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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 months ago

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Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 4: Read Between The Lines]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Boulevard Of Broken Dreams” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.6k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

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It is your first week of basic training at Great Lakes on the north side of Chicago, and as you lie in the top bunk of your assigned bed you wonder what the hell you’ve done. You enlisted right out of high school, eighteen, no driver’s license, no work history, never been more than fifty miles outside of Soft Shell, Kentucky. The drill sergeants are always yelling and you’re bad at push-ups; you can’t understand the recruits from big cities like Los Angeles, Miami, Las Vegas, Detroit, Houston, and they don’t seem to get you either, and aren’t interested enough to try. Sometimes you wish you hadn’t signed that five-year contract, but where would you be if you weren’t here? Home is not words but textures, colors, fumes that still burn in your sinuses: cigarette ash on rose pink carpets, red embers glowing in the wood stove, Hamburger Helper and Mountain Dew, coffee creamer in Hungry Jack potatoes, laughter and heavy footsteps and slamming doors, scratch-off games, dogs barking, collecting coins from couch cushions for gas money, scrubbing clothes in the bathtub when the washer quits, Mama taking gulps from her favorite cup—plastic, Virginia Beach, filled with equal parts Hawaiian Punch and vodka—when she thinks no one is looking, blue shows flickering on the television, Family Feud, Maury, Good Morning America, WWE SmackDown. For as long as you can remember you’ve known you couldn’t stay. Now you’re getting out, but nothing in life is free.

You are at Class A Technical School in Gulfport, Mississippi, and even though it’s hotter than some noxious, volcanic hellscape—Mercury, Venus, Io—you are beginning to like it. You taste the salt of sweat when you lick your lips, sugar in the sweet tea they serve in the chow hall. There’s a magic in building something where there was only empty space before, in patching roofs and painting walls. Here being quiet and watchful is exactly what they want from you: head down, hammer striking nails, measurements and angles and long hours under the sun with no complaints. You’re not just running away anymore. You are creating something new.

You are sitting beneath swaying palm trees and a full moon on Diego Garcia, draining cans of Guinness with Rio, and he’s telling you things he shouldn’t, too personal, too honest: Sophie wants to try for a baby next time he’s home on leave, and part of him wants that too but he’s terrified. As thunder rumbles in the distance and raindrops begin to patter on the waves of the Indian Ocean, you tell Rio you think he’d be a good father. He wonders how you figure that, and you say because he’s not like any of the men from home. He gives you one of his crooked smiles—a flash of teeth, knowing dark eyes—and doesn’t ask what you mean.

But of course, when you swim up from the inky currents of sleep you are in none of these places. You are curled up on the floor of a bowling alley in Shenandoah, Ohio, cheap worn black carpet peppered with stars and swirls in neon green, pink, blue. You stretch out with a yawn. Someone has left a Lemon Tea Snapple within reach; you twist it open and guzzle it, hoping to extinguish the pounding in your skull, a rhythmic thudding of warm maroon, half Captain Morgan and half misery. The music isn’t helping. From the green Toshiba CD player, a man is singing in Spanish. Aegon and Rio are sitting at the nearest table and playing Uno.

Aegon says as he ponders his cards: “You know Enrique Iglesias, right Rio?”

“You are so racist.” Rio puts down a wild. “And the new color is red. Racist.”

“So what’s he saying?”

“Aegon, buddy, I told you, I was born here. My grandparents came over in the 60s. I don’t speak Spanish.”

“You can’t understand any of it?” Aegon is skeptical. He plays a skip, a reverse, and a seven. “My dad never taught me a word of Greek but I can recognize plenty of phrases. Vlákas means idiot. Spatáli chórou is a waste of space.”

Rio sighs, relenting. He puts down a two. “The song is called Súbeme La Radio, Turn Up The Radio For Me. Bring me the alcohol that numbs the pain… I don’t care about anything anymore…You’ve left me in the shadows…”

“Damn, now I’m sad. Draw four, bitch.”

“When the night comes and you don’t answer, I swear to you I’ll stay waiting at your door…” Rio studies his cards. “What’s the new color?”

“Green.”

“Yes!” Rio slams down a skip. “Fleeing from the past in every dawn, I can’t find any way to erase our history…”

Everyone else is awake already. As muted late-morning daylight streams in through the small tinted windows, Aemond is weaving between tables, pointedly checking on each person. He glances at you, says nothing, turns around and walks the other way.

