#𝐕 . 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 — happiness is a butterfly ( arc two ).

[dadukos]

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 — fred’s apartment, sometime after sundown. 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 — kaya valdés.

❝ 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ? ❞, freddie doesn’t quite mean the maternal tone of her voice — unwarranted when she is not exactly the poster child for self care. she sounds so much like angie, now, and she hates this look on herself. so she bites her tongue, welcomes ( almost shoves ) kaya inside, and points to the couch so that she may sit. well, first she rushes to move a few paperbacks, the remote, a sweatshirt and a half pack of cigarettes out of the way. ❝ sit down, i’ll go get the first aid kit ❞, she declares, not much of a question — when she returns from the bathroom she stops by the kitchen first, grabs a bottle of whiskey and sets it down on the coffee table just in front of kaya. this, well — an invitation for sure. — @sacraementals.

[dadukos-arc]

st. peter’s bar, ashford, ca. may 25th, 10:38 pm.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐈𝐒𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐅𝐔𝐋 𝐅𝐎𝐑. by this time, every night, it swells up to a peaceful clamor — in the drowning she is safe. the clattering of plates and cutlery, laughter and cheers from good spirited patrons, her own pantheon is an ode to life: even here, in the underground of existence, there is room for celebration. yet her attention is hardly swayed — in between harmless flirtations and well-meaning jests, freddie moves along private routes she’s traced over and over through the corners of st. peter’s: this purgatory is her kingdom, she walks it with purpose. and through tables and orders, emergency restocks of beer and steaming hot plates from the kitchen, a wary glance is always cast to the corner: where maria sits at the counter, pouring gloom into her drink when not lighting herself up for the pleasure of bystanders. by ten p.m., fred makes a conscious decision to make time for the girl — and by ten thirty she’s finally able to follow through, free of customers at last, neglecting her bartending duties if only for the span of a snack. a scalding hot plate of fries is set before the girl, and it comes with a quick smirk, and a vaguely threatening look. “ you gotta eat somethin’, love. ” spoken with intention, with a warning. it’s a weird sort of concern that ties her to maria — she who came from a memory of long ago, from a ghost across the pond, and sometimes looks more like a splinter burrowing its way under the skin than the delicate flower many patrons believe her to be. fred likes to think she knows the truth, or a version of it: that every girl that looks broken has in fact learned her way around sharpness, and can cut where it’s tender, can cut when it’s softest. leaning over the counter, fred pushes the plate a little closer to her, but steals one fry in doing so. “ c’mon. i don’t wanna have to drag you half-dead to my place. ” —— @crimewrought​.

[stfreds-archived]

𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆.

a summary by chapters of fred dawson’s life / main verse ( TW : long post —— ft. mentions of domestic abuse, violence and general abuse, child abandonment, torture, human trafficking, forced s ex work ).

𝐕 . 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 — there’s freedom to and freedom from ( prequel ). freddie gallagher, the wife of james a. gallagher, is a s ex worker within the ranks of notorious mobster victor cullen ( her uncle ) in the el paso, texas area. she is forced into the profession as she is forced into her abusive marriage. at the age of twenty-six, after learning she is pregnant, she manages to escape and make herself lost to her family and victor’s crime ring. she gives birth to her child in an arizona hospital, and leaves it behind, giving it up for adoption, then her journey continues, away from texas.

𝐕 . 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 — hope is a dangerous thing ( arc one ). a semblance of a life is gained slowly, achingly, bit by bit, in a town that looks too much like purgatory not to make her wish for atonement. it’s not heaven, despite the name of the place she first sets foot inside: st. peter’s, peter andrews’ bar. he takes her in, gives her food, and a job —— she takes the name of freddie dawson, and with a fake id begins rebuilding herself. a huge step towards a life worth living is achieved by befriending moa zhao, best friend and the total of her family. later on, astoria grim, adopted as a sister. a chance at love is given, too: some casual hookups with a few serious things peppered here and there ( tom keen, notably, remains her boyfriend for more than a little while ). but she remains one foot out of the door, always: a fear in her lungs won’t let her truly breathe in. she looks at the horizon, she’s waiting for a storm.

𝐕 . 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 — happiness is a butterfly ( arc two ). he comes in with the rain, and despite the fear that won’t let go of her, she lets him drown her. kal anderson takes her by surprise, a hurricane with no warning —— she falls in love, harder than she ever has, too fast to hold herself steady. it’s powerful, it’s unbelievable, it’s everything she’s craved: a passion so strong it annihilates her fear, a belonging so certain, so true that she can hardly tell where she ends and he begins. for a year she is his, and he, hers —— by the fourth month he’s moved into her place and she swears to god she doesn’t need anything other than all this love, all the tidal waves of it, for the rest of her life. through him she meets charlie jenkins, kal’s apprentice and coworker, reckless and young and as chaotic as the brother she never had, and severin moran, kal’s old friend, also reckless and also chaotic, but somehow, she senses, broken enough to be recognized as her similar: a kindred spirit. for the first time, freddie dawson is happy. she’s truly, desperately happy. 

