#ARC.ㅤFATE’S RIGHT HAND.

[deputystakes-a2]

( @guttersniper ) off-sync, he draws his own lighter from his pocket, taking a flame to the cowboy killer pinched between his lips. “you shouldn’t smoke.” inhale. exhale. “how old are you, anyways?”

[deputystakes-a2]

@tengallon said, “i promise to be a better drunk.”

in his hands, a warm cloth, dampened. he knows that raylan’s going to be in a world of hurt tomorrow. he knows he’s going to wake up alone, sore and exhausted, the taste of blood on the tongue. blood on his knuckles. ashley’s woken up with blood in his eyes. under his nails. he’s forgotten how it got there. he’s lost the minutes to anger, he’s lost his days to fury, he’s walked home after getting beaten black and blue and he’s watched himself bleed in his father’s cracked mirror.

there’s something sad in ashley’s eyes. he becomes the little beast again—that monstrosity of childhood, of coming of age, of gathering up his father’s old anger. he wears it still. his father’s anger fits better now, he wears it better now, he’s become a better sinner. he promised himself it wouldn’t happen, that this wouldn’t happen, that he wouldn’t be on his knees praying for forgiveness. he wouldn’t make promises that he couldn’t keep. raylan’s eyes close tighter still as ashley wipes the blood away.

“don’t make me promises.” he remembers his father’s callused hands. he remembers the way his father used to grip the steering wheel, dirty blonde hair tied back, jaw set like he was caging the words inside with great force. jeremiah was someone else when he was sober. the bourbon made him monstrous. their blood made him monstrous. sometime, somewhere, a million miles ago, he could’ve been saved. in that home, no one was saved.

raylan’s drowning his sorrows in a bar. raylan’s bleeding from his brow, leaking blood on ashley’s leather jacket. he’s laying on a motel bed with his eyes so tightly shut, they must ache. his anger infects ashley’s. the fire builds and flickers. damp cloth wipes at the blood. rust pools under his fingernails. reminds him of darker times. “i don’t want them.”

[deputystakes-a2]

ASHLEY GRAVES AS THE STRANGER.

EXT. MOTEL POOL — DAY.  there’s two men at the pool when you pull into the parking lot. one of them—tall and dark-haired, rests his arms atop the tile edge of the pool and stares at a man on a red lounge chair. they’re talking, even though the blonde one, on the lounge chair, holds a well-loved book in his hands. he’s covered, from head to toe, in bold, thick-lined tattoos, reminiscent of the american traditional. they cover his bare chest and legs, snaking past the black board shorts which remain bone-dry. then—laughter. the dark-haired man’s laughing and grinning and his friend, with the blonde hair and ink—is smiling. it makes him look less threatening—he’s all scar tissue and lean muscle, but the smile is human. you get the feeling that he doesn’t look like this often. the smile is foreign. and it fades from his lips when he notices you, sitting in your car in the parking lot. your windows are rolled up, and dark sunglasses rest atop the bridge of his nose, but you feel, without a doubt, his gaze burning a hole between your eyes. you look away.

inside of the motel breakfast bar, the next day, you find him again—this time, wearing all black. ink still peaks from beneath rolled up sleeves, and you can see his tattoos in greater detail this time—there are aces and crosses upon his knuckles, a church and the blessed mother herself. coffins and daggers and cards. bombs and beasts with their maws open. he’s carrying two cups of coffee to the table in the farthest corner, where the dark-haired man sits with his face in his hands. they’ve both got badges on their hips. you bring your food to your room.

INT. GAS STATION — NIGHT.  it’s past midnight when you pull into the gas station, lured by the flickering streetlamps and neon cigarette signs and the promise of caffeine. the clerk greets you, mechanical, when you enter, and you head to the back for the coffee machine and cheap french vanilla brew. the blonde stranger’s already there, pouring two cups from an unlabeled machine—the sticker’s come away with time. still, he fills each cup to the brim, leaving no room for cream or sugar. he presses on the lids and makes his quick journey to the register. it’s then that you see it, as he walks past you—bruised knuckles and a healed split on his lips, a scab on his eyebrow. the cashier makes no comment. neither should you.

INT. BOOKSTORE — DAY.  on an overcast sunday afternoon, you make the walk to the bookstore on the corner of the street. the walls are lined, from floor to ceiling, with every genre known to man. jam-packed. the cashier greets you when you walk in, before she turns her attention to the stranger setting a stack of books on the counter—with how warmly she regards him, it’s safe to say he’s a regular. the books on the counter are almost all westerns. they make conversation, but the cashier’s the one doing most of the talking—the stranger seems content to nod and hum, just enough to keep the conversation going. when he finally gets his change, he dumps it all in the tip jar, and grabs his bag off of the counter. ‘ you be safe, now, ’ the cashier speaks as she bids him farewell. the stranger makes no promises that he can’t keep.

