#Commander Vince Elliot

[chernobog13]

Commander Vince Elliot (Richard Jaeckel) blasting the bejeezus out of marauding aliens in The Green Slime (1968), aka Gamma 3: The Great Space War.

[this-idiots-left-eye]

As the Fall Comes

This was a fic I wrote a while back for Inktober18 prompt 1: “Poisonous” about Gilbert’s internal monologue in Retrace XL: “Blindness”

*

It started small. The time when Gilbert was poisoned.

When he first stood up from the banquet table, the room spun, a little too fast, a little too far. And when almost everyone present turned to him with worried faces—(after everything that had happened, why wouldn’t they?)—he assured them he was fine, that maybe he had had a more to drink than he thought, or perhaps the gravity of all that had happened was catching up to him.

Next his head. Small, sharp pains. Like someone was knocking to get in, like a doctor was sticking a needle in different places to see where it would hurt most. Then it was everywhere that hurt most, and the knocking was on every door and window to his mind. He could do nothing but hold his head in his hands, curse, and pray whoever it was couldn’t get in, and would stop trying.

Then he was coughing, and when he pulled his hand from his mouth, crimson remained. And then he was even vomiting, and Vincent ran to his side, saying his name like he was dying—because, of course, he was. At least, on principle.

Vincent had made sure that the whole house was frantic, as if on fire, that they were calling the family doctor, using anything and everything they had to save his life.

And somewhere in the middle, he heard Elliot swear under his breath something about the Headhunter, and how one day he would kill him for what he had done to their family.

He didn’t remember much of that night, fever, and blood, and…

And after all that, after all he had put them through, after all his own wonderings Is this really it? Is this where I die? Will I never get to see Oz again? He…was fine.

Fine. Not even a scar, a cold, a leftover cough. When the morning came, and his pillows, sheets, and clothes were changed, all that was left was white, and he could breathe fine, and there was nothing to show he had almost died the night prior.

Everyone said it was a miracle, (Bernice said something about how the Abyss had saved him), that there was no other explanation, as no one (or almost no one) comes back from behind poisoned, and they should thank the angels that the Nightrays hadn’t had to lose someone else.

At the time, he believed it was the worst thing he had ever had to experience.

Until he learned there's one other thing that works the same way: thoughts can be poisonous too.

They too, started small.

It started with Vincent whispering things in his ear, (things about Alice, and Chains, and killing) and “Why won’t you kill her, Gil?” asking him questions about things Gilbert denied, but he realized quickly had always been there, somewhere, in the back of his mind. And he supposed it must have started much earlier than this. His brother’s words brought them to the forefront, started a record of them playing on repeat. He didn’t know how, or where, or when, but somewhere in the middle, the thoughts decided to change directions, decided to stop saying No, of course I won’t, I can’t. I would never kill Alice, how could Vince even suggest something like that? to Maybe he’s not completely wrong, it’s her…She’s the one destroying my master’s body…This is her fault, and the answer’s so simple, if I just got rid of her… skirting around the single word, until he was admitting it full well: If I just killed her, if I just got the chance, then my Master would be safe, he’d be okay, all I need to do is kill her, and it started sounding less horrible bit by bit. And then somewhere, somewhen, somehow, that one word started filling up his mind, until it was all he could think, the record of questions replaced with some dark chant of kill, kill, kill my Master’s enemies, kill…

Then Sablier. Sablier, where his head, his hand, ached, and where he got so very close.

That knocking in his head, growing in intensity the longer he left the door unopened.

But they had already gotten in, and now they were knocking on the inner walls.

The chance came for him to fulfill the call of this dark melody, and he was inches from action, if he just—

Instead he…saved her.

Saved her. How? Why? Why, when his thoughts bent to blood, how could his body choose to act in mercy?

It was in Sablier when he started to truly understand that this wasn’t the first time he had tasted this poison; somewhere in his cloudy past he had once thought If I just left Vincent behind, if he was gone…then I’d be fine…But when he’s gone, who will need me? The words reverberated back to him from some time he didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t, remember, and with them, this pain in his head. His breath caught in his throat, disgust rearing in his heart. How could he ever think something like that? Why? What would bring him to—?

But he didn’t dare think, Isn’t this the same? Am I not thinking the same thing right now?

And maybe this wasn’t the first time those words came to mind about Alice either. Maybe, once upon a time, he had said them aloud. He could hear an echo of his own childish tone—

Not just Alice, someone had tried to hurt his Master, and he had to protect him. He had to. There was no other option, no other choice to make. If anyone tried to hurt his Master, he had to protect him, even if that meant killing those who stood opposed to him.

All the while, his head throbbing. Had it always been this way? Had it always been like this? He was starting to forget what it felt like to be okay.

And it just had to be in Sablier when that man showed up. When Xai came, and brushed Oz aside again. Gilbert’s legs moved before his mind commanded them.

Long ago, when he was still too young to have blood on his hands, that one word—kill—had become so strong he lifted a gun and pointed it at Oz’s father.

He would have done it too—pulled the trigger. He wanted to. His jaw set, tears in his eyes, questions he knew the answers to (but everyone else denied) burning on his tongue, hands shaking, but aim true… it would have been so simple; just one motion, a single act, pull the trigger, and all this pain would be over.

But, it wouldn’t be. Over, that is. Gilbert knew that Oz was not like himself. Oz did not have these thoughts spinning through him—Oz had not been poisoned by them. And if Oz returned to a world where his father was dead, killed by his most dedicated servant, in some twisted show of loyalty, he wouldn’t be proud, or grateful, or anything of the sort. He knew it wasn’t what Oz wanted, no matter how much he had been hurt by this man. And if Gilbert did this now, it would be like he was saying, with the voice of a bullet, Oz isn’t coming back. So he didn’t, not then. There were pathways out of the thoughts, out of the chanting. The poison subsided, went dormant in his blood.

But in Sablier, things were different. In Sablier there were memories, and they made his head pound to escape his own skull. In Sablier there were voices, and his left hand was aching and What was going on with Oz—

Was this what they meant by poisonous gas? Did Pandora, Break and Reim, know about the thoughts, the memories? About the poison in his mind?—

And in Sablier he tried to kill Alice, and in Sablier, maybe some other him, in some other time, wanted to leave his brother behind too, but couldn’t bring himself to do—(not because he cared, but because he needed to be needed, and he wouldn’t admit that he still did)—and these memories, these memories, these memories—

If only he could cough them up too. If only he could turn them to a few drops of blood staining his gloves, rather than his entire past. But they stuck in his lungs, on his tongue, and they rotted there.

The word, the gun, were the only things left, in his hand, in his heart. The only thing left to do.

If only Xai could have been just a little bit kinder, just a tiny bit more forgiving. It wasn’t hard, was it, just to show one shred of human decency?

(Gilbert might just have changed the past for Oz, then. Might have erased the moment when Oz’s own father said he wished he had never been born, might have kept him from tossing him into the Abyss. Even now, if Raven told him he could, would he still—?)

How could this man stand there with a smile on his face, like he hadn’t ripped Oz apart all those years ago? Tossed his heart to the cobblestones, then, if that wasn’t enough, cast him into the Abyss itself? Like he didn’t care, and wouldn’t even try…

Gilbert would have done it. He no longer had anything with which to fend the thoughts off. They were enveloping his mind, and maybe there was no him left, just these sickening memories, a knocking that made his head throb, and the word kill.

Every intention in him was set on the task.

And it had been Break—Why did it have to be Break?—who stopped him.

If it had been Oz, things would've been different. If it had been Oz, things would have made sense. Gilbert would have listened to every word from the very beginning, and it would have been easy to stifle the thoughts, to come to the answer, to follow Oz out of this place, out of the dark…wouldn’t it?

