#Accidental President | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

svnnyd4ys · 1 day ago

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thinking about Bubba and Jeremiah post war because- well. Is that even Jeremiah anymore?

think about it this way:

imagine being in love.

(imagine being Bubba.)

and the man (the one that you want and love) decides to fight in the war that cost you your leg, and nearly cost you him as well.

he still has night terrors and you still have night sweats, and you wake up one night, his shirt sticking to you like a second skin, but him not in bed.

there had been a message from the president over the radio the day before. they're coming back. they're coming back, and this time you won't even be able to run from them.

he's outside, and he's enjoying what could be one of the last times either of you ever see a spherical moon.

you sit down on the decking, hours spent watching him in silence and memorising the shape of his back under the bare light, until that spherical moon becomes a spherical sun, the two of them dancing in the sky (just like you used to).

when he turns to you, he looks disappointed to see you there. i told you yesterday. i don't want to have this fight, he tells you, it's done.

the country needs him. (who doesn't?) and the next day, he leaves.

he's a good soldier, but he's better at giving orders than following them himself. you know him like the back of your hand- not just his contours, his moles, his scars but you know his mind. you've seen it work everyday for the past 20 years.

you get yourself some new cube legs (hey, they nearly took everything from you- it's only fair you get something in return) and then you follow him to the front, pretending to be a new recruit. he's struggling, obviously and now seems to be the perfect time to reveal the truth- and then? well, the pair of you ride off into battle.

it seems that you revealed yourself to him just in time.

your husband dies in your arms. your husband dies in your arms.

(the pair of you look back on it and laugh now, but sometimes when Jeremiah's asleep and he's holding you, you bury yourself a little further into his chest and only breath when he does.)

you lay him down on the soft dirt beneath you, the eyes that looked at you with love were now looking to the dying sky and the mouth that once wrapped itself around quips or around you was slack and limp.

take a moment. stop and look to that same sky. watch it with him for the final time, before letting the old you take over. it's a good way to get out of things you don't want to do. how many times have you done it? how many times have you locked yourself out of your own body to run from it?

well, it's caught up to you now.

words fail you and he failed you but your new legs don't. your horse doesn't. he takes you where you need to be, and turns out-

it's the heart of the beast.

the Cube HQ. the Cube-Within-Cubes. it sounds silly to say it, it does. but you've seen what they can do. (who they do it to) (you lost your sister and your legs in the first war, your husband and yourself in the second- in the present. it's not over yet).

your president is in there. the guy responsible for all of this. (you'll realise later that this isn't true, but right now, naming someone with the blame erases any guilt you possibly feel. it's what keeps you going.)

they've trapped him inside a cube, and he says they'll do the same to you. you'd love to see them try. he admits to being a bad president, and when you're halfway through agreeing with him-

one of them is there. it's been behind him. it's been watching you. at this point, you can hear Jeremiah telling you to hold your horses. hold your tongue, but that's not who you are. and you probably would've said more, but then the president's wife shows up.

(it's horrific, you think to yourself. his lover gets to survive, and she gets cube legs. your lover gets what? a few more scars? a final resting place? no gratitude, that's for sure.)

his wife tries her best, she tries using her new cube legs- but there's no affect on the looming cube, their queen.

she's evolved. she can walk like you (before you got your new legs) and she talks in a stilted way- but she talks.

she speaks of peace- a combining of your spherical world, her cubic world. it sounds perfect. but it's not. because the one person you want to see this, the one who's been by your side through it all is dead.

he won't be there with you.

until she offers a deal.

a life-jelly (you can practically hear Jeremiah, see him, slyly laughing) for peace.

you can bring him back. you can bring him back and he'll be able to see the one thing he always wanted.

the president isn't as bad as you had thought, all things considered, and he lets you make the choice and he lets you bring the thing you want the most in this world back.

it is not him.

they didn't reanimate him, they didn't perform any fucked up cube magic. the queen was there and then she screamed, and she shrunk and transformed (those screams still keep you up at night, and you know they keep him up to because sometimes- sometimes you can feel him, or you'll wake up and see his face twisted into the same malformed visage as his saviour).

and then he was there.

Jeremiah.

you don't know when they started, but suddenly limp tears of relief, of happiness, of unshed grief begin to fallm and you wrap yourself around him.

he doesn't hug you back, doesn't move and his eyes- oh god, his eyes.

they're dull, and darting from face to face, place to place and- what if? what if he doesn't recognise you? what if he's still their queen, and this is just their plan? what if-

and then he practically topples you both. just like the Jeremiah you knew.

the president seems grateful, but as you four (his wife and Jeremiah become fast friends on the plane ride back) return to the main base, he doesn't say a word.

he simply turns on his heel, the new sun shining lightly down on him, the wife following after.

no more words are exchanged, but the next morning, there's a new Alexa sat on your bunk in the dorms and there's a plane ready to take you back to the farm.