𝐕 . 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 — covered in scars a canyon deep ( arc three ). but kal has secrets, and ways of escaping her, and one day when his demons catch up with him, the truth resurfaces: he was never the charming mechanic come from up north, but a mercenary. there is a hit on her head, a claim raised by her uncle who wants her back —— and he, poor kal anderson, is none other than ilias abørn, gun for hire who’s come to collect his bounty. except he’s fallen for it too, and in spite of the lies, they both know: the wildifre burning them up is real. the love, the annihilation of it all is real. and she swears she can forgive him, they can run away, they can make it work —— but one day he’s gone and she realizes: she’s drowned in him for real, and she can’t swim back up to the surface. 

𝐕 . 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 — maybe god can be on both sides of a gun ( arc four ). ilias goes back to new york, not just to leave her behind but to face his demons. she learns, without really meaning to, that his demons have the shape of a crime syndicate in which he was forced as a child, by which he was trained and raised under the rule of one sociopath by the name of poe. it is him that ilias goes to face, expecting punishment for the way he so spectacularly screwed up his assignment. some of ilias’ fellow mercenaries lead fred to the sugar factory where he was raised and being held, and together they free him from his torture. it is the moment in which she first realizes the width of her desperate devotion, the lengths she’d go to for him, how her heart has found, in the end, a home — and will refuse to let it go. for about two weeks they try to make it work, escape together and find a real chance at life. two weeks in, ilias gives up and, in order to protect her, disappears: in the end, it turns out he is much better than fred ever was at martyrdom. 

𝐕 . 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 — how to draw a line between wrath and mercy ( arc five ). hope is a stubborn, flickering flame —— but it can be snuffed out. hers dies when she gets ilias’ dog tags delivered in the mail. maybe she’s too weak to fight it, or maybe it’s just easier to tell herself he’s dead —— gone, vanished. that there is nothing left to fight for, not even her survival. she dies little by little, the flame in her eyes shrinking until she can’t muster up a smile not even for her closest friends —— so she leaves. leaves a town behind where every corner reminds her of him and a time she was truly, overwhelmingly happy. for about six months she hides away between utah and nevada, nursing her grief, slowly, then, with all the love carved out of her, her flickering flame turns into rage —— and rage is a quiet thing. it becomes evident to her how everything good she ever owned, every ounce of love she ever fought teeth and nails for, has been over and over destroyed by her uncle turned jailer, victor cullen. knowing he'd never really give up looking for her and make her pay for the sin of having escaped his grasp, one day she decides to surrender herself in an act of equal parts punishment and guts. because if there is one thing that can keep her going, it's the need for an enemy: and, she figures, she's always been good at acting. she surrenders herself to him and his crime ring, acting like the contrite prodigal niece, returns to texas and for the following two years plays her cards so well she's got him fooled. within the prison that is her commitment to victor’s operation she meets ira dunham, trapped like her, unwilling accomplice like her. the two grow into close friends, relying on each other to survive their shared sentence —— it’s thanks to ira’s help, also, that fred manages to fool victor. he, forever underestimating her, doesn't get it —— how she does his bidding only to keep gathering information on him. how she becomes his right hand only to be entrusted into private meetings and confidential files. how she acts as his accomplice in the business of human and drug trafficking because she's the only one who can sabotage him from the inside, look after his prisoners, and send his operation into flames. he doesn't know. when he catches up, it's too late. three things happen quickly after one another: first, freddie learns ilias is actually alive, but in hiding. a few days later she finds people she can strike a deal with, in hopes to trade all her intel on victor’s operation for ilias’ freedom —— she turns to detective sorensen, at first, and when she realizes jessica sorensen can’t be trusted either, she strikes a deal with detective nam. third, in a shocking turn of events, ilias comes to texas to settle her score with victor.

𝐕 . 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 — kill the angels if they’re keeping guard ( arc six ).  the rest is a greek tragedy —— victor finds ilias, victor takes him, victor tortures him. once more, it’s fred’s life within his hands: and when victor puts a gun in her hands and orders her to shoot ilias, the love of her life, believing freddie to have been corrupted for good, freddie puts an end to the story, and shoots her uncle instead. somehow, she and ilias make it out. somehow they survive. scattered and broken and drenched in trauma that carries the iron scent of blood and death, but they survive. over the years, little by little, they find some semblance of peace. they nurse each other’s scars, and though they can never truly be happy or themselves again, they find a balance —— between terror and beauty, between rage and devotion. eventually, fred and ilias move to a small town on the oregon coast, and try to earn themselves a piece of purgatory. it’s not a happy ending, no —— but they have each other, and what’s left of them is two hearts refusing to give in for good. once a wildfire, now a flickering flame: but still burning.