Oz may have yelled, or kicked him in the shin, pulled on his hair, and called him an idiot, but he still would have made an effort to care, to understand, recognize what he was doing, and why. Oz would have stayed there, and talked him down from this place, slowly, made him put down the gun, second by second, drawing the poison from his veins in the same method it came.

But he didn’t get Oz. Oz was too shaken up himself. Oz was somewhere else, just as broken and hurting and Gilbert had to protect him.

(But how can I protect him if I’m not with him?)

Instead he got Break. And Break wasn’t kind like Oz. The Mad Hatter had severed the scene in two, he stuck his staff between Gilbert’s neck at the rest of the world, a barrier between him and the man he wanted to kill, ruining his chances of following the thoughts’ call through, in one fluid motion. And Break’s words were not compassionate like Oz’s surely would have been. For the most part, they were not cruel, but Break never seemed to make the effort to care.

Gilbert’s words hadn’t been any better, they grew more monstrous by the moment—(maybe that was the blood, the vomit on his tongue)—and that’s when they finally spilled out, “I have to kill him!”

Still—

(If he had been paying more attention, perhaps he would have seen how they made Break pause…)

“Gilbert-kun. That isn’t your will talking, is it?”

And it hurt so much. His head, his hand, he couldn’t even think with this pulsing, the blood in his throat—

“Who put that into your head?”

And he had to do it, he had to—

“Then you can kill me too!”

He had no choice, he had to follow the thoughts though to the end, he was their puppet—

Wait, what?

Did he really just put his gun to Break’s head?

Sure, Break could but insufferable at times, but was that enough to kill him?

“Let me ask you just one thing. Is the one you need...really Oz Vessalius?”

And then, of course, because it was Break, after saying the thing that cut to the heart of him, he had to jab his staff into his gut to finish the job. Punish Gilbert for holding him at gunpoint, even for a second, even at Break's own command, saying he let him off easy.

Break had never intended to be kind. He never gave any thought to the impact of things like words, and “worthless emotion,” did he? He had even admitted this fact himself.

And Gilbert had turned his gun on him, maybe even thought for a second That’s right, you’re an enemy too, I have to kill you. Something dark in him knew blood needed to follow blood, something dark in him needing to fire on someone, because someone, anyone, had to pay for all this pain in his heart, in his head, and he couldn’t think straight with this ache, this poison…

But, of course, in a moment, the very notion became so silly. This was Break after all. Sure, he was annoying, rude, maybe even cruel, but killing him for it was a bit far. And wasn’t Break somehow—(he didn’t like to say it too much)—his friend?

Except, when he had tried to apologize, Break had shut him up by shoving Emily into his jaw.

The question remained in the back of Gilbert’s mind: What if he’s right? What if it isn’t Oz I need? But he pushed the question down as far as he could, didn’t want to think, to wonder for a second that maybe…

Was this another poison? These questions of Maybe it’s not Oz…Or was questioning the poison’s intentions, bit by bit, was severing it at the seams, quickly and thoroughly as possible, the antidote? Was the antidote realizing just how very silly the thought was, from the very beginning?

He found himself so far from his reason for doing this; Oz. He hadn’t for a second thought what Oz would think about his actions. That had been what had kept him from the trigger before. Not this time. Though it was the only thing that mattered, he hadn’t even thought about it. It had just been pain, and knocking, and that one recurrent note.

So maybe, just maybe, Break was right. Maybe it wasn’t Oz, maybe—

Or maybe not.

And he wasn’t ready to tell Oz any of that. Especially not when he didn’t have an answer himself yet.

But he did tell Oz the truth. The thoughts flared back up, even afterwards, and Oz had been so quick to realize they were ridiculous—and, when Gilbert thought about it, wasn’t it weird that Break had took them so seriously, when Oz had laughed?—laughed, and said “What’re you saying? You’d never be able to do that!”

“No!” Gilbert had to prove the poison was real, “I tried to kill her!”

“But you couldn’t, could you? See, now that’s the Gilbert I know!”

He said it like he knew him better than Gilbert knew himself. It was starting to seem like everyone knew him better than he knew himself.

Maybe that’s how poison works. Maybe it made sense; the others could still breathe, after all.

Still, Oz’s words…and Break’s…

It was after they got back from Sablier, after Break had collapsed, after Oz had told him how silly it was, and after they got back from Rytas’ mansion, after the Headhunter showed up again, (the same Headhunter, surely that had tried to poison him before), Gilbert decided there was one thing left he should to.

He took a deep breath, and screwed up his resolve.

“Break?”

“Mm?” Gilbert had managed to find Break alone in the kitchen, making tea, and stealing candy from a place up high where Sharon had apparently tried to hide it. Break turned, leaning against the counter. “What is it, Gilbert-kun?”

“I…um…” Gilbert fumbled his words, realizing it was a lot harder to say it aloud, especially to him, “I wanted to say…” he looked at the ground.

“Looks like a kitty’s got Gil-Gil’s tongue.” Break took a sip of tea, looking smug.

Gilbert gritted his teeth, hands clenching into fists, biting back any insults that came to his lips. “About what happened in Sablier—”

Break looked up, realizing where Gilbert was going with this.

“Oh?” Break interrupted him, grinning, “Didn’t we already make it clear you were not to apologize?” He inclined his head towards Emily.

Why did he always have to make things harder? Gilbert was just trying to show him a little kindness, and he always had to spit it back in his face.

“Well, actually I, uh, didn’t come to apologize,” he cleared his throat, “I am sorry though, for,” he felt his cheeks growing hot, “pointing my gun at you. But, um, well—”

Break laughed, picking up his tea, slipping a few candies into his pocket, walking by, “Spoiled brats like you have the luxury of—”

“Thank you.” Gilbert said, more loudly than intended.

Break paused, shock flitting into his eye. He turned back to him, brow furrowed. “Huh?”

“For what you said…in Sablier. I—”

“Oh,” Break breathed again. “Well, you seemed like you were in need of a good ass-kicking,” he brushed Gilbert’s heartfelt words off.

“But you—”

Break ruffled Gilbert’s hair in response, walking away, chuckling.

Like hell I’ll ever say something nice to him again. Gilbert glared after him.

But as the older man rounded the corner, Gilbert didn’t realize there was something genuine in that laugh.

Because Break knew what it was like. He too had once tasted this poison. He knew what it was like to have word kill infect your thoughts. And worse, he knew what it was like to have blood fill your past, to the point where you had to change your name for it to stop following you, stop calling to you. And in that moment, he was the only one who could have understood, and stopped, him.

Maybe if Gilbert was listening more closely, he may have realized there was something real beneath his laugh. But what Break certainly wouldn’t let him know was his exact thought at the time, which was very different from Gilbert’s own:

At least one of us is starting to see clearly.

[rose-of-pollux]

Ok, so, I said I should make a masterlist of Robert Vaughn roles and whether or not each character survived, so here it is, under the cut--presented in chronological order of release/airdate, here are the roles that @ksturf​ and/or I have seen (will be updated as we see more).

(Obviously, spoilers...)

Hamlet (Hamlet) -- death by poisoned blade

Pharaonic solider (Ten Commandments) -- death by Red Sea re-merge

Idol Worshipper (Ten Commandments) -- death by the wrath of God (yup, two bit parts in this move, and they both got killed off...)

