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Sherman knows something's wrong when he wakes up, because nothing hurts. He knows something's wrong because he wakes up in a bed and not the grave, not in that desolate, rocky and twisted fun-house mirror version of his life.
Sitting up, he opens his eyes, blinking the sleep from them harshly; he's in a hospital room. Off-white walls and beige tiled floors surround him, and his clothes-- when did they become his clothes and not a costume?-- sit folded at the foot of his bed, cleaned and carefully stitched back up. He worries the leather between his fingers, feels recently treated. Whoever's done this to him means to buy his favor.
He shucks off the hospital gown and worms his way back into his clothes, limbs feeling like jelly. Stumbling into the jeans, he finally looks outside.
The skyline of Nexus city is how he left it-- the residential buildings still stand, burnt and hollowed out and still lived in like great termite nests, the warehouses and factories continue to buzz like hives, or no, those parasitic slave-making anthills. Small fires dot the landscape, people cooking what they can, keeping warm as best humanity knows how. The only difference is the sky-- it stands eternally red-gray, as though a great asphalt dust storm was kicked up in the upper atmosphere by some celestial mustang, or the bull of heaven. There is no sun to speak of, no moon and no stars.
Shame. Sherman used to be able to get the time to the nearest half-hour based only on the position of the sun in the sky.
"Ah, Sheriff, I thought I heard movement in here," Jebediah's voice comes through the door as he opens it, stepping inside, "Welcome back to the land of the living."
Sherman doesn't bother to turn and look at him, eyes still trained on the city. "Ain't lookin much better than the land of the dead, pal. Got a cigarette?"
Jebediah tuts as he steps up beside the Sheriff. "That would kill you far too quickly, old friend."
He'd come to this conclusion a while after his death, a while after marching through hell on his own, whistling in the dark. It leaves his mouth easily, calm and final, "We ain't friends."
"I'm sorry?" He blinks, clearly thrown by the statement and turns to look at Sherman.
"We ain't friends, Jeb. Not after that." Shaking his head, he steps back from the window and begins to root around the drawers in the room.
There's a beat of silence as Christoff digests the blow. "...I didn't have to resurrect you, you know."
Aha, Sherman finds his gun in the dresser and holsters it, "And maybe I'd've been fine if you hadn't."
He turns around and Jeb is fuming, face tight, hand twitching by his side. He opens his mouth and the Sheriff interrupts him, "Don't get your knickers in a twist. You ain't my enemy, either. You just ain't my friend."
Jebediah balks, "You're telling me you'd rather suffer in literal hell than help-"
"Oh my god. Get the fuck off your high horse, Christoff, I trusted you--"
"How ungrateful can you-"
"Twice! I have trusted you twice! And both times, look what it's got me! Fuck, Jebediah, look what it's got us." He gestures to the window.
Jebediah doesn't look, instead closing his eyes and taking a slow breath. "The world is still here. Phobos is dead-- we've made good headway dealing with Wimbleton. You're alive. You have one of the most secure positions in Nevada. What's your problem?"
Sherman feels like he's going to have an aneurysm, stepping towards him. For someone so smart, Christoff is staggeringly stupid, "The city is in shambles and the fuckin sun is gone! That's my problem!"
Jebediah cuts the air between them with his hand, "That's not my fault! That brute decided to kill whatever was in front of him--"
"And whose fault is it that the sun was even a fuckin option?!" He points a finger in the other's face and the silence hangs there for a moment.
That is, until the sheriff realizes he doesn't need or want to hear whatever bullshit excuse Christoff is going to make, his accusing hand falls, "Mine. It's my fault."
The tension leaves Christoff's face and shoulders, casting some pitying look instead, "Sherman-..."
"Shut it. I don't want your pity." Sherman backs off to face the window again-- anything but continuing to look that man in the eye. "If I were a lesser man I'd say you did this to me."
There's silence, then the sound of Christoff's sandals scuffing the tile floor as he shuffles to sit on the edge of the bed. He's quiet for a few more moments before he decides to rip off the bandaid. "I don't understand."
"I'm only in this at all cause'a you." He admits, arms wrapping around himself to hold each other. "I wasn't a leader, Christoff, I was a damn show pony. I sold shit, and I was good for that and not much more. If you hadn't asked me to get folks together before the fall, then... I don't know, I probably would have hunkered down and died like the rest of 'em."
"You're a resourceful man. Surely not."
"Yknow who else are resourceful? Those bunch'a cannibals in the outskirts."
Jebediah frowns, and says nothing.
Sherman sighs in turn, "Point is, I trusted you to help fix this city, and I got a zombie apocalypse instead. And I guess that's better than the world ending entirely. But then you say you'll help me with the Hank issue-- and I'm thinkin he's just some violent fuckin guy that hates my guts, and suddenly I'm wrapped up in this whole employer mess-- I don't even get half the science behind it, not the way you do. You put me behind that button and said there was no other way, and I trusted you, and then the world broke."
He swallows, "And it was my own fault, cause I didn't learn the first time that you're just too goddamned reckless. I've got people to look after now. It's not just my neck on the line."
Again, Jebediah either cannot or will not respond.
It's all well and good. Sherman doesn't want to hear it anyhow, as he turns to face him.
"You're a regular bleedin heart, Jeb. And I like you, I do. But I can't trust you, and you ain't my friend. So here's the deal," He rests a thumb in his belt loop and gestures with his free hand, "Whatever you've got goin on, keep me out of it. If you absolutely need my help, it'd better be good, and the plan had better be air-fuckin-tight before you approach me. Til then?"
The harsh words he wants to say dissipate on his tongue. He puts a hand on the other man's shoulder, giving a firm, but genial, squeeze, "Safe travels, Jebediah."
Sherman grabs his jacket and leaves him in that room.