“That’s tough,” Rio says sympathetically, popping open the tab on a can of Chef Boyardee and shoveling ravioli into his mouth with a plastic fork.

Aegon gives you a smirk. “You want to fake date now?”

“I’ll think about it.” No you won’t.

Helaena appears, a prairie girl vision in a modest blue sundress and with her hair tied back with a matching scarf. She reaches into her burlap messenger bag and offers you a choice between a ranch-flavored tuna pouch or a silvery pack of Pop-Tarts. “Strawberry,” she tells you.

“I’ll take the Pop-Tarts.”

Helaena gives them to you and then shakes a bottle of Advil. You’re so groggy it takes you a few seconds to figure out what she wants, then you obediently hold out a hand. Helaena lays two tablets in the center of your palm and moves on, soundlessly like a rabbit or a spider.

You wash the pills down with Snapple. As you nibble half-heartedly on a Pop-Tart—trying not to look at Aemond, multicolored sprinkles falling down onto the carpet—your eyes drift to the tattoo on the underside of Aegon’s forearm. It’s not over ‘til you’re underground. You’ve spotted it before. Only now do you remember where you recognize the lyric from. “Is that Green Day?”

“Yeah,” Aegon says, enthused that you noticed. “Letterbomb.”

“I love that whole album.”

“Me too. I could sing it front to back if you asked me to.”

“I’m not asking.”

Aegon cackles and resumes his Uno game with Rio. Baela is wearing denim shorts and a crop top, slathering her belly with Palmer’s cocoa butter from Walmart as she chats with Rhaena and eats Teddy Grahams. Daeron is waxing the string of his compound bow. Jace is gnawing on a Twizzler as he scrutinizes Aegon’s map, annotated with Xs and circles and arrows in sparkling gel pen green.

“I’m going to be a thousand years old by the time we get there,” Jace mutters.

Aegon hits the table with his fist. The discard pile collapses and cascades, an avalanche of Uno cards. Rio, undisturbed, continues contemplating his next move. “You know what, Jace? The cities are full of zombies, the interstates are blocked by fifty-car pileups, if we bump into anyone else who’s still alive they’re just as likely to rob and murder us as want to be friends, and on top of all that I’m trying to do you the favor of preventing you from getting so irradiated you turn into Spider-Man. If you have a better route in mind, I’d love to hear it.”

“Spider-Man…? You’re such a dumbass, what are you talking about?!”

Luke says from where he stands by a window: “Aemond, someone’s outside.”

“What?” Aemond stares at him. “Zombies?”

“No. People.”

Aemond bolts to the doors, the rest of you close behind him. Rhaena turns off the CD player. You, Rio, and Aegon squeeze together to peer out of one of the windows. There are men—three of them, no, four, all appearing to be in their forties—passing by on the main road through town. They are armed with what are either AR-15s or M16s, you can’t tell which.

Rio whistles. “If you get shot by one of those, the exit wound will be the size of an orange.” Everyone looks at him. This was not an encouraging thing to say.

You elaborate: “Thirty-round magazines. Semiautomatic, assuming they’re AR-15s for civilian use. I guess they could have gotten ahold of M16s somehow. Those have a fully automatic setting.”

“So regardless, we’re out-gunned,” Jace says.

“If they know how to use them. Some men think guns are wall decorations, like deer heads or fish.”

Aegon recoils. “Fish?! What the fuck. I’m glad the colonies left.”

“Maybe they’ll keep walking,” Daeron says hopefully. One of the men stops and points at the bowling alley, saying something to his companions. They laugh and begin crossing the small parking lot. They are less than two minutes from the door. “Oh, great…”

“There’s an emergency exit in the back,” Baela says.

Aegon snorts. “Yeah, that we stacked about twenty boxes of bowling pins in front of to zombie-proof.”

“We won’t be able to get out before they hear us,” Aemond says. Then he abruptly orders: “Grab your guns, let’s go. Helaena, Baela, Rhaena, you’re staying here.” Aemond’s remaining eye—briefly, reluctantly—skates over you as Rio, Aegon, Jace, Luke, and Daeron scatter to obey him. “You too.”

“But I’m the best shot.”

“I don’t want them to know we have women with us.”

“I’m of more use to you outside.”

Aemond rips his Glock out of its holster, pointing it at the floor. His frustration is palpable, an electric shock, heat that refracts light rays until they become mirages on the horizon. “You’re going to stay here, and if a stranger comes through those doors you’re going to kill them. Okay?”