Mr. Beekman (Father Knows Best) -- survives

Bob Ford (Hell’s Crossroads) -- survives

Buddy Root (No Time to Be Young) -- survives

Billy Jack (Zane Gray Theater) -- death by gunshot

Johnny Adler (Zane Gray Theater) -- survives

Kid (Gunsmoke) -- death by gunshot (after literally twenty seconds onscreen)

Andy Bowers (Gunsmoke) -- survives

Frank Elliot (Panic!) -- survives

Symbol Maker’s Son (Teenage Caveman) -- survives

Hank Barlow (Mike Hammer) -- survives

Dr. Dixon (Whirlybirds) -- survives

Don Bigelow (Unwed Mother) -- survives

Marshal Dan Willard (The Rifleman) -- death by gunshot

Eddie Campbell (Good Day for a Hanging) -- death by gunshot

Miguel Roverto (Zorro) -- survives

Lloyd Stover (Bronco) -- survives

Stan Gray (Frontier Doctor) -- survives

Chester Gwynn (The Young Philadelphians) -- survives

George Jones (State Trooper) -- death by execution

Roger Mowbray (Riverboat) -- survives

Art (Alfred Hitchcock Presents) -- death by gunshot

Theodore Roosevelt (Law of the Plainsman) -- survives in the episode, but as he’s playing a historical figure who eventually dies, idk what to count this one as...

Asa Bannister (The Rebel) -- survives

Perry Holcomb (Men into Space) -- survives (just barely)

Lee (The Magnificent Seven) -- death by gunshot I REFUSE TO ACCEPT THIS; YOU CAN’T MAKE ME 😭

Sandy Kayle (Laramie) -- death by gunshot/rock slide combo (I think; it’s been a while since I seen this one)

Dr. Guy Collins (The June Allyson Show) -- survives

Roy Pelham (Wagon Train) -- survives

Roger Bigelow (Wagon Train) -- survives

Dr. Frank Cordell (Thriller) -- death by falling

Billy the Kid (Tales of Wells Fargo) -- survives

Luke Martin (Bonanza) -- survives, but his fate isn’t so good as he’s pretty much promised death by hanging

Earl Rogers (G. E. True) -- survives

Simon Clain (The Virginian) -- I’m 99% sure he survived (it’s been a while)

Jim Darling (The Dick Van Dyke Show) -- survives

Capt. Raymond Rambridge (The Lieutenant) -- survives

Napoleon Solo (The Man from U.N.C.L.E.) -- survives (after 10,000 close calls, but still!!!)

Bill Fenner (The Venetian Affair) -- survives

Walter Chalmers (Bullitt) -- survives

Antonio (If it’s Tuesday, it Must be Belgium) -- survives

Paul Krueger (The Bridge at Remagen) -- death by execution

Casca (Julius Caesar) -- not entirely sure, but seeing as though he is last mentioned by an angry mob out to get him and is never seen after that, I’m going to guess death by angry mob

Ray Whitely (The Statue) -- survives (but his dignity does not)

Neilson (Clay Pigeon) -- death by gunshot

Jerry Hunter (The Woman Hunter) -- death by gunshot or a fall (forget which...)

Harry Rule (The Protectors) -- survives

Parker (The Towering Inferno) -- death by fall

Charles Clay (Columbo) -- death by blunt force trauma

Hayden Danziger (Columbo) -- survives

Proteus IV (Demon Seed) -- survives... in a manner of speaking (he’s a sentient computer who uploads his sentience to a human body as he’s being shut down, so technically, he lives)

Col Rogers (Brass Target) -- death by gunshot (I think?  It’s been a while)

Sebastian Rolande (Hawaii 5-O) -- survives

Hud (Cuba Crossing) -- death by gunshot

Harrison Crawford (City in Fear) -- survives

Barkley (Virus) -- death by genetically modified flu virus (saw that coming a mile and a half away...)

Gelt (Battle Beyond the Stars) -- death by intergalactic battle

David (S.O.B.) -- survives

FDR (FDR: That Man in the White House) -- survives, but, again, he’s playing a historical figure who suffers death by polio...

Ross Webster (Superman III) -- survives

Ed Ryland (Black Moon Rising) -- death by car

Stanley Auerbach (Prince of Bel Air) -- survives (not to be confused with a popular 90s sitcom of a similar name)

Hunt Stockwell (A Team) -- survives

Ray Melton (Nightstick) -- survives

Jerome Huxley (Ray Bradbury Theatre) -- death by strangulation

Schneider (Skeleton Coast) -- death by gunshot

Byron Orlock (Transylvania Twist) -- undead/temporarily dead

Gary Julian (Buried Alive) -- alive but presumed dead

Gideon Armstrong (Murder She Wrote) -- alive

Edwin Chancellor (Murder She Wrote) -- alive

Charles Winthrop (Murder She Wrote) -- alive

Col. Gavron (Tatort) -- death by explosion

Dennis Forbes (Dancing in the Dark) -- alive

The Devil (Witch Academy) -- immortal

Dr. Stewart Rizor (Walker, Texas Ranger) -- death by gunshot

Bill Stratton (Diagnosis Murder) -- death by gunshot

Alexander Drake (Diagnosis Murder) -- death by gunshot

Prof. Michaels (An American Affair) -- alive

Ron Fairfax (The Sender) -- death by gunshot

James Sheffield (The Nanny) -- death by old age (I think?  I didn’t watch the ep where he died so if someone can fill me in on how James died, that’d be helpful)

Carl Anderton (Law & Order) -- survives

Tate Speer (Law & Order SVU) -- survives

Walter Briggs (Law & Order SVU) -- death by old age/illness

Baxter Cain (Baseketball) -- survives (but, again, his dignity does not)

Mr. White (Recess) -- survives

Vince Deal (The Sentinel) -- survives

Judge Travis (The Magnificent Seven Series) -- alive

Benny Palladino (Hoodlum & Son) -- survives

Albert Stroller (Hustle) -- alive but presumed dead/faked his death

Jacob (Excuse Me for Living) -- alive

Silver-Haired Man (The American Side) -- alive

Carmine (Gold Star) -- alive, but outlook not so good 😢

[antihero-writings]

As the Fall Comes—Pandora Hearts Fic for Inktober Prompt 1: Poisonous (Full Fic)

Fic Title: As the Fall Comes

Fic synopsis: An in-depth look into Gilbert's internal monologue in Vol 10, Retrace XL: Blindness, using the theme of Inktober 2018 Prompt 1: Poisonous.

Character Focus: Gilbert 

Fic:

It started small. The time when Gilbert was poisoned.

When he first stood up from the banquet table, the room spun, a little too fast, a little too far. And when almost everyone present turned to him with worried faces (after everything that had happened, why wouldn’t they?) he assured them he was fine, that maybe he had had a more to drink than he thought, or perhaps the gravity of all that had happened was catching up to him.

Next his head. Small, sharp pains. Like someone was knocking to get in, like a doctor was sticking a needle in different places to see where it would hurt most. Then it was everywhere that hurt most, and the knocking was on every door and window to his mind. He could do nothing but hold his head in his hands, curse, and pray whoever it was couldn’t get in, and would stop trying.

Then he was coughing, and when he pulled his hand from his mouth, crimson remained. And then he was even vomiting, and Vincent ran to his side, saying his name like he was dying—because, of course, he was. At least, on principle.

Vincent had made sure that the whole house was frantic, on fire, that they were calling the family doctor, using anything and everything they had to save his life.

And somewhere in the middle, he heard Elliot swear under his breath something about the Headhunter, and how one day he would kill him for what he had done to their family.

He didn’t remember much of that night, fever, and blood, and…

And after all that, after all he had put them through, after all his own wonderings Is this really it? Is this where I die? Will I never get to see Oz again? He…was fine.

Fine. Not even a scar, a cold, a leftover cough. When the morning came, and his pillows, sheets, and clothes were changed, all that was left was white, and he could breathe fine, and there was nothing to show he had almost died the night prior.