[dadukos]

𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐀𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐈 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐄𝐃, just to handle the few urgent bar matters ( a couple bottles left out of the fridge, two dirty plates that needed to be rinsed for the washing machine, a spill of beer near the sink ), and then smiled. ❝ don’t know what you mean, i’m perfectly fine ❞, she lied, a playful expression peeking out of tired eyes. still, she moved to pour herself a beer and then presented it, her hands making a voilà gesture, before taking a sip. ❝ see ? i follow my own advice. ❞

then, setting the beer down, she leaned across the counter — her gaze offering sympathy, demanding honesty. the look on desi’s face spoke volumes, but it still felt like an urgent matter, to coax the words out of her. ❝ how are you ? ❞, she asked, her voice lower.

Desi narrowed her eyes as her gaze shifted to Fred, shooting a glare in response. she wasn't wrong though. Desi sure as hell felt like crap, she didn't doubt she looked just as rough. ❛❛ i just finished a 24 hour shift. ❜❜ a very difficult 24 hour shift, that concluded with her attending the scene of a shooting ⸺ they were always the hardest.

she knew she probably should've went to a support meeting, instead of straight to the bar after a difficult shift. but she didn't feel much like talking, and she really didn't want to listen to anyone else. ❛❛ so, what's your excuse? ❜❜ she then offered a sarcastic smirk, before bringing the glass to her lips.

[dadukos]

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 — st. peter's bar & grill, ashford, ca. 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 — desi martin.

𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐑𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀 𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐄𝐖 — her prying gaze is reserved solely for a selected few —— the closest ones, rare conquerors of a little more honest affection than the fair-weather smile she puts on for the sake of customers. desi, so lucky for her, is one such case. though she hasn't said much, fred's gaze has been alert and curious, gathering clues scattered around her features — furrowed eyebrows, a slight pout of her lips, tension in the curve of her back. once her work of observing and developing a diagnosis is through, fred turns to the vast array of bottles behind her, pours, mixes, and then finally sets down a tall old fashioned right before desi's eyes. ❝ drink ❞, she commands. ❝ you look like crap. ❞ — @brokenmedic.

[dadukos]

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: st. peter’s bar & grill, ashford, ca. 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: alix tabris.

𝐈𝐍 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐔𝐍𝐂𝐇 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 is a stillness so thick it can alter the passing of time — freddie feels it, dragging along like a half dead carcass until the first glimmers of life trickle in, at sundown. two people is far too many to man the bar, at an hour like this, and yet alix’s presence is miraculous at best. ‘cause when that guy comes in, whose texts have been unrelenting ever since he by absolute chance found her number and just until she got around to figuring out the block function on her phone, fred can pretend some urgent business is trapping her in the back, and he is alix’s to deal with. she feels bad of course, and will beg forgiveness in the form of half her tips: but that won’t stop her from waiting until she hears the bell on the door ring on his way out, and even then, she only really pokes her head out of the hallway to the back. ❝ is he gone ? ❞, fred whispers. then, awkwardly, grins. ❝ how much are you hating me right now ? ❞ — @sacraementals.

[dadukos]

@demottcm / continued.

𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘 𝐎𝐔𝐓 like she’d seen the movie before. at times the town seemed trapped into its own special brand of stillness, a washed out purgatory in between real life and complete oblivion —— and then something would intrude, a splinter from the outer world, doing nothing more than stepping in and, by that very act, upsetting this quiet, precarious balance. she’d been the object of that sort of confused staring before — the first week at st. peter’s had been an experience akin to being a museum piece, only none of the patrons had other peculiar pieces and halls to go through, just her and her out-of-state accent and the hesitancy with which she approached every bottle they asked her to grab.

now the stranger made his way to the counter, nosy glances following him as if to usher him to his designed seat — it was the tiniest bit amusing, the stark contrast between him and the small spectacle of drinkers on the other side of the room. if this was a movie, she thought, the choice to leave the light off of him would be deliberate — only faint reflections of the golden lightbulbs above the counter seemed to outline his features, but as he walked and picked the stool at the far end of the bar, he seemed to be one with the shadows. fred understood their interest, couldn’t quite blame them for it — seemed the whole town had been yearning for a tall dark stranger to come shake things up, lately. she nodded at his request, eyebrows raised in surprised approval of his choice, and moved to look through the liquor shelf — casually, her old hesitancy forgotten. disappointed, she turned with an apologetic smile. ❝ no woodford, buffalo trace alright ? ❞. 

as she went to heat up the water and slice the lemon, freddie laughed at his remark. ❝ they’re an exclusive club, not too used to foreigners ❞, rolling her eyes, she moved to peek at the table where the gawkers pretended to be busy drinking. ❝ hey joe ❞, she called out to the one with the most insistent stare. ❝ saw larry asking about you earlier, i think we should tell him you're out and about and ready to see him now, uh ? ❞. joe, frowning, muttered some thin apology and lowered his gaze, focusing on his beer. ❝ there ❞, fred smirked as she mixed the drink. ❝ they just need to be put in their place now and then, don’t know their manners around here  ❞. as she squeezed the last drop of lemon juice in the glass, and stirred it a couple times for good measure, fred set the glass down on top of a coaster and moved it towards him. she had half a mind to warn him, how she hadn’t made one of these in a while, and couldn’t be sure she’d got the proportions right —— but she saw the bill, heard his words, and couldn’t help the chuckle that followed.

