wouldn't bring up the idea of continuing to run myself but I wasn't going down without a fight.

"Come on," Stan said, laying an arm across my shoulders and pulling me along. "Let's go, I'm starving."

I didn't argue. We headed back home, Stan chatting about his day as I caught my breath and walked off the stitch in my side. Every now and then someone new would jog past us, and like the others before they'd wave at Stan or say hi to him. They were all fit in some way, obviously runners that he'd met when he ran at the park. My mind gravitated towards the thought of how they were all a part of his life I had no knowledge of - I didn't recognize a single person who greeted him. It was an odd feeling, one I couldn't quite describe

Back home the feeling still hadn't subsided. I kicked my shoes off as Stan hung his keys up and tried not to focus on it, which backfired spectacularly, as always. It started feeling like jealousy, or maybe envy, and that never led to anything good.

"Hey," Stan said, his voice low, coming up to hug me from behind. "Let's order something for delivery..."

He ended the sentence with a kiss to my neck, wrapping his arms closer around me. I could feel his chest against my back, his body heat a welcome sign of his presence. I didn't have to ask what he had in mind; sometimes ordering out was just that, and sometimes...

I was tired, though. Worn out. The sleepless nights were getting to me and everything was getting painted in post production negative. I wasn't in the mood and I knew if I told him he'd back off because that's what Stan did, considerate Stan, and at the same time I couldn't imagine doing that to him because it wasn't his fault, after all.

A month ago the counselor had asked why I found bondage play erotic and the shock of having such a deeply personal question thrown at me still hadn't faded. Was there the implication that it was somehow wrong? That I was somehow wrong? The taint ran deep especially when the chance for intimacy arose. It wasn't Stan's fault, and I desperately wanted and needed the closeness, but between the sleepless nights and the tainted thoughts it was getting harder to keep myself from getting disgusted at the mere implication of sex.

What if there WAS something wrong with me?

"Thai sounds good," I said, with a certainty I was lacking on the inside. I turned within the embrace of Stan's arms and kissed him deeply, and his arms tightened around me comfortingly. Maybe I could finally sleep, if I tired myself out. Maybe he could prove to me that I wasn't wrong.