His urgency stuns you; his eye is blue-white summer storm lightning. “Okay.”

“Now get back.”

You soar to the nearest table, duck under it, reach for your Beretta M9 and double-check the clip, fully loaded. You click off the safety.

“Aemond, wait, let me go first,” Aegon is saying by the door. “I’m better at de-escalation, I’m less…uh…intimidating.”

“Less socially incompetent, you mean,” Jace quips.

“I’ll lead,” Aemond insists. “Aegon can talk. Rio, you’re up front with me.”

Rio pumps his Remington 12 gauge. “I’d be delighted.”

Jace is amused. “I’ve been demoted, huh?”

“He’s bigger,” Aemond replies simply, then opens the door and vanishes through a blinding curtain of daylight. The others follow closely; Daeron, the last one out—his compound bow in hand, the strap of his Marlin .22 slung over his shoulder—shuts the door behind him.

Very faintly, you can hear Aegon: “Hey, guys! What’s happening? How’s the apocalypse treating you…?”

Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena are under the table with you. They deserve to have options. You tell them: “If you want to go hide behind the lanes or try to get out the back door, now’s your chance.”

Helaena shakes her head, clutching your t-shirt: black, Star Wars, pawed off a shelf at the Walmart. “I want to stay with you.”

“Same,” Baela says determinedly, gripping her Ruger. She barely knows how to use it, but she’ll try. Rhaena is shaking, her eyes filling up her face, small fragile bones like a bird’s.

You can’t hear voices from outside anymore, but there are no gunshots either. You keep your M9 aimed at the doors, your breathing slow and deep, your heart rate low. Your hands are steady. Your eyes hunt for the slightest movement, for the momentary shadow of someone passing by a window. Against your will, your thoughts wander to Aemond. I hope Aegon is on his left side. Aemond can’t see there.

“Rhaena, get your gun out,” Baela says sharply. “Come on. Turn the safety off. What if you were alone right now? What if we weren’t here to protect you?”

Rhaena nods, fumbling to free her revolver from its holster. “I’m sorry…I’m trying…”

Now there is a stranger’s voice, gruff and deep. He must be just beyond the door, the farthest one to the right. There is a creak of hinges, a sliver of sunlight. “That’s just too damn bad, fellas. You got a nice little hideout here, and you’re gonna have to share it—”

The door opens. Two unfamiliar faces, too shellshocked to raise their rifles in time. You close an eye, line up your sights, fire twice, and that’s all it takes: one headshot, one in the throat, blood like a fountain, spurting scarlet ruin, thuds against the carpet strewn with neon stars, gurgling and spasms as their brains send out those final electrical impulses: danger, catastrophe, apocalypse. Rhaena is screaming. Helaena is covering her ears with both hands.

You run to the doorway; there are more booms of gunfire out in the parking lot. You cross into the late-morning light to see the other two men on the pavement: one with an arrow through the eye, the other with a gaping, hemorrhaging hole where his heart once was. Rio is admiring his work, holding his shotgun aloft. He scoops a handful of Cheddar Whales out of his shorts pocket and shovels them into his mouth.

“Goddamn, I love Remington Arms Company.”

“Oh, that was awesome,” Aegon says, wan and panting, hands on his waist. “Yeah, that was…that was…” He bends over and vomits Snapple and Cool Ranch Doritos onto the asphalt.

“Everyone okay in there?” Rio asks you.

“Yeah.” Behind you, Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena are stepping through the doorway. Your thoughts are whirling sickly: I killed someone. I killed someone. “They wouldn’t leave?”

“We told them the bowling alley was ours,” Aemond says, not looking at you. “We asked them very politely to keep moving. They chose to try to intimidate us into letting them stay. They weren’t good people, and these are the consequences.”

You click on the safety and re-holster your M9. You’re wearing Rio’s on your other hip. They seem to weigh so much more than they did ten minutes ago. I’m not supposed to be a killer. I’m a builder.

“Aegon, are you okay?” Daeron asks, a palm on his brother’s back.

Aegon retches again. “Shut up. You can’t even buy fireworks.”

“Zombies.” Luke is peering through his binoculars. “Not many, just two. Way up the road.”

“There will be more.” Baela’s cradling her belly; you don’t even think she’s aware of it. “They heard the gunshots, the sound carries for miles.”

“We’re leaving,” Aemond says. “Right now. Everyone get your things.”