Everyone said it had to be a miracle, (Bernice said something about how the Abyss had saved him), that there was no other explanation, as no one (or almost no one) comes back from behind poisoned, and they should thank the heavens that the Nightrays hadn’t had to lose someone else.

At the time, he believed it was the worst thing he had ever had to experience.

Until he learned there's one other thing that works the same way: thoughts can be poisonous too.

They too, started small.

It started with Vincent whispering things in his ear, (things about Alice, and Chains, and killing) and “Why won’t you kill her, Gil?” asking him questions about things Gilbert denied, but he realized quickly had always been there, somewhere, in the back of his mind. And he supposed it must have started much earlier than this. His brother’s words brought them to the forefront, started a record of them playing on repeat. He didn’t know how, or where, or when, but somewhere in the middle, the thoughts decided to change directions, decided to stop saying No, of course I won’t, I can’t. I would never kill Alice, how could Vince even suggest something like that? to Maybe he’s not completely wrong, it’s her…She’s the one destroying my master’s body…This is her fault, and the answer’s so simple, if I just got rid of her… skirting around the single word, until he was admitting it full well: If I just killed her, if I just got the chance, then my Master would be safe, he’d be okay, all I need to do is kill her, and it started sounding less horrible bit by bit. And then somewhere, somehow, somewhen, that one word started filling up his mind, until it was all he could think, the record of questions replaced with some dark chant of kill, kill, kill my Master’s enemies, kill…

Then Sablier. Sablier, where his head, his hand, ached, and where he got so very close.

That knocking in his head, growing in intensity the longer he left the door unopened.

But they had already gotten in, and now they were knocking on the inner walls.

The chance came for him to fulfill the call of this dark melody, and he was inches from action, if he just—

Instead he…saved her.

Saved her. How? Why? Why, when his thoughts had bent to blood, how could his body chose to act in mercy?

It was in Sablier when he started to truly understand that this wasn’t the first time he had tasted this poison; somewhere in his cloudy past he had once thought If I just left Vincent behind, if he was gone…then I’d be fine…But when he’s gone, who will need me? The words reverberated back to him from some time he didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t, remember, and with them, this pain in his head. His breath caught in his throat, disgust rearing in his heart. How could he ever think something like that? Why? What would bring him to—?

But he didn’t dare think, Isn’t this the same? Am I not thinking the same thing right now?

And maybe this wasn’t the first time those words came mind about Alice either. Maybe, once upon a time, he had said them aloud. He could hear an echo of his own childish tone—

Not just Alice, someone had tried to hurt his Master, and he had to protect him. He had to. There was no other option, no other choice to make. If anyone tried to hurt his Master, he had to protect him, even if that meant killing those who stood opposed to him.

All the while, his head throbbing. Had it always been this way? Had it always like this? He was starting to forget what it felt like to be okay.

And it just had to be in Sablier when that man showed up. When Xai came, and brushed Oz aside again. Gilbert’s legs moved before his mind had time to command them.

Long ago, when he was still too young to have blood on his hands, that one word—kill—had become so strong he lifted a gun and pointed it at Oz’s father.

He would have done it too—pulled the trigger. He wanted to. His jaw set, tears in his eyes, questions he knew the answers to (but everyone else denied) burning on his tongue, hands shaking, but aim true… it would have been so simple; just one motion, a single act, pull the trigger, and all this pain would be over.

But, it wouldn’t be. Over, that is. Gilbert knew that Oz was not like himself. Oz did not have these thoughts spinning through him—Oz had not been poisoned by them. And if Oz returned to a world where his father was dead, killed by his most dedicated servant, in some twisted show of loyalty, he wouldn’t be proud, or grateful, or anything of the sort. He knew it wasn’t what Oz wanted, no matter how much he had been hurt by this man. And if Gilbert did this now, it would be like he was saying, with the voice of a bullet, Oz isn’t coming back. So he didn’t, not then. There were pathways out of the thoughts, out of the chanting. The poison subsided, went dormant in his blood.

But in Sablier, things were different. In Sablier there were memories, and they made his head pound to escape his own skull. In Sablier there were voices, and his left hand was aching and what was going on with Oz—

Was this what they meant by poisonous gas? Did Pandora, Break and Reim, know about the thoughts, the memories? About the poison in his mind?—

And in Sablier he tried to kill Alice, and in Sablier, maybe some other him, in some other time, wanted to leave his brother behind too, but couldn’t bring himself to do, (not because he cared, but because he needed to be needed, and he wouldn’t admit that he still did) and these memories, these memories, these memories—

If only he could cough them up too. If only he could turn them to a few drops of blood staining his gloves, rather than his entire past. But they stuck in his lungs, on his tongue, and they rotted there.

The word, the gun, were the only things left, in his hand, in his heart. The only thing left to do.

If only Xai could have been just a little bit kinder, just a tiny bit more forgiving. It wasn’t hard, was it, just to show one shred of human decency?

(Gilbert might just have changed the past for Oz, then. Might have erased the moment when Oz’s own father said he wished he had never been born, might have kept him from tossing him into the Abyss. Even now, if Raven told him he could, would he still—?)

How could this man stand there with a smile on his face, like he hadn’t ripped Oz apart all those years ago? Tossed his heart to the cobblestones, then, if that wasn’t enough, cast him into the Abyss itself? Like he didn’t care, and wouldn’t even try…

Gilbert would have done it. He no longer had anything with which to fend the thoughts off. They were enveloping his mind, and maybe there was no him left, just these sickening memories, a knocking that made his head throb, and the word kill.

Everything in him had already accomplished the task, every intention set.

And it had been Break—why did it have to be Break?—who stopped him.

If it had been Oz, things would have been different. If it had been Oz, things would have made sense. Gilbert would have listened to every word from the very beginning, and it would have been easy to stifle the thoughts, to come to the answer, to follow Oz out of this place, out of the dark…wouldn’t it?

Oz may have yelled, or kicked him in the shin, pulled on his hair, and called him an idiot, but he still would have made an effort to care, to understand, recognize what he was doing, and why. Oz would have stayed there, and talked him down from this place, slowly, made him put down the gun, second by second, drawing the poison from his veins in the same method it came.

But he didn’t get Oz. Oz was too shaken up himself. Oz was somewhere else, just as broken and hurting and Gilbert had to protect him.

(But how can I protect him if I’m not with him?)

Instead he got Break. And Break wasn’t kind like Oz. The Mad Hatter had severed the scene in two, he stuck his staff between Gilbert’s neck at the rest of the world, put black and barrier between him and the man he wanted to kill, ruining his chances of following the thoughts’ call through, in one fluid motion. And Break’s words were not compassionate like Oz’s surely would have been. For the most part, they were not cruel, but Break never seemed to make the effort to care.

Gilbert’s words hadn’t been any better, they grew more monstrous by the moment—(maybe that was the blood, the vomit on his tongue)—and that’s when they finally spilled out, “I have to kill him!”

Still—

(If he had been paying more attention, perhaps he would have seen how they made Break pause…)

“Gilbert-kun. That isn’t your will talking, is it?”

And it hurt so much. His head, his hand, he couldn’t even think with this pulsing, the blood in his throat—

“Who put that into your head?”

And he had to do it, he had to—

“Then you can kill me too!”

He had no choice, he had to follow the thoughts though to the end, he was their puppet—

Wait, what?

Did he really just put his gun to Break’s head?

Sure, Break could but insufferable at times, but was that enough to kill him?

“Let me ask you just one thing. Is the one you need, really Oz Vessalius?”

And then, of course, because it was Break, after saying one thing that hit him the hardest, he had to jab his staff into his gut to finish the job, punishing Gilbert for holding him at gunpoint, even for a second, even at Break's own command, saying he let him off easy.

Break had never intended to be kind. He never gave any thought to the impact of things like words, and “worthless emotion,” did he? He had even admitted this fact himself.