❝ well, kal — ❞, she started, as she moved to the cash register and counted his change. ❝ i’m sadly not in the business of handing out jobs, but i can ask around. heard they’re looking for people at the mill down in ferndale, i think. or ——  ❞, she nodded to the table behind him. ❝ some of these guys work at a garage, don’t know if that’s your thing, but i can ask. ❞ then, change in hand, she made her way back to him and set it down by his glass, smiling. ❝ i’m fred, by the way. nice meeting you, kal. ❞ arms crossed, she leaned back against the wall. her smile somewhere between genuine amusement and a honest curiosity — couldn’t blame her for tha. she, too, was interested in tall dark strangers who suddenly appeared on the stage to turn a boring story around. ❝ …so you’re new in town, uh ? ❞

[dadukos]

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓, back then in the old life, when she embraced this role: thread and needle and a bottle of disinfectant always full above the bathroom sink, gauze to clean the blood, hands soiled by nighttime devoted to patching and tender care by daylight. it seemed like a necessity, a small good-natured offering to face the darkness: in the heart of bloodshed and abuse, she could be the one to patch up the wounds. to repair all the broken souls surrounding her, stuffed toys at someone else’s tea party, and put the stuffing back behind the stitches. she looks at kaya now and wonders, because she doesn’t know much and knows it’s not her place to ask —— but wonders anyway what it looks like on the other side of her wounds, where they come from, why she keeps doing this. her eyes are concerned, perhaps unfairly so, but it comes from a place of love: when she offers a bag of frozen peas for the swelling on her face, she glares in response to her words. that, too, is a form of tender care.

❝ my night was terribly boring, thankfully a beaten up idiot crashed in to change that. ❞, her tone a bit callous as she proceeds to dab a cotton ball with disinfectant, but a light smirk curls it just gently, for a second. ❝ you’re gonna get yourself in serious trouble one of these days, y’know ? i know you know, but somebody needs to say it —— ❞. one look into her eyes, then her tone changes to bedside urgency: ❝this is gonna sting ❞, followed by the ball gently rubbing the edges of kaya’s wound, delicately but carrying an insistent firmness where the blood has begun to dry. she works with purpose, like she’s done this a hundred times — which might just be a couple times short of the truth. only when she’s almost done with the cleaning, reaching for the gauze to wrap it all up, her voice turns lower, perhaps a little more alarmed: ❝ they didn’t see you come here, did they ? ❞

She's all tender touch and careful questions; it's why Kaya came here, instead of going back home to try to deal with this herself. That, and the blood she feels trickling down her back, from a point she certainly can't reach without help. Fred gives an order and Kaya doesn't argue, more concerned with keeping herself from bleeding all over a friend's furniture than pointing out that she doesn't need that much fussing. By the time Fred's back, Kaya's shirt is off, balled up in her lap, with a bra strap peeled down to give easier access to the worst injury. The gash in her shoulder is painful, but not the end of the world. The bruise blooming on her cheek is more concerning, if only for its visibility.

"If I say don't ask I know you'll ask anyway." She grumbles even though there's no heat to it; she's grateful for Fred's concern, and her friendship. "I was—taking care of something. Did you know that if you're in the back of a cop car when someone crashes into said car, you get a little rattled around? And it hurts? Believe it or not, that wasn't planned," she adds. "Wrong place, wrong time." An old friend of her father's had insisted on giving her a ride; to refuse, over and over and over, would have made her seem suspicious. No need to draw attention to herself when she's carrying the keys to a stolen sports car. She offers up her most dazzling smile, bats her eyelashes. "How was your night?"

[dadukos]

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 — st. peter’s bar & grill, ashford, ca. 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 — walter white.

𝐒𝐇𝐄’𝐒 𝐒𝐔𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍, 𝐁𝐘 𝐍𝐎𝐖. it’s been a slow day, she barely even had to restock the fridges —— pete’s keen on never making her stay more than absolutely necessary, and if he were here, she knows, he’d be telling her to get home, go out, get a life for fuck’s sake. he doesn’t quite get it, so she doesn’t bother explaining. besides, there’s still him on the far side of the counter: the teacher who never speaks much more than he needs to, and seems to be drowning in his drink a little deeper every day. not the way most people do. sometimes he looks like he’s actively conducting an experiment in static disappearance. freddie steps closer, and almost attempts: hey pal, we’re about to close, with a kind smile and a knowing well-what-can-you-do look. but she opens her mouth, and then she smiles: ❝ can i refill that, teach ? ❞ — @whoknocks.