As backpacks are hastily zipped and Daeron and Aegon stand guard in the parking lot, you kneel down beside the men you murdered and check their rifles. They are M16s, either stolen or illegally purchased: there’s a little switch by the trigger to choose between semi-automatic or the so-called machine gun mode.

“They barely had any bullets left,” you tell Rio. Just like us when we were trapped on that transmission tower.

“Yeah, same story for the other two guys. Four bullets in one magazine, a half dozen in the other. But it only takes once. We don’t have any ammo that will work with M16s, do we?”

“No, we definitely don’t.”

“Fantastic. Well, we’ll throw them in a Walmart cart and take them with us just in case.”

You’re staring down at the man you shot through the head. His eternal resting place is a puddle of blood and brains in a bowling alley in rural Ohio; surely no one deserves that. “He was a real person,” you say, dazed. “Not a zombie. Just a person.”

“Hey.” Rio grabs your shoulders and spins you towards him. From where he is helping Luke gather up the remaining food, Aemond’s head snaps up to watch. “You hurt him before he could hurt us. You did the right thing.”

“Sure.”

“I killed a dude too. I blew his heart right out of his chest. You think I’m going to hell for that?”

“No,” you admit, smiling. “And if you’d be there with me, I guess I wouldn’t mind so much.”

Rio grins, wide and toothy. “Well alright then. Let’s finish packing.”

The ten of you depart from Shenandoah, Ohio heading northwest on Route 603 just like Aegon marked on his map, Jace chauffeuring Baela in one shopping cart, Rio pushing another loaded high with food and M16s.

“It looks like rain,” Helaena says.

Everyone else peers up into a clear, cerulean sky, wondering what she means.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re a few miles north of Shiloh when the storm rolls in, cold rain and furious wind, daylight that vanishes behind dark churning thunderheads, jagged scars of lightning in an opaque sky. The road is only two lanes, surrounded by fields of wildflowers and ravaged crops and untilled earth; it would look like the patchwork of a quilt if you were gazing down from an airplane, but of course the FAA grounded all flights over a month ago when the world went mad: Revelations, Ragnarök, the fabric of the universe unweaving as death burned through families, cities, nations like a fever, like plague.

“Maybe we should cut across one of these fields,” Jace says, pointing. He is soaked with rain; it drips from his curls, runs into his eyes. Baela is in her cart again; each time she tries to get out and walk, she’s gasping and can’t keep up within half an hour. You’ve all taken turns pushing her, much to Baela’s dismay. She’d be humiliated if she wasn’t too exhausted to keep her eyes open.

“Here, let me do it,” you offer, and Jace gratefully relinquishes the cart. Baela gives you a frail wave of appreciation.

“We stay on the road,” Aemond insists, flinching as rain pelts his scarred face. “Farmhouses have driveways and mailboxes, we’ll pass one eventually. If we lose the road, we might not be able to find it again. We’ll end up wandering around in circles in the woods.”

“Just like the Blair Witch Project,” Aegon says glumly, his Sperry Bahama sneakers audibly soggy.

“There!” Luke announces, spotting something with his binoculars. “Up ahead on the left. Past the bridge.”

You can’t see what Luke does until there is an especially brilliant flash of lightning: a farmhouse, old but seemingly not derelict, and with a number of accompanying buildings, guest houses and stables and barns and towering silos.

“Home sweet home!” Rio says. “And I don’t care if I have to kill a hundred of those undead bastards to get in, it’s mine.”

“Well, hopefully not a hundred,” you reply, in better spirits now that a sanctuary has been found. Aemond keeps glancing back at you as you push Baela’s cart. If he wants to say something, he’s doing a good job of resisting the temptation. “We don’t have that much ammo.”

There is a concrete bridge over a river, probably unremarkable and only five or ten feet deep normally but now torrential with rain. Water rushes by beneath, a muddy incline on each side as the earth rises back up to meet the road. A reflective green sign proclaims that you are only two miles from Plymouth, which Aegon plans to skirt along the edges of. It’s a decent-sized town; he thinks you might be able to find a car to steal there, something with gas in the tank and keys on a hook just inside the house.