And Gilbert had turned his gun on him, maybe even thought for a second That’s right, you’re an enemy too, I have to kill you. Something dark in him knew blood needed to follow blood, something dark in him needing to fire on someone, because someone, anyone, had to pay for all this pain in his heart, in his head, and he couldn’t think straight with this ache, this poison…

But, of course, in a moment, the very notion became so silly. This was Break after all. Sure, he was annoying, rude, maybe even cruel, but killing him for it was a bit far. And wasn’t Break somehow—(he didn’t like to say it too much)—his friend?

Except, when he had tried to apologize, Break had shut him up by shoving Emily into his jaw.

The question remained in the back of Gilbert’s mind: What if he’s right? What if it isn’t Oz I need? But he pushed the question down as far as he could, didn’t want to think, to wonder for a second that maybe…

Was this another poison? These questions of Maybe it’s not Oz…Or was questioning the poison’s intentions, bit by bit, was severing it at the seams, quickly and thoroughly as possible, the antidote? Was the antidote realizing just how very silly the thought was, from the very beginning?

He found himself so far from his reason for doing this; Oz. He hadn’t for a second thought what Oz would think about his actions. That had been what had kept him from the trigger before. Not this time. Though it was the only thing that mattered, he hadn’t even thought about it. It had just been pain, and knocking, and that one recurrent note.

So maybe, just maybe, Break was right. Maybe it wasn’t Oz, maybe—

Or maybe not.

And he wasn’t ready to tell Oz any of that. Especially not when he didn’t have an answer himself yet.

But he did tell Oz the truth. The thoughts flared back up, even afterwards, and Oz had been so quick to realize they were ridiculous, (and, when Gilbert thought about it, wasn’t it weird that that Break had took them so seriously, when Oz had laughed?) laughed, and said “What’re you saying? You’d never be able to do that!”

“No!” Gilbert had to prove the poison was real, “I tried to kill her!”

“But you couldn’t, could you? See, now that’s the Gilbert I know!”

He said it like he knew him better than Gilbert knew himself. It was starting to seem like everyone knew him better than he did himself.

Maybe that’s how poison works. Maybe it made sense; the others could still breathe, after all.

Still, Oz’s words…and Break’s…

It was after they got back from Sablier, after they talked to Break when he had collapsed, after Oz had told him how silly it was, and after they got back from Rytas’ mansion, after the Headhunter showed up again, (the same Headhunter, surely that had tried to poison him before), Gilbert decided there was one thing left he should to.

He took a deep breath, and screwed up his resolve.

“Break?”

“Mm?” Gilbert had managed to find Break alone in the kitchen, making tea, and stealing candy from a place up high where Sharon had apparently tried to hide it. Break turned, leaning against the counter. “What is it, Gilbert-kun?”

“I…um…” Gilbert fumbled his words, realizing it was a lot harder to say it aloud, especially to him, “I wanted to say…” he looked at the ground.

“Looks like a kitty’s got Gil-Gil’s tongue.” Break took a sip of tea, looking smug.

Gilbert gritted his teeth, hands clenching into fists, biting back any insults that came to his lips. “About what happened in Sablier—”

Break looked up, realizing where Gilbert was going with this.

“Oh?” Break interrupted him, grinning, “Didn’t we already make it clear you were not to apologize?” he inclined his head towards Emily.

Why did he always have to make things harder? Gilbert was just trying to show him a little kindness, and he always had to spit it back in his face.

“Well, actually I, uh, didn’t come to apologize,” he cleared his throat, “I am sorry though, for,” he felt his cheeks growing hot, “pointing my gun at you. But, Um, well—”

Break laughed, picking up his tea, slipping a few candies into his pocket, walking by, “Spoiled brats like you have the luxury of—”

“Thank you.” Gilbert said, more loudly than intended.

Break paused, shock flitting into his eye. He turned back to him, brow furrowed. “Huh?”

“For what you said…in Sablier. I—”

“Oh,” Break breathed again. “Well, you seemed like you were in need of a good ass-kicking,” he brushed Gilbert’s heartfelt words off.

“But you—”

Break ruffled Gilbert’s hair in response, walking away, chuckling.

Like hell I’ll ever say something nice to him again. Gilbert glared after him.

But as the older man rounded the corner, Gilbert didn’t realize there was something genuine in that laugh.

Because Break knew what it was like. He too had once tasted this poison. He knew what it was like to have word kill infect your thoughts. And worse, he knew what it was like to have blood fill your past, to the point where you had to change your name for it to stop following you, for it to stop calling to you. And in that moment, he was the only one who could have understood him, and stopped him.

Maybe if Gilbert was listening more closely, he would have realized there was something real beneath his laugh. But what Break wouldn’t let him know was his exact thought at the time, which was very different from Gilbert’s own:

At least one of us is starting to see clearly.

*****

Notes:

I feel like "poisonous thoughts" are a bit of a motif in PH, and Gilbert, especially at this point in the series, is a very good example of them. Having dealt with those sorts of thoughts before, myself, I've found that Break's line "That isn't your will talking, is it? Who put that into your head?!" is actually really comforting, and I enjoyed writing a fic that i could mention it in, and I hope i did it justice. There's so much going on at any given point in the manga, it can be hard to encapsulate the characters feelings! In all honesty I feel like, in that particular moment, Break really was the only one who would truly be able to help him, (as mentioned in the fic). I love how well Mochizuki knows her characters! Also, the time when Gil was poisoned is never really expanded upon, so it was kind of fun to contemplate what that would have been like.

P.S. This is a repost of an old fic to my new writing blog!

[i-prefer-the-term-antihero]

Pandora Hearts Fic for Inktober Prompt 1: Poisonous

Fic Title: As the Fall Comes

Synopsis: An in-depth look into Gilbert's internal monologue in Vol 10, Retrace XL: Blindness, using the theme of Inktober 2018 Prompt 1: Poisonous.

Notes: I wanted to write some more PH fics following the Inktober 2018 prompts but i never got around to it. I have just learned that links no longer show up in searches on tumblr so I’m reposting all my fics to make sure they show up! You can still read this on Ao3, and i would love it if you left a comment there! It is under the same title, and my username there is I_prefer_the_term_antihero

Spoilers for Vol 10 ahead!

It started small. The time when Gilbert was poisoned.

When he first stood up from the banquet table, the room spun, a little too fast, a little too far. And when almost everyone present turned to him with worried faces (after everything that had happened, why wouldn’t they?) he assured them he was fine, that maybe he had had a more to drink than he thought, or perhaps the gravity of all that had happened was catching up to him.

Next his head. Small, sharp pains. Like someone was knocking to get in, like a doctor was sticking a needle in different places to see where it would hurt most. Then it was everywhere that hurt most, and the knocking was on every door and window to his mind. He could do nothing but hold his head in his hands, curse, and pray whoever it was couldn’t get in, and would stop trying.

Then he was coughing, and when he pulled his hand from his mouth, crimson remained. And then he was even vomiting, and Vincent ran to his side, saying his name like he was dying—because, of course, he was. At least, on principle.

Vincent had made sure that the whole house was frantic, on fire, that they were calling the family doctor, using anything and everything they had to save his life.

And somewhere in the middle, he heard Elliot swear under his breath something about the Headhunter, and how one day he would kill him for what he had done to their family.

He didn’t remember much of that night, fever, and blood, and…

And after all that, after all he had put them through, after all his own wonderings Is this really it? Is this where I die? Will I never get to see Oz again? He…was fine.

Fine. Not even a scar, a cold, a leftover cough. When the morning came, and his pillows, sheets, and clothes were changed, all that was left was white, and he could breathe fine, and there was nothing to show he had almost died the night prior.