[dadukos]

❝ i can’t stay away from you. ❞ love, kal. 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌: @demottcm 𝐑𝐄: emotional starters, accepting.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐓 𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐎𝐋𝐃 was always open late on fridays, and fred couldn’t claim to know why, but half suspected her always being the last customer had to play into that, some. 8.15 pm, every week, the same route across the isles, somewhat comforted by faint buzzing of the fridges and the pale blue light of the neon. the scene repeated itself week after week, ingrained into her routine, so of course she spotted the difference right away, stopping dead in her tracks in between the cereal and the toilet paper just because he had appeared. the disruption, over and over. so tonight the scene played out differently — her leaning against a shelf now, a half embarrassed smile on her face, and her eyes keen not to dwell too long on him, or else she’d remember, and remember the feeling too. could still smell the salt in the air — the taste of his kiss, still on her lips. blushing lightly, fred lowered her gaze to her arms, badly balancing a bag of cat food, a bottle of red wine, some apples, a box of frozen tacos. ‘ pathetic friday dinner for single ladies ’ might as well have been stamped on each box in big red lettering.

her lips curled, her smile halfway between shy and nervous. “ that the reason you’re stalking me ? ”. raising her gaze, finally, she smiled brighter. he looked nice — or maybe he always did, she just never truly let herself appreciate that. that, or the knot in her stomach, or the faint tickling on her skin. fingers tightened slightly around the frozen taco box, as she searched for another line of dialogue: how’s he been ? no, too formal. i like your shirt — jesus, fred. do you still think about that night over and over or is it me who’s going insane ? maybe just saying goodnight. maybe that. “ so, uh — ” fred bit the inside of her cheek, smiled nervously, and took a breath. “ youliketacos? i mean, uh — ”, a smile. “ i mean, do you like tacos ? ”

[dadukos]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐔𝐍𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐔𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝟏𝟑𝐓𝐇, 𝟔.𝟓𝟐 𝐏𝐌

𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐒𝐄𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐙𝐎𝐍, or so it seemed — the ocean stretched for miles and then suddenly turned bright red, glaring, and for a second she wondered how anyone could laugh, dance, go about their modest partying ways and not be struck, half shocked, by that sight alone. a warm wind blew from the west, ruffling distant waves that came crashing over the shoreline, some steps away from her. she heard them, faintly, but each crash drowned and merged with the sounds coming from an equal distance behind her. the bonfire, she’d learned over the last four years, was the sort of unspoken tradition that was simply unacceptable to miss. it was perhaps out of respect for this fervent attachment that the ashford residents held, that she forced herself to attend —— didn’t feel much like being sociable, would’ve maybe preferred the company of a different beach starring ava gardner and gregory peck, and yet it didn’t feel too bad. a gentle breeze, a couple lukewarm beers, the ocean, the fire — good enough an escape for an otherwise lonely friday night. spotting her sitting on a log, nursing her beer, someone called out to fred — “ what, you’re not doing the pouring tonight ? ”, her neighbor alex asked, pointing to the keg with a disappointed stare. fred laughed. “ nah. i’m off the clock, let me live a little ”. 

on the opposite side from her, filtered by the orange glow of the flames, a bigger crowd began to gather. not feeling a particular urge to mingle, fred remained, sitting in her spot, peacefully observing — maria from the laundromat had yet another conquest doting on her, and fred chuckled to herself, wondering how long before she’d show up to the bar, her mouth stretched into a comical O, yelling over the music you-have-no-idea-what-happened-oh-my-god-i-have-so-much-to-tell-you. raymond, the kind old man from down the street, seemed alive with newfound energy and clapped and stomped his feet along to a bob marley song coming from the speakers. his nephew desperately trying to get him to sit down, and he just pretending he’d lost his hearing, albeit selectively. an array of younger boys she didn’t recognize, all wearing some sort of sports uniform — the high school swimming team, maybe, though none of them looked particularly inclined to stay. kal, the mechanic, was just a few steps to the right of them. he seemed to be smiling, and fred smiled too — maybe he was starting to fit in, a little bit. didn’t look quite as out of place as he had the first day she’d seen him.

briefly, she considered going over and saying hi — she imagined a kind smile over her lips, turning into something more of a playful smirk, and offering a witty line like ‘ ah, not even the man of mystery could resist the pull of the bonfire ! ’, or some remark about his baseball cap, and exhaled a half laugh, somewhat embarrassed, at herself. either way, he seemed to have company — couldn’t quite make out the face from the distance, but a woman appeared behind him, talking casually as if sharing a joke, arms leaning over his shoulder. ah. fred smiled, unconvincingly, and turned away as she took another sip of beer. finding her cup empty, she sighed. a second passed, and she got up, closer to the fire, where people crowded around the keg and made a show out of pouring drinks. she laughed, greeted people, complimented outfits and took compliments for her own: then for a second her eyes met kal’s, closer now that she was nearer to his side, and felt embarrassed. her smile then, felt just a little bit pathetic. as someone else grabbed her cup to fill it up, fred raised a hand and nodded towards him, as if just to say — hi. —— @demottcm.