INT. SUNNYSIDE DINER — NIGHT. it’s three a.m when the waitress greets you from behind the counter, asking you to sit wherever you’d like. you choose to sit at the bar—closest to the pots of coffee and heaping plates of food. at the other end of the bar sits the stranger, with his blonde hair still slicked back, his badge on his hip—mug of piping hot coffee in his hand. black. he doesn’t order any food. no, in the time it took for you to eat half of what was on your plate, he gotten two refills of coffee and some words of concern from the waitress. they’re in the middle of conversation when the deputy’s phone vibrates in his pocket, and he takes the call on the spot. his expression, once mildly amused, twists into something confused, then—angry. he leaves a pristine bill on the counter and hurries out the door, pulling out of the parking lot fast enough for his truck tires to screech and spray gravel behind him. behind the counter, the line cook mutters a little something that sounds like godspeed.

EXT. LEXINGTON, KENTUCKY — NIGHT. in the parking lot outside of the courthouse, you see him, leaned against the hood of a town car in a mostly vacant parking lot. the shadow he casts is long and imposing, but the glow of his cigarette is soft and warm against his features. with a puff of smoke, his face loses all clarity. there’s blood in his eyes.

INT. THE SLAYER LEGACY MUSEUM — DAY.  you enter the museum thirty minutes after it opens. it’s just about empty, and you’re alone with the attendant at the desk. you purchase your ticket, you make your small talk, and you enter the main hall of the legacy museum. it’s desolate, save for the staff who linger about, leaving you be as you read the plaques and take in the exhibits. they whisper among themselves, but it’s not about you. and then, as you carry on, down a hallway to the next set of displays, paying tribute to the key figures in the history of the slayer corps—you are no longer the only observer there. a blonde man in a leather jacket and faded denim jeans lingers by a glass case, fingers resting upon the polished wooden frame, staring into whatever laid entombed below. when the stranger turns to look at you, as you approach the next glass encasement with muffled steps, he’s got this awful look in his eyes—he was frowning, like a devil. he was young, but scarred, with scar tissue replacing what should’ve been a laughter line. tired eyes regard you before he turns away, tucking tattooed hands into jacket pockets. a few long moments later, you move to the section of the hall where the stranger once stood—and peer into the glass case he once rested his hand upon. inside, laid to rest on a bed of red velvet, was a rifle. and in the display before you was—art. journals, and stacks of letters, and messy graphite drawings of slayers.  hand-drawn diagrams of firearms and portraits of men laughing, of soldiers sleeping, of groups huddled together, posed, on their best behavior for the artist before them. and then—you read the plaque of the featured slayer. SERGEANT ASHLEY GRAVES, lays the title, written in stone, before the exhibit expands upon his story and feats in long blocks of text. he was terribly young in the photograph which depicted him—barely nineteen, with that scar on his face and a furrow in his brow. when he looked at you, he had that same pained look in his eyes. you never see him again.

[deputystakes-a2]

@tengallon​ said,   why do you push me away like that?

raylan’s trapped him in this fucking car. behind the wheel, he sits, so goddamn unbothered as ashley seethes from the passenger side. it’s like he’s talking to a child. like he’s talking to a child who arrived early to work, fighting off a hangover, licking his wounds, tipping a flask of whiskey into his coffee while art avoided looking him in the eye — for there was blood in there, an undeniable stain against white sclera. very few had ever seen a war like him. very few had ever wanted to. yet deputy givens seemed determined to stare him in the eye until ashley blinked first.

            “ why do you think? ”   he’s all glass shards and whiskey inside. if he could just outstretch his hand, he’d possess the ability to show raylan just how bad it could be; just how dark the night could get. he keeps his hands in his lap. the callused pad of his thumb traces over the back of his left hand instead, self-soothing as it runs over the old scar tissue. there was bark, there was bite, and there was ashley’s gruff hum — a huff of annoyance. a mask of apathy. like it’s obvious, like it’s repetitive, like it’s lost its charm; burning all the bridges and choking on the smoke.   “ i don’t need you gettin’ close. ”

[deputystakes-a2]

@tengallon​ said, i see you’re still smoking.

gunshot laugh. gunshot wound. they put him on paid medical leave after taking two rounds to the bulletproof vest. the splatters of blood across the callused skin of his palms had bore some vague resemblance to a pollock painting — framed chaos that sold for millions. framed splatters of too many colors that a certain few could find comfort in. framed splatters that occupied tall museum walls — like a crime scene, condensed. the walls of ashley’s apartment were pitifully empty. pitifully bare. he never paid much mind to them — those four walls, that one roof, that place he called a home. home cost eight hundred dollars a month. home was where he collapsed, where he kept his liquor, where he licked his wounds, where he spent his sleeping hours. he hadn’t poured his heart into it. it didn’t feel like a home, it just felt occupied; it felt cold, even in the height of summer. and thus explained his avoidance, even now, as his chest ached, as his wounds cracked and bled.

when raylan finds him, he’s occupying the lone bar stool in the darkest corner of the roadhouse. ashley wets his lips with the bourbon, and goes right on to dry his mouth again with that greedy inhale of smoke, bruised lungs burning hot.