Everyone said it had to be a miracle, (Bernice said something about how the Abyss had saved him), that there was no other explanation, as no one (or almost no one) comes back from behind poisoned, and they should thank the heavens that the Nightrays hadn’t had to lose someone else.

At the time, he believed it was the worst thing he had ever had to experience.

Until he learned there's one other thing that works the same way: thoughts can be poisonous too.

They too, started small.

It started with Vincent whispering things in his ear, (things about Alice, and Chains, and killing) and “Why won’t you kill her, Gil?” asking him questions about things Gilbert denied, but he realized quickly had always been there, somewhere, in the back of his mind. And he supposed it must have started much earlier than this. His brother’s words brought them to the forefront, started a record of them playing on repeat. He didn’t know how, or where, or when, but somewhere in the middle, the thoughts decided to change directions, decided to stop saying No, of course I won’t, I can’t. I would never kill Alice, how could Vince even suggest something like that? to Maybe he’s not completely wrong, it’s her…She’s the one destroying my master’s body…This is her fault, and the answer’s so simple, if I just got rid of her… skirting around the single word, until he was admitting it full well: If I just killed her, if I just got the chance, then my Master would be safe, he’d be okay, all I need to do is kill her, and it started sounding less horrible bit by bit. And then somewhere, somehow, somewhen, that one word started filling up his mind, until it was all he could think, the record of questions replaced with some dark chant of kill, kill, kill my Master’s enemies, kill…

Then Sablier. Sablier, where his head, his hand, ached, and where he got so very close.

That knocking in his head, growing in intensity the longer he left the door unopened.

But they had already gotten in, and now they were knocking on the inner walls.

The chance came for him to fulfill the call of this dark melody, and he was inches from action, if he just—

Instead he…saved her.

Saved her. How? Why? Why, when his thoughts had bent to blood, how could his body chose to act in mercy?

It was in Sablier when he started to truly understand that this wasn’t the first time he had tasted this poison; somewhere in his cloudy past he had once thought If I just left Vincent behind, if he was gone…then I’d be fine…But when he’s gone, who will need me? The words reverberated back to him from some time he didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t, remember, and with them, this pain in his head. His breath caught in his throat, disgust rearing in his heart. How could he ever think something like that? Why? What would bring him to—?

But he didn’t dare think, Isn’t this the same? Am I not thinking the same thing right now?

And maybe this wasn’t the first time those words came mind about Alice either. Maybe, once upon a time, he had said them aloud. He could hear an echo of his own childish tone—

Not just Alice, someone had tried to hurt his Master, and he had to protect him. He had to. There was no other option, no other choice to make. If anyone tried to hurt his Master, he had to protect him, even if that meant killing those who stood opposed to him.

All the while, his head throbbing. Had it always been this way? Had it always like this? He was starting to forget what it felt like to be okay.

And it just had to be in Sablier when that man showed up. When Xai came, and brushed Oz aside again. Gilbert’s legs moved before his mind had time to command them.

Long ago, when he was still too young to have blood on his hands, that one word—kill—had become so strong he lifted a gun and pointed it at Oz’s father.

He would have done it too—pulled the trigger. He wanted to. His jaw set, tears in his eyes, questions he knew the answers to (but everyone else denied) burning on his tongue, hands shaking, but aim true… it would have been so simple; just one motion, a single act, pull the trigger, and all this pain would be over.

But, it wouldn’t be. Over, that is. Gilbert knew that Oz was not like himself. Oz did not have these thoughts spinning through him—Oz had not been poisoned by them. And if Oz returned to a world where his father was dead, killed by his most dedicated servant, in some twisted show of loyalty, he wouldn’t be proud, or grateful, or anything of the sort. He knew it wasn’t what Oz wanted, no matter how much he had been hurt by this man. And if Gilbert did this now, it would be like he was saying, with the voice of a bullet, Oz isn’t coming back. So he didn’t, not then. There were pathways out of the thoughts, out of the chanting. The poison subsided, went dormant in his blood.

But in Sablier, things were different. In Sablier there were memories, and they made his head pound to escape his own skull. In Sablier there were voices, and his left hand was aching and what was going on with Oz—

Was this what they meant by poisonous gas? Did Pandora, Break and Reim, know about the thoughts, the memories? About the poison in his mind?—

And in Sablier he tried to kill Alice, and in Sablier, maybe some other him, in some other time, wanted to leave his brother behind too, but couldn’t bring himself to do, (not because he cared, but because he needed to be needed, and he wouldn’t admit that he still did) and these memories, these memories, these memories—

If only he could cough them up too. If only he could turn them to a few drops of blood staining his gloves, rather than his entire past. But they stuck in his lungs, on his tongue, and they rotted there.

The word, the gun, were the only things left, in his hand, in his heart. The only thing left to do.

If only Xai could have been just a little bit kinder, just a tiny bit more forgiving. It wasn’t hard, was it, just to show one shred of human decency?

(Gilbert might just have changed the past for Oz, then. Might have erased the moment when Oz’s own father said he wished he had never been born, might have kept him from tossing him into the Abyss. Even now, if Raven told him he could, would he still—?)

How could this man stand there with a smile on his face, like he hadn’t ripped Oz apart all those years ago? Tossed his heart to the cobblestones, then, if that wasn’t enough, cast him into the Abyss itself? Like he didn’t care, and wouldn’t even try…

Gilbert would have done it. He no longer had anything with which to fend the thoughts off. They were enveloping his mind, and maybe there was no him left, just these sickening memories, a knocking that made his head throb, and the word kill.

Everything in him had already accomplished the task, every intention set.

And it had been Break—why did it have to be Break?—who stopped him.

If it had been Oz, things would have been different. If it had been Oz, things would have made sense. Gilbert would have listened to every word from the very beginning, and it would have been easy to stifle the thoughts, to come to the answer, to follow Oz out of this place, out of the dark…wouldn’t it?

Oz may have yelled, or kicked him in the shin, pulled on his hair, and called him an idiot, but he still would have made an effort to care, to understand, recognize what he was doing, and why. Oz would have stayed there, and talked him down from this place, slowly, made him put down the gun, second by second, drawing the poison from his veins in the same method it came.

But he didn’t get Oz. Oz was too shaken up himself. Oz was somewhere else, just as broken and hurting and Gilbert had to protect him.

(But how can I protect him if I’m not with him?)

Instead he got Break. And Break wasn’t kind like Oz. The Mad Hatter had severed the scene in two, he stuck his staff between Gilbert’s neck at the rest of the world, put black and barrier between him and the man he wanted to kill, ruining his chances of following the thoughts’ call through, in one fluid motion. And Break’s words were not compassionate like Oz’s surely would have been. For the most part, they were not cruel, but Break never seemed to make the effort to care.

Gilbert’s words hadn’t been any better, they grew more monstrous by the moment—(maybe that was the blood, the vomit on his tongue)—and that’s when they finally spilled out, “I have to kill him!”

Still—

(If he had been paying more attention, perhaps he would have seen how they made Break pause…)

“Gilbert-kun. That isn’t your will talking, is it?”

And it hurt so much. His head, his hand, he couldn’t even think with this pulsing, the blood in his throat—

“Who put that into your head?”

And he had to do it, he had to—

“Then you can kill me too!”

He had no choice, he had to follow the thoughts though to the end, he was their puppet—

Wait, what?

Did he really just put his gun to Break’s head?

Sure, Break could but insufferable at times, but was that enough to kill him?

“Let me ask you just one thing. Is the one you need, really Oz Vessalius?”

And then, of course, because it was Break, after saying one thing that hit him the hardest, he had to jab his staff into his gut to finish the job, punishing Gilbert for holding him at gunpoint, even for a second, even at Break's own command, saying he let him off easy.