[dadukos-arc]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄   /   ft. @kalixus​. st. peter’s bar, ashford, ca. march 28th, 4:32 pm. 

𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄, 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐍𝐃, had found a way to begin repeating itself. even now, even here: in the thick of a so-called new beginning. it had done so discreetly, sneaking up on her not with the tightening of a noose or an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia: her routine had settled in gently, comfortable almost, like a blanket, like a well rehearsed line that somehow always got the laugh. behind the counter of st. peter’s, freddie dawson reinvented herself as the patron saint of purgatory and stood among bottles and glasses, as she had for the past four years or so. waltzing up and down her path like a guardian well acquainted with her kingdom: patrons would gesture for whiskey, for sherry, and once or twice entice her creativity with a cocktail she hadn’t been able to try her hand at yet, and she would smile, crack a joke, dutifully head towards her task as if that, too, was a test meant to prove her belonging to such a place. she would pour this and that, and take whatever conversation they were willing to produce with grace, like an offering to an altar: looks like rain, doesn’t it ? sure does, ned —— it’s about time. it all went along predictably, a script she knew by heart — only the weather still presented its fair share of variability. and though this dull life was peaceful to her, and she’d caught herself calling it shelter more than once, freddie surprised herself when the smell of a gathering storm came in through the door, and she caught herself harboring a nervous excitement at the prospect.

the gentleman who’d carried it with him, upon opening the door to st. peter’s, seemed tall enough to have to crouch through the entrance — or perhaps it was just her imagination, drawing cartoonish details where there were none, drawing a light grin from her lips where there was no amusement. the motions were mechanical, these too aptly rehearsed: she’d put down her glass of water, wipe her hands, step closer to the bar top. “ just in time, uh ? ”. freddie nodded towards the windows, where the stained glass couldn’t hide the wind picking up, streetlamps trembling, and the thickening darkness of clouds gathering up above. but the shadow of mesmerized concern crossed her face only briefly: step four in the usual routine was a smile, reassuring any lost soul who’d wandered in st. peter’s that they’d stumbled into the right place. nevermind their ailments, the scars. she saw one on his face, across the bridge of his nose: if this was a book, she thought briefly, that’d be the passing detail introducing a major character. the unwilling hero of the story, marked for tragedy from the very first page. fred smiled. “ hi. what can i do ya for ? ”. 

[dadukos-arc]

𝐄𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑   /   CONTINUED.

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃𝐍'𝐓 𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆. must’ve been somewhere in between the tales he narrated, as if the life of kal was some charming old coming-of-age story for kids, and realizing how gruesome it really was, how everything he wouldn’t tell her about amounted to an endlessly dark hallway, one in which her passage was not allowed. or maybe it was that last bit, how he had seen so vividly into her, into them both, with such harmless funny words as if to make light of the truth of it —— that she was as deep in kal as he was in her, that the very fact that this hurt so much, that there was no apparent way out right now, was proof of the bond tying them together. she’d ignored the first, and the second, but caught the third tear with an angry rubbing of her hand, ashamed at herself, this seeming weakness she couldn’t let go of —— but freddie laughed, too, because yeah, didn’t it all seem ridiculous ? triple-reinforced-steel-walled bank safe somehow did not begin to cover the enigma that kal anderson was to her. burning hot as much as he was ice-frozen, and living, more tangible that any nightmare that had ever haunted her, but covered in riddles so thick and mesmerizing sometimes she wondered if she’d made him up, him a fruit of isolation and despair, not real, how could he be real ? when he was everything she’d ever needed, and yet slipped away from her —— over and over, like water, like the current ?

freddie accepted the tea, and thanked evander under her breath. she accepted the silence, too, and the cold now burrowing through her clothes, into her skin. if this was a test, she was willing to face it. and meanwhile she accepted what shards of truth she’d been given —— she let her mind conjure up images of them, years ago. she let evander’s words paint the picture, the look on kal’s face as he decided to turn away, and not follow his friend — the look on evander, too, on the other side of it, sacrificing friendship over idealism. she remembered a dozen times kal had turned away from her — she remembered that morning, by the kitchen table, after having loved him all through sunrise, having mapped his scars like an explorer on uncharted land, and the way he’d suddenly grown darker, clouds cloaking the midday sun. he’d turned, no real explanation: he’d turned away and left, for days she hadn’t heard from him.

was it the same instinct that had driven him to turn his back on evander, back then ? something good, something bright before him: and him turning, afraid of the light.

something inside of her jolted with anger. she understood it. it angered her more, because she knew it. she’d been that, too — the wounded animal turning away from the light. how many times had she been offered a way out, back then ? how many friends had offered their help, laid their souls down to trace an escape route for her: and each time she’d turned away, said it was her burden to bear, as if somehow she’d grown so used to the darkness she feared the light would blind her.