“I call the master bedroom,” Jace says craftily, rubbing his palms together. You’re near the center of the bridge now, another ten yards to go. “Nice big bed, warm cozy blankets, and I was up for half of last night keeping watch so tonight I am off duty, I am a free man, it’s going to just be me and my girl and eight glorious uninterrupted hours of sleep—”

Rhaena shrieks, and then you hear it over the noise of the storm, pounding rain and rumbling thunder: moans, growls, hisses like snakes. Not one zombie. A lot more than one. They’re crawling up from under the bridge, from the filthy quagmire at both ends. There was a hoard of them waiting, aimless, dormant, almost hibernating. But now they are awake. They are grasping for you with bony, dirt-covered claws. They are snapping with jaws that leak blood and pus and bile as their organs curdle to a putrid soup.

“Get off the bridge!” Aemond is shouting. He has his Glock in his right hand, a baseball bat in his left. He’ll shoot until he’s out of bullets, and then, and then…

Rio helps you get Baela out of the cart, then opens fire. His Remington doesn’t just pierce skulls, it vaporizes them. When he’s out of shells—there are more in his backpack, but no time to reload—he yanks the M16s out of the other Walmart cart and empties each of them, mowing down zombies as the rest of you scramble across the bridge. All around you are explosions of gunshots, thunder, lightning, zombie skulls crushed by bullets and blunt force trauma. Baela is firing her Ruger as you half-drag her, one arm hooked beneath hers and around her back. When the last M16 is empty, Rio starts clubbing zombies with the butt of it. You’ve all reached the north side of the bridge, except…

“Fuck off, you freaks!” Jace is screaming. They’ve backed him up against the guardrail, a swarm of ten or more. His Remington shotgun is out of ammo; he’s swinging it wildly, but he doesn’t even have enough room to maneuver. There are still more zombies emerging from under the bridge. You can hear them snarling and groaning. You swipe an M9 off your belt and put a bullet in the brain of a zombie as its fingers close around your ankle, then you start picking off the ones mobbing Jace. You aren’t fast enough. As they lean in to bite him, teeth gnashing at the delicious throbbing heat of his jugular, Jace throws himself over the barrier and into the surging water below.

“No!” Baela cries. She careens off the road and into the field, running parallel to the river as swiftly as she can. You are helping her, steadying her, firing at any zombies you have a clear line of sight on. The others are here too: slipping in the muck of the flooding earth, shouting for Jace. He surfaces through the frothing current, flails pitifully, disappears beneath the water again. You glimpse a white hand, a shadow of his dark hair, a kicking shoe. There are more zombies on the opposite side of the river, trailing after Jace, lurching and slobbering viscous, gory saliva. They cannot swim, but they can follow him until he washes ashore.

Jace bursts up through the waves, gasping. “Help! Aemond…Aemond, for the love of God, help me…” He blubbers and then is dragged under. Aemond and Luke are continuing frantically after him. Baela is hysterical, sobbing, trembling with adrenaline. Aegon is yowling as he swings at zombies with his bloodied golf club. Helaena is darting around almost invisibly, always cowering behind Daeron or Aegon or Rio.

You glance north towards the farmhouse, growing not closer but farther away. We can’t leave shelter. We can’t leave the road. You lock eyes with Rio. He’s thinking the same thing.

“Aemond, we have to go,” Rio says, but in the midst of the rain and the turmoil it barely registers.

“Jace, we’re coming to get you!” Aemond swears. The ground is increasingly sodden, deep, difficult to trudge through. Jace resurfaces, coughing and sputtering.

“Jace!” Aegon wails. He caves in the skull of a zombie who was once a registered nurse as Helaena crouches behind him. “Jace, I’m sorry! I’m gonna miss you, man!”

Jace splashes in the rising river, his arms flailing helplessly. He is being swept away far faster than any of you can move on foot. “Aegon, you dumb bitch!” Jace manages, then slips beneath the water and doesn’t reappear.

“Where is he?!” Baela is saying. “Aemond, where…?”

You are trying to soothe her, to bring her back to reality. She was always so pragmatic before; you have to wake her up. “Baela, listen, we can’t stay here, he would want you and the baby to be safe—”

“Aemond! Aemond, we have to go!” Rio catches him, wrenches him around, roars into his face as driving rain pummels them both: “We have to go, or we’re going to die here too!”

It hits Aemond all at once; he understands, horror and agony in his sole blue eye. “We have to go,” he agrees. And then louder, to everyone: “Get to the farmhouse!”

Baela collapses into the mud, howling, tears flooding down her face. “No, he’s still alive, he’s still alive, we can’t leave him!”