Break had never intended to be kind. He never gave any thought to the impact of things like words, and “worthless emotion,” did he? He had even admitted this fact himself.

And Gilbert had turned his gun on him, maybe even thought for a second That’s right, you’re an enemy too, I have to kill you. Something dark in him knew blood needed to follow blood, something dark in him needing to fire on someone, because someone, anyone, had to pay for all this pain in his heart, in his head, and he couldn’t think straight with this ache, this poison…

But, of course, in a moment, the very notion became so silly. This was Break after all. Sure, he was annoying, rude, maybe even cruel, but killing him for it was a bit far. And wasn’t Break somehow—(he didn’t like to say it too much)—his friend?

Except, when he had tried to apologize, Break had shut him up by shoving Emily into his jaw.

The question remained in the back of Gilbert’s mind: What if he’s right? What if it isn’t Oz I need? But he pushed the question down as far as he could, didn’t want to think, to wonder for a second that maybe…

Was this another poison? These questions of Maybe it’s not Oz…Or was questioning the poison’s intentions, bit by bit, was severing it at the seams, quickly and thoroughly as possible, the antidote? Was the antidote realizing just how very silly the thought was, from the very beginning?

He found himself so far from his reason for doing this; Oz. He hadn’t for a second thought what Oz would think about his actions. That had been what had kept him from the trigger before. Not this time. Though it was the only thing that mattered, he hadn’t even thought about it. It had just been pain, and knocking, and that one recurrent note.

So maybe, just maybe, Break was right. Maybe it wasn’t Oz, maybe—

Or maybe not.

And he wasn’t ready to tell Oz any of that. Especially not when he didn’t have an answer himself yet.

But he did tell Oz the truth. The thoughts flared back up, even afterwards, and Oz had been so quick to realize they were ridiculous, (and, when Gilbert thought about it, wasn’t it weird that that Break had took them so seriously, when Oz had laughed?) laughed, and said “What’re you saying? You’d never be able to do that!”

“No!” Gilbert had to prove the poison was real, “I tried to kill her!”

“But you couldn’t, could you? See, now that’s the Gilbert I know!”

He said it like he knew him better than Gilbert knew himself. It was starting to seem like everyone knew him better than he did himself.

Maybe that’s how poison works. Maybe it made sense; the others could still breathe, after all.

Still, Oz’s words…and Break’s…

It was after they got back from Sablier, after they talked to Break when he had collapsed, after Oz had told him how silly it was, and after they got back from Rytas’ mansion, after the Headhunter showed up again, (the same Headhunter, surely that had tried to poison him before), Gilbert decided there was one thing left he should to.

He took a deep breath, and screwed up his resolve.

“Break?”

“Mm?” Gilbert had managed to find Break alone in the kitchen, making tea, and stealing candy from a place up high where Sharon had apparently tried to hide it. Break turned, leaning against the counter. “What is it, Gilbert-kun?”

“I…um…” Gilbert fumbled his words, realizing it was a lot harder to say it aloud, especially to him, “I wanted to say…” he looked at the ground.

“Looks like a kitty’s got Gil-Gil’s tongue.” Break took a sip of tea, looking smug.

Gilbert gritted his teeth, hands clenching into fists, biting back any insults that came to his lips. “About what happened in Sablier—”

Break looked up, realizing where Gilbert was going with this.

“Oh?” Break interrupted him, grinning, “Didn’t we already make it clear you were not to apologize?” he inclined his head towards Emily.

Why did he always have to make things harder? Gilbert was just trying to show him a little kindness, and he always had to spit it back in his face.

“Well, actually I, uh, didn’t come to apologize,” he cleared his throat, “I am sorry though, for,” he felt his cheeks growing hot, “pointing my gun at you. But, Um, well—”

Break laughed, picking up his tea, slipping a few candies into his pocket, walking by, “Spoiled brats like you have the luxury of—”

“Thank you.” Gilbert said, more loudly than intended.

Break paused, shock flitting into his eye. He turned back to him, brow furrowed. “Huh?”

“For what you said…in Sablier. I—”

“Oh,” Break breathed again. “Well, you seemed like you were in need of a good ass-kicking,” he brushed Gilbert’s heartfelt words off.

“But you—”

Break ruffled Gilbert’s hair in response, walking away, chuckling.

Like hell I’ll ever say something nice to him again. Gilbert glared after him.

But as the older man rounded the corner, Gilbert didn’t realize there was something genuine in that laugh.

Because Break knew what it was like. He too had once tasted this poison. He knew what it was like to have word kill infect your thoughts. And worse, he knew what it was like to have blood fill your past, to the point where you had to change your name for it to stop following you, for it to stop calling to you. And in that moment, he was the only one who could have understood him, and stopped him.

Maybe if Gilbert was listening more closely, he would have realized there was something real beneath his laugh. But what Break wouldn’t let him know was his exact thought at the time, which was very different from Gilbert’s own:

At least one of us is starting to see clearly.

[xtruss]

Goodbye Ted Dexter, Free Spirit, Cricket Thinker, Renaissance Man

The England and Sussex captain had aura, flair, majestic batting, and impossible glamour - and that was just on the field

— Mark Nicholas | 27 August, 2021

Ted Dexter batting in a ring of close-in fielders in Sydney, January 1963 Getty Images

I don't know when the Ted Dexter affectation started but I can guess. The last thing my father did with me before he died so young was to take me to see the 1968 Gillette Cup final at Lord's. This was during Ted's short comeback and when the great man strode to the wicket, I leapt about in excitement, cheering his name for all I was worth. He didn't get many but no matter, I had seen him live. That evening Dad bowled to me in the garden as I imitated every Dexter mannerism and stroke I had seen just a few hours before.

"There is about Dexter, when he chooses to face fast bowling with determination, a sort of air of command that lifts him above ordinary players. He seems to find time to play the fastest bowling and still retain dignity, something near majesty, as he does it." — John Arlott

I fell for the aura, and for the flair in those back-foot assaults on fast bowlers. Not for a minute do I think I saw the 70 in 75 balls against Wes Hall and Charlie Griffith at Lord's in 1963 but I feel as if I did - the power, the poise, the sheer gall of it. Nothing, not even the Beatles, could drag me from the television screen when he walked to the wicket, seemingly changing the picture from black-and-white to glorious technicolor as he took guard. Frankly, much of the Test cricket of the time was pretty dull but there was a frisson, an expectation, with Ted, just as there is when Ben Stokes is on his way today. It was all too brief, he had retired for good before I started proper school.

The West Indians of the day - Conrad Hunte, Garry Sobers, Wes Hall - thought that innings the best played against them by anybody, though Dexter himself would modestly say it was just one of those days where everything came together and the bat swung freely in just about the right arc. He was well miffed to be given out lbw, however, insisting later that the DRS would have saved him. Who knows how many careers might have been changed by the sliding doors of the DRS.

The word majesty sits well with Dexter's batting, primarily because of the way in which he attacked through the off side off his back foot. This is a stroke so difficult to master that more prosaic batters choose to ignore it. It is no great surprise that Dexter thought Gordon Greenidge and Martin Crowe the two most technically correct right-hand players that he saw, citing their ability to stay sideways-on and to play the ball alongside their body as the prime reason for the accolade.

He was a huge fan of Joe Root and became near apoplectic during the England captain's relatively lean spell a while ago, when he became square-on to the bowler and was playing in front of his body. This niggled so much that he wrote to Root without mincing his words. Though at first put out, Root soon saw the kindness in a man of Dexter's age and knowledge who bothered to write, and therefore returned an email of thanks with the observation that he took the point. Who knows to what degree? It is enough to say that this year Root has batted about as well as any man could have done, and no one has enjoyed each of these innings in Sri Lanka, India, and now at home as much as Dexter.