            “ never implied i was quitting. ”  five words strung together made a new record — more eloquent than the swears, the groans, the staccato curses raylan had caught as he entered the crossfire between deputy graves and his point-blank pain, three days prior. ashley’s yet to lift his gaze. ashley frequented one roadhouse by the city limits, but there was no good reason for a lawman to walk in, off the clock or otherwise. there was no good reason for raylan givens to walk in here so comfortably without his badge. maybe art sent him. and how could raylan refuse a chance to play white knight, just one more time?

he’s too tired to mind. there’s a certain fatigue that has seeped into his bones; a kind of ache that the summer sun could not reach, could not soothe. one more puff of smoke. the tipping of the liquor down the hatch. only then does ashley lift his gaze, black eye and busted brow half-obscured by the atmosphere; the smoke and the shadows which defined such roadhouses. you could call the twitch of his lip a smile.  “ there a problem, deputy? ”

[deputystakes-a2]

@deputyfangs said, am i just supposed to let you go?

            “ sure would be nice if you did. ”   a growl like a hound’s in his throat. he used to be a dog of war, and they are both intimately aware of that fact. 

twenty-four hours ago, the chief deputy had damn near hesitated before handing christian their case file — and it was ashley he was staring at. and when the old man barked a warning, it was ashley he was barking at. for within that file held the names of two slayer scientists; two slayer scientists connected to the fugitive they were hunting across state lines. and ashley wanted them both dead. sergeant graves wanted them both dead. which brings them to where they are now — with ashley’s badge on the table and his gun on his hip, christian standing before the motel door with his hand on the hilt of his knife.   “ i’d like you to let me through that door, now. ”

[deputystakes-a2]

UNPROMPTED  /  ACCEPTING.

@deputyfangs said,  “did you ever get to the end of the dream?”  ( re “in the dream i am always posthumous” )

miles to midnight.  it’s dark out — as july fades into the far distance,  autumn falls upon them.  night descends over the hills even faster now.  days become weeks.  weeks become months.  and ashley keeps waking up from the same old dream.

in the dream,  he dies.  ( this is where it all begins. )  he dies the hero,  receives the medal,  he loses his life on that beach.  for good.  in the dream,  he bleeds out under dry desert sun.  in the dream,  christian bears the marks of the enemy.  in the dream,  the bullet misses,  thus ending the task his life had been set upon.  the bullet misses,  and he’s as good as dead.  dead and gone.  dead as a fucking doornail.  in the dream,  dirt showers over his grave,  and no one is saved by the preacher man’s words.  in time,  it would play out as scripted.  there were hungrier things in these wilds.  in time,  ashley would give up,  and a dozen hawks would descend.  in the dream,  he is always posthumous.  there’s a certain victory in seeing things through to the end.

slim fingers wrapped around the neck of an ice-cold beer.  christian wrapped up in a quilt,  ashley in a flannel.  seconds slowly tick closer to midnight, and closer still as ashley stares into the vastness before them.  the dark.  the sky.  the dark,  which cannot harm him.  

            “some nights.”  a smile.  an honest to god smile,  the kind that graced his lips a lifetime before he’d ever heard the howling of the dogs of war.  “but god always wakes me before i get to see the other side.”

[deputystakes-a2]

@tengallon said, you don’t have to pretend you don’t care around me.

when the hostility dissipates, he’ll only be left with his grief. ( it’s that time of the year, again. his mother’s funeral. mother’s grave. dead flowers, withered, like mangled hands reaching to pull him into the deep, dark earth. his time has not yet come. and yet, his gravestone stares back at him. waiting. ) when the hostility dissipates this evening, in the sanctuary of his spartan apartment, he’ll be left with nothing but his tears and his sobs, ugly and visceral, ricocheting off bare walls.

either the chief deputy remembers, or raylan’s using his gut feeling against him. someone notices something, some subtle shift in behavior, a glaring crack in the carefully constructed mask that was deputy marshal graves.

ashley knows that raylan means no harm. he knows that raylan isn’t waiting to strike once the walls fall down. ( he knows. he knows. he tells himself that he is no longer the lamb. he tells himself that he is no longer the hunted. he tells himself that jeremiah is dead, dead and fucking gone, stolen away like his mother was. bled dry and gutted. he knows. ) still, ashley won’t look raylan in the eye. the mask keeps cracking, fracturing; becoming unstable. so what, his eyes glisten in the streetlight. so what, his jaw sets as to delay his betrayal to himself. fingers dig a crushed pack of smokes from his breast pocket. so what. “you keep this shit up, the office is gon’ think I have a heart.”