Jeremiah sleeps basically the whole flight back. you don't. you sit on the seat opposite him, watching the gentle rise and fall and rise of his chest underneath the new starchy plaid shirt.

the medical team looked over him, and dismissed every single worry of yours- but he died. and then the 'life jelly' took on his form!

it's fucked!

the plane lands near your farm, secluded and away from everyone. Jeremiah clings to you like you're a life vest and he'll drown if he lets go. (chances are, he will.)

the first morning is rough. Jeremiah sleeps through it. he sleeps for the whole day and the next. you keep a silent vigil next to him, only leaving the bed to go to the bathroom, or to the kitchen (not that you can stomach much anyway, but Jeremiah's voice guides you through your routine, acting as a beacon through the fog), or to stand outside and observe the dodecahedron sun dance with the dodecahedron moon.

cool air whips at your face, and suddenly you hear him scream.

it's a horrible, shrill, gurgling sound and you nearly drop the glass of whiskey you're holding, jumping up from your seat on the porch and running up the stairs. (thank God for those cube legs, right?)

this goes on for weeks.

every night without fail, and every night it ends with him in your arms, on your chest listening to your unsteady heartbeat, or you in his, listening to his steady rythym.

a year passes, but things still haven't gone back to normal.

sometimes- Jeremiah wakes up in the corn field, staring up at the sun. he never remembers leaving the bed, and you would've felt it if he had. he speaks differently too, stuttering and stumbling through once familiar words, now acting like barbed-wire around his throat.

(he can barely say 'i love you' without it sounding like it physically pains him. your name now sounds like poison, or a broken radio when it once sounded like honey, or a record spinning on a gramophone.)

he's more difficult to hurt now.

one of the first times that he willingly left the bed, he scared you.

you were in the kitchen, the familiar friendly haze of whiskey seeping over you when his crackly voice speaks it's first proper sentence- "Alexa, play Baby Back by Future" "Now playing: MESSAGE FROM THE PRESIDENT" "NO!!"

and you scream. the crystalline glass slips from your white knuckle grasp, and Jeremiah runs into the room, right onto the pile of shards.

you stand there, watching him. his shape is not as stern as it once was. his hands, his legs, his back- they move more. they're softer, as they dart across the glimmering glass, you notice that they barely even get a scratch.

his eyes are watching your every move, and you can feel them embedding a heated stare in your back as you turn away, grabbing the matching crystalline glass.

(they were wedding presents from his mother. the date of your marriage is engraved on them (13/01) and your names are written in cursive, perfectly and forever intertwined)

Jeremiah makes a passing comment on you having a heavy hand as you pour yourself another glass, and you say nothing. the old Jeremiah would've joined you for a drink. he would've left the shards there, hopping over them into your arms, pressing a kiss to the square line of your clenched jaw.

this is not your Jeremiah.

this will never be your Jeremiah.

you can love him as much as you want, but this is not him.

you remember- before all of this, you woke one night to find your Jeremiah staring at you, gently tracing a continuous line over your face. you had asked him why, but instead of replying with words he shushed you.

that night, his eyes had looked at you with so much love.

now, they barely look at you at all. he remembers the routine, the warmth you bring, but you don't think you can see an ounce of recognition in his eyes at all.

he does this because it feels right, because you've stayed by his side where a weaker man would've run. and maybe, there is some semblance of your Jeremiah still in there. maybe that's why he does these things, because the essence of your love is still there.

for a moment, you stand there, watching as he places the pieces of shattered glass on the counter top, neither of you speaking another word.

wordlessly, you leave this man and his soft sides and raspy voice in the cold heat of the kitchen, grabbing your whiskey on the way out. he doesn't follow after you, his eyes transfixed on the circular wall clock hanging just past your head.

you stand in the cornfield that Jeremiah proposed to you in.

he promised to stay safe and to keep you safe, as long as the two of you were together and even if (God forbid) the two of you weren't, but over the past year- the whiskey and the vodka and the gin have all been more of a safety net than him.

they don't have his arms, or his smile, but they make it easier to pretend that he still has those things.

you don't know how long you're out there, but the sun has risen and set and risen again, so you go back inside.

Jeremiah isn't there. the kitchen is clean, but Jeremiah isn't there and you whip your head around, desperation grasping at your neck like a dog's teeth.

dancing in the light of the kitchen table, is the glass you dropped from last night, and next to it, a small tube of superglue, and it's lid, the glue slowly seeping out of it.

holding the glass up with shaking hands, you can see its chips, its imperfections- but it's still nice.

you slowly creep into the living room, and Jeremiah is asleep on the blue couch. you had insisted on buying it when you first moved in together, but he'd hated it. he hated a lot of things that you'd loved, but he loved seeing you happy. you stand there, considering things for a minute, before grabbing a blanket that had been thrown over a nearby chair and covering him with it.

he doesn't stir, chest barely rising and falling but you can barely stand to look at the man claiming to be your Jeremiah anymore.

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