One final appeal: Dexter (fourth from left) watches as umpire Charlie Elliot gives John Inverarity out off Derek Underwood, The Oval, 1968 Getty Images

For the best part of a year now, Ted has been banging on about Dawid Malan: simply couldn't understand why England didn't pick him to bat at three. He cited the hundred in Perth in 2017 and this year's big scores for Yorkshire before predicting near-certain success with the method that brought those runs. It is sad, indeed, that he didn't live to see the fulfillment of his prophecy in Malan's fine innings yesterday. He liked the look of James Vince and Zak Crawley too, cricketers who stand tall and play with freedom. He got a lot right, this man of Radley, Cambridge, Sussex and England.

Tall himself, strong, handsome and impossibly glamorous, Edward Ralph Dexter caught everyone's eye. With the golden Susan Longfield on his arm, they cut quite a dash and cared little for the sniping that came from those less blessed. The enigma in him - and how! - was often confused with indifference, and though cricket has remained his other great love, it was never the be-all and end-all for him - a fact that made his appearances all the more cherished and his company all the more engaging. It is remarkable to think that he first retired as far back as 1965, before returning briefly in 1968 to make a double-hundred at Hastings against Kent and be immediately recalled to the England team for the Ashes. In the brilliant photograph (above) of the moment when Derek Underwood claims the final wicket at The Oval, Ted is caught spinning to appeal for lbw with a face that smacks of a lifelong instinct for competition and achievement.

"Ted was a man of moods, often caught up in theories, keen when the action was hot, seemingly uninterested when the game was dull... a big-time player, one who responded to atmosphere, liked action and enjoyed the chase and gamble. Maybe this was the reason he was drawn to horse racing so that a dull day stalking the covers might be enlivened for him by thoughts of how his money was faring on the 3:15 at Ascot or Goodwood." — John Snow

Richie Benaud and Dexter in Sydney during the 1963-64 Ashes Frank Albert Charles Burke / Fairfax Media/Getty Images

And Snow would know for he was not the type to rise above those grey days of county cricket when the stakes were so low. Snow and Dexter, my first heroes, along with Jimmy Greaves and George Best, Muhammad Ali, the Beatles and the Stones - all of them important figures at 29 Queensdale Road, where the young Nicholas grew up with vinyl records and cared-for willow, narrow-grained and well-oiled for the garden Test matches that England forever won.

Much of the 1960s were about rebellion, revolution even, in response to the age of austerity. After the long and mainly drab post-war years, the young simply broke free and changed pretty much anything they could get their hands on. Music and fashion led the way, leaving sport's establishment to stutter in their wake. Only a few precious players could transcend the inertia, using both their talent and expression to delight the crowds and influence the young. Cricket was my thing, Dexter and Snow were the wind beneath my wings.

In Snow there truly was rebellion, against authority and the system it supported. This was not so in Dexter's case, though his free spirit and somewhat cavalier approach to responsibility gave the impression of one determined to ruffle feathers. From the outset he adored sport, worked harder than some might think at his books, and embraced diversions with the enthusiasm of a man who had more to do than could ever be done.

In many ways Ted was a contradiction: at once a conformist, as shaped by the early years of his life at home and school, and a modernist, whose lateral thinking did much to reform the structure of English cricket during his time as chairman of selectors. Richie Benaud observed that Ted's imagination and drive "will be of great benefit to English cricket in years to come. Equally, I'm in no doubt that others will take the credit for it." The rebellion in Ted was hardly radicalised but he loved to challenge conservative thinking, to take risks and to invest in his life as an adventure. Both on and off the field, this made for a terrific watch.

The best of Ted: Dexter on his way to 70 against Wes Hall and Charlie Griffith at Lord's, June 1963 PA Photos

He thought the Hundred a good wheeze and admitted he would rather like to have played it himself. He was, of course, the original thinker about one-day cricket, supporting its conception as early as the late 1950s and then leading Sussex to the first two 60-over titles at Lord's in the Gillette Cup. He paid close attention to the tactics and convinced his men that following them to the letter would do the trick. Which it did. He pushed for four-day county matches 27 years before they were incorporated and he founded the idea of central contracts for England players long before other teams caught the bug.

He was proud of his part in the development of the spirit of cricket, applying golf's moral high ground to the game that made his name. Through his own PR agency, he became a pioneer in cricket's digital-technology revolution by inventing the system of Test match rankings that first announced itself under the banner of Deloitte and is now the ICC international rankings.

On a Zoom call a couple of months back, with tongue firmly in cheek, he said, "Having a rather high opinion of myself, I can safely say that had the rankings been in place sometime around the mid part of the 1963 summer, I would have been the No. 1-rated batsman in the world." We had special guests on these calls - Mike Atherton, Michael Vaughan, Ed Smith, Robin Marlar, Sir Tim Rice and more - all keen to share a drink, chew the cud and have a laugh with the game's most original and forward-thinking mind.

Champagne days: (from left) Fred Trueman, Dexter, David Sheppard and Colin Cowdrey celebrate after winning the Melbourne Test, January 1963 PA Photos/Getty Images

We cannot jump past golf without mentioning the game at the Australian Golf Club in Sydney when Ted partnered Norman Von Nida against Jack Nicklaus and Gary Player. So enamoured of Ted's golf were they that Nicklaus suggested Ted follow him back to the USA for a crack at the tour. Player has long said that Ted was the best amateur ball-striker he ever saw and Von Nida just thanked him for securing the one-up triumph that day. Eighteen months ago Player told me that in their one head to head with each other, Ted beat him up the last at Sunningdale, receiving only four shots. "Little so-and-so," said Ted, "we played level!" They were due for a game last summer but Covid stood firmly between them. The last time I played with Ted, two summers ago now, he beat his age, shooting 83 round the Old Course at Sunningdale without breaking a sweat.

This was a man of Jaguar cars, Norton motorbikes, greyhounds, race horses and an Aztec light airplane that, in 1970, he piloted to Australia with his young family beside him, to cover the Ashes as a journalist. They flew 12,000 miles and made about two dozen stops at British military bases along the way.

Ted married the very beautiful Susan soon after returning from Australia and New Zealand in the spring of 1959. How she is hurting today. So too Genevieve, Tom and the grandchildren.

There was an eccentricity in him that was occasionally misunderstood but otherwise immensely appealing and it is with that in mind, that I turn to the man himself for the final word. It comes from his blog, which is a splendid read and will remain a platform for the family to share their thoughts about this husband, father and grandfather who brought us so much joy.

Dexter and Frank Worrell at a BBC interview with Peter West, August 1963 Harry Todd / Fox Photos/Getty Images

It was in my last term at Radley College when I had a hard game of rackets in the morning, scored 3 tries with two conversions for the 1st XV in the afternoon, was heard listening to operatic voices in the early evening, before repairing to the Grand Piano in the Mansion and knocking off a couple of Chopin preludes. "Quite the Renaissance man it seems" said my Social Tutor and I admit I liked the sound of it, if not quite knowing what it meant.

The Encyclopaedia Brittanica description of Renaissance man (or polymath) is as follows: one who seeks to develop skills in all areas of knowledge, in physical development and social accomplishment and in the arts. A point is made that you do not need to excel at any one activity. It is enough to tackle it seriously and see how far you get. I like the physical development bit obviously and I feel the social accomplishment bit is covered by my willingness to take on responsibilities all my life. Perhaps the arts bit is a bit shaky but a love for music, and particularly opera, and love of language - being fairly fluent in French, Italian, rudimentary German and Spanish - may be some modest qualifications."

Some different cat, huh. What a man. What a cricketer. Goodbye Ted, and thank you.