“ i get it, i’m just… ” scared. scared shitless, actually. only when kal had left, had she realized how deep he’d carved a home or himself in her. only now did he realize how much power he had over her —— and how could it be anything but terrifying ? 

freddie sniffled, wiped her eyes again, and took another sip before returning the tea back to evander. there was some sort of ancient, ritualistic beauty in it —— she couldn’t call herself a soldier, but she imagined a scene like this would not be unusual, behind trenches. strangers turning friends over the shared offering of a lukewarm tea, the last defense before frostbite.

fred let out a frustrated huff, then turned back to face evander again. “ i’m sorry. i’m sure you didn’t plan to spend the week babysitting two emotionally compromised idiots ”. her smile lingered just long enough for the faintest laughter to trickle though. when she let her head rest back against the wall, freddie kept her eyes on the man and tried to put some order into the myriad of questions she still wanted to ask.

“ how long were you at the orphanage ? ”, but right as she asked, she wished she’d bit her own tongue. “ sorry, that’s —— that’s not a thing you just ask. ” a nervous smile, she’d once pissed kal off with the same instinctive, prying curiosity — foolish freddie, ever oblivious to where the line is. her gaze returned to the snow before them. fred squeezed herself tighter in her own arms, but did not make any attempt at returning back inside. she wanted more: more stories, more explanations. more of his voice, somehow it made her calmer —— things didn’t seem quite as dire, when it was evander that was dissecting them.

“ you care for him. ”, a statement, however obvious, that brought a certain relief to her: though she was confused, still, and even evander’s soothing tone would hardly bring peace, she knew. but she could let her anxiety out — out with the only person, as far as she knew, who seemed to love kal as much as she did. fred sighed. “ he keeps … he keeps acting like he doesn’t deserve anything, anyone, and i don’t know how to get it into his head that people are allowed to be loved even when they don’t love themselves. it’s infuriating, it’s —— ”. eyebrows furrowed, her laughter broke out in an annoyed, sarcastic tone. “ you know, i used to think i was difficult. hell, i fucking prided myself on being stubborn and chaotic, and he —— he says i get too hot and burst into flames, but he doesn’t get how infuriating he gets, does he ? surprised you haven’t kicked his ass yet. ”.

pause, then she let out a sigh, and smiled.

“ i mean, i suppose you have. it was probably deserved, i wouldn’t blame you. ”

@demottcm​.

[dadukos-arc]

𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆.

a summary by chapters of freddie dawson’s life / main verse ( TW : long post —— ft. mentions of domestic abuse, violence and general abuse, child abandonment, torture, human trafficking, forced s ex work ).

𝐕 . 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 — there’s freedom to and freedom from ( prequel ). freddie gallagher, the wife of james a. gallagher, is a s ex worker within the ranks of notorious mobster victor cullen ( her uncle ) in the el paso, texas area. she is forced into the profession as she is forced into her abusive marriage with jimmy gallagher, his right hand man. her only salvation at the time is her friendship with ira dunham and the vague protection kel mehmeti, victor’s business partner and a rival of jimmy’s, can offer. at the age of twenty-eight, after finding out about her unwanted pregnancy and almost dying at the hand of jimmy, fred decides to ask for kel’s help to get away and disappear. he helps her stage her death, and fred runs away: first she gives birth in an arizona hospital where she gives her baby up for adoption, and eventually relocates to the town of ashford, california.

𝐕 . 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 — hope is a dangerous thing ( arc one ). a semblance of a life is gained slowly, achingly, bit by bit, in a town that looks too much like purgatory not to make her wish for atonement. it’s not heaven, despite the name of the place she first sets foot inside: st. peter’s, peter andrews’ bar. he takes her in, gives her food, and a job —— she takes the name of freddie dawson, and with a fake id begins rebuilding herself. step by tiny, immensely modest step, she finds her space among the burnt ruins of the town of ashford: she adopts a cat, she buys a car. she begins to live again. but she remains one foot out of the door, always: a fear in her lungs won’t let her truly breathe in. she looks at the horizon, she’s waiting for a storm.

𝐕 . 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 — happiness is a butterfly ( arc two ). he comes in with the rain, and despite the fear that won’t let go of her, she lets him drown her. kal anderson takes her by surprise, a hurricane with no warning —— she falls in love, harder than she ever has, too fast to hold herself steady. it’s powerful, it’s unbelievable, it’s everything she’s craved: a passion so strong it annihilates her fear, a belonging so certain, so true that she can hardly tell where she ends and he begins. for a year she is his, and he, hers —— by the fourth month he’s moved into her place and she swears to god she doesn’t need anything other than all this love, all the tidal waves of it, for the rest of her life. through him she meets charlie jenkins, kal’s apprentice and coworker, reckless and young and as chaotic as the brother she never had, and severin moran, kal’s old friend, also reckless and also chaotic, but somehow, she senses, broken enough to be recognized as her similar: a kindred spirit. for the first time, freddie dawson is happy. she’s truly, desperately happy. 