[deputystakes-a2]

@deputyfangs said, put the gun down, please.

( just because you caught me / does that make it a sin? ) ashley does not know what his hands do to his gun, nor how they twist around the grip, but he knows that they shake. tremble, tremble. unceasing like the blows of his father’s fists. unceasing like the sunday sermon ashley attended the morning after, burst blood vessels in his eyes. red seeps into his peripheral vision. someone in the room weeps.

christian stands like a deer in the headlights. his words are careful, his movements are calculated, but he’s no longer the hungriest thing in the room. ( this is where their chief goes wrong — he assumes that ashley had his fill of blood in the corps. the chief assumes that the sergeant died when the corps disbanded. he didn’t. ) two deer in a clearing. the hunter with the rifle tucked against his shoulder. the hunter with the blood in his teeth. blood under his nails. blood staining his skin. a pair of amber eyes pins ashley where he stands, pistol held in vice grip. the brown eyes of the scientist are shut tight enough to hurt. to ache. ashley knows what he’s thinking of, what the scientist believes — he believes that god will strike down those who trespass against him. he believes that god has a plan for him. he believes that divine intervention may still occur, unaware of the presence he already finds himself in. unaware of the fact that god has already intervened. unaware of the fact that it is him against god, it is him against the reaper. fucking death dealer.

“he deserves this.” the sergeant’s voice. he flicks the switch. the tremble ceases. graves remembers long days, long needles, he remembers the cruel indifference of the doctors around him, watching him and his fellow slayers twist and writhe, their senses bathed in hellfire. biblical vengeance: justice comes riding in on a white horse. ( wherever ashley went, hell followed with him. ) “i fucking deserve this.”

[deputystakes-a2]

( @goodlawman ) “a lot of people around this thing are dead. a lot of people gone.”

[deputystakes-a2]

( @tengallon ) “you know that lil’ cellphone thing that they issue to all the marshals? you should turn that on once in a while, check your messages.”

[deputystakes-a2]

( @crimewrought ) “i don’t have very long.”

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( @onhunger ) “you got exactly what you wanted, didn’t you? ”

[deputystakes-a2]

( @unpossession ) “it was just bad luck, pure and simple.”

[deputystakes-a2]

@deputyfangs said, but, you know, at any point, when you were looking at that gun thug, did you see your daddy’s face?   /   not said as an insult, said moreso out of concern

this messiah needs watching. ashley’s entire career in the united states slayer corps had been built upon this—a sheer hatred. a wrath which he had inherited from jeremiah, the man whose sins he was forced to pay for.  ( he often paid in blood. that was jeremiah’s religion. that was his worship. fists which beat him battered blue. )  of course he saw jeremiah’s face on the faceless targets at the range. of course he saw his father’s face on the gun thug, on every target he was cleared to take down. of course, of course, of course.

christian looks at him with a certain kind of sorrow.  ( if christian were a man of faith, he might pray for him. god knows who else would. )  he looks at ashley with something deeper than pity, deeper than concern. ashley wants him to look away. he hasn’t said he could look.  ( ashley’s youth had been shattered into a thousand jagged pieces by jeremiah’s fist and boot. irreparable damage had been done. but when the light caught the glass just right, it looked less like a massacre; more like something you could find your religion in. the angels had a thousand terrible eyes. divine beauty tended to err on the terrible side. )  christian looks at him, and suddenly, his empty apartment feels too cramped. his words aren’t malicious in their intent, but he goddamn wishes they were. malice, he could work with. malice, he knew. but ashley didn’t know what to do when he wasn’t aching. he didn’t know what to do when he wasn’t being struck. a dog of war backed into the corner. a dog of war who’s been kicked too many times. you take away his will, his wrath, and you’re left with a pathetic desperation for violence.

christian knows better than to come any closer.

            “i did.”  he tips back the rest of the bourbon in his glass, creekwater eyes wincing.  “i did—i always fucking do.”

this messiah needs watching. this messiah is about to break. this messiah has made a slaughterhouse out of a bone-white afternoon.  “i can’t help it, he just—”  they both know who he’s talking about. when he looks into the mirror, he sees not himself, but the lamb his father slaughtered. jeremiah haunts him. jeremiah is the poltergeist tearing his childhood home apart.  “i wanted to kill him, when i got out.”

in the corps, he thought it through a million times. in the corps, he thought about using a knife. he thought about the scar, the stitches, the blood. solitary tear dares to streak down his cheek. it catches the light. it catches his scar. “but someone fuckin’ beat me to it.”

[deputystakes-a2]

( @deputyfangs )   “ isn’t there usually alcohol at a wake? ”