𝐕 . 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 — covered in scars a canyon deep ( arc three ). but kal has secrets, and ways of escaping her, and one day his demons catch up with him — a demon, specifically, by the name of kafka, who murders charlie’s family and barely even leaves him alive. when confronted with the bloodshed kal is forced to admit the truth: he was never the charming mechanic come from up north, but a mercenary. there is a hit on fred’s head, a claim raised by her uncle who wants her back —— and he, poor kal anderson, is none other than ilias abørn, gun for hire who’s come to collect his bounty. except he’s fallen for it too, and the murder of charlie’s family was kafka way to snap ilias out of his lovesick reverie, send a deliberate message: that his place was not burning under the californian sun, but in the sickening darkness of the sugar factory where they both were raised. still, in spite of the lies somehow fred knows — the wildifre burning them up is real. the love, the annihilation of it all is real. and she swears she can forgive him, they can run away, they can make it work —— but one day he’s gone and she realizes: she’s drowned in him for real, and she can’t swim back up to the surface. 

𝐕 . 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 — maybe god can be on both sides of a gun ( arc four ). ilias goes back to new york, not just to leave her behind but to face his demons. she learns, without really meaning to, that his demons have the shape of a crime syndicate in which he was forced as a child, by which he was trained and raised under the rule of one sociopath by the name of poe. it is him that ilias goes to face, expecting punishment for the way he so spectacularly screwed up his assignment. some of ilias’ fellow mercenaries come asking for fred’s help: evander, whom fred had met before, introduced to her by kal as an old friend. randy, perhaps the most empathetic of ilias’ siblings. lenore, who had been his jailer and his lover before, but still cared enough about him to ask for fred’s help. they lead fred to the sugar factory where he was raised and being held, and together they free him from his torture. it is the moment in which she first realizes the width of her desperate devotion, the lengths she’d go to for him, how her heart has found, in the end, a home — and will refuse to let it go. for about two weeks they try to make it work, escape together and find a real chance at life: them, charlie. two weeks in, ilias gives up and, in order to protect her, disappears: in the end, it turns out he is much better than fred ever was at martyrdom. she tries to move on from there, but her heart is weakened, she has no strength left. she decides, in the end, that the only think she can do is move somewhere the ghost of him won’t follow. fred asks randy to take care of charlie, and leaves.

𝐕 . 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 — how to draw a line between wrath and mercy ( arc five ). hope is a stubborn, flickering flame —— though it dims, hers doesn’t go out. for eight months she lives in kansas, vaguely attempting a new life, and failing, always on the verge of utter despair. then one day a note, a cryptic one, is left in her mailbox, along with ilias’ dog tags. there’s hints of a trip they’d taken once before, to the tennessee mountains, and despite her heart being so tired of hoping, despite the ache the thought of him continuously brings, fred decides to trust her instincts: she gets in the car, she climbs up the mountain, and finds him there in the cabin they’d shared once before. reunited, she takes the time to nurse his wounds, to heal him, to devote herself to the care of the only thing she ever truly loved. and in the meantime they begin thinking, and desiring, ardently, a way to be free —— free to love each other, and have a pitiful chance at a future. a plan is hatched in which, thanks to ira’s help, fred will infiltrate victor’s gang and gather enough material on him to lead his operation to an end. for over a year she remains under the employment of victor, acting as his assistant and all the while gathering as much material as possible to eventually hand him in to the authorities — all with the outside help of ilias, ira, randy and what few allies they can count on. the end comes abrupt, and bloody like every good ending.

𝐕 . 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 — kill the angels if they’re keeping guard ( arc six ).  the rest is a greek tragedy —— victor finds ilias, victor takes him, victor tortures him. once more, it’s fred’s life within his hands: and when victor puts a gun in her hands and orders her to shoot ilias, the love of her life, believing freddie to have been corrupted for good, freddie puts an end to the story, and shoots her uncle instead. somehow, she and ilias make it out. somehow they survive. scattered and broken and drenched in blood, but they survive. over the years, with randy and charlie they relocate to canada, in alberta, under the fake identities of ed and lucie turner, and they find a balance —— between terror and beauty, between rage and devotion. there in the cold, they try to earn themselves a piece of purgatory. it’s not a happy ending, no —— their demons still lurk, and the night gets darker every day. but they have each other, and what’s left of them is two hearts refusing to give in for good. once a wildfire, now the timid candle sitting on their windowsill at 2 am, while they hold each other, sleepless. a tiny light, still burning.