You and Rhaena are trying to haul Baela to her feet. Now Aemond is here, pulling you away from her—his fingers tight and urgent around your wrist—as he and Luke take your place. “Go,” he commands. “You run. Don’t wait for us. Rio?”

“I got her,” Rio replies, grabbing your free hand with an iron grip. Gales of wind rip at you; every millimeter of your skin is soaked with rain. As you flee across the fields towards the farmhouse, dozens of zombies pursue you. More are still staggering along the banks of the river, swept up in the hoards chasing Jace and the promise of his waterlogged corpse when it reaches its final destination. Daeron has run out of arrows and is shooting with his .22, which is very much not his preference. Aegon trips, getting covered in mud as he rolls, and Rio stops to help him. While he is distracted, you look back at Aemond. He, Luke, and Baela are moving quickly, but not quickly enough. A drove of zombies is closing in on them. You have a spare few seconds at last. You yank your backpack off, grab a box of ammo inside, and reload your M9.

“Chips?!” Rio calls over his shoulder.

“I’m fine.”

He knows you well enough to listen. The world goes quiet as your finger settles on the trigger. There’s a rhythm one slips into, an impassionate lethal efficiency. It’s easier to keep going than to stop and have to find it again. You fire over and over, dropping eight zombies. You sheath your M9 and whip Rio’s out of your other holster, the sights finding grotesque decaying faces illuminated by lightning. You pull the trigger: blood, bones, brains, corpses jerking and convulsing as they fall harmlessly to the mud. Aemond is here; when did he get here?

“I told you to run!” he’s shouting through the storm, furious. He’s shoving you towards the farmhouse. You resist him.

“Let me kill as many as I can—”

“Go! Now!” Aemond orders over the clashing thunder, and then sprints with you all the way to the front porch to make sure you listen. Everyone else is already there. Helaena has fetched a spare key from under the doormat and is turning it in the lock.

Daeron observes her anxiously. “We don’t know if it’s safe in there, Helaena.”

“Not in,” she says, insistent. “Through.” Through this building, and maybe through the next one too. The average zombie is not terribly clever. If they lose sight of you, without the benefit of the momentum of a hoard they are lost. Helaena opens the door. The living rush inside, and she locks it behind you. As you are bursting out the back door, you can hear zombies pounding their rotting palms against the front one. You soar through a stable full of dead horses and donkeys, leaving the doors open; this should keep the zombies distracted if they make it this far. Then you race to the farthest guest house. Luke, swiveling with his binoculars, spies no zombies approaching as you steal inside. There is no spare key this time; Rio punches out a first-floor window for you to climb through. Once everyone is inside, he and Aegon move a bookshelf to cover the opening.

You all stand in the living room, gasping and shivering, dripping rain down onto the rug and the hardwood floor. The air is dusty but clean of any trace of vile, swampy decay. Outside, thunder booms and lightning flashes bright enough to illuminate the lightless house. The sky is so dark it might as well be nightfall. Baela sinks to her knees, clamping both hands over her mouth so she won’t sob loudly enough for a zombie to hear. Rhaena and Luke are beside her, both weeping quiet rivulets of tears, trying to comfort her in whispers. Helaena is rummaging around searching for candles; she has already taken a lighter out of her soaked burlap messenger bag.

“Daeron, bro, come over here,” Aegon chokes out. He embraces Daeron, clutches him tightly and desperately, doesn’t let go. Rio is reloading his Remington 12 gauge.

Jace is dead. Jace is dead.

Aemond says to you, his voice low but seething: “What the fuck was that?”

You blink the raindrops out of your eyes as you stare at him, bewildered. “You needed help.”

“I told you to run.”

“I’m an asset, I have skills that can keep you alive, why am I here if I’m not going to be useful—?”

“You’re not in the fucking Navy anymore!” he hisses. “When I tell you to run, you run, you don’t stop, you don’t look back, because I can’t worry about you and take care of everyone else.”

“Nobody asked you to worry about me.”

“But I do.”

“Aemond,” Aegon pleads, waving him over. Aegon’s plump sunburned cheeks are glistening with rain and tears. “Man, it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters now. Please come here.”

“I’m going to clear the house,” Aemond says instead.

Rio raises an eyebrow at you—this is one fucked up guy, Chips—and then pumps his shotgun. “Me too.” He sweeps with Aemond through the main floor and then vanishes up the staircase.

Helaena is lightning candles she found in the kitchen and arranging them around the living room. Daeron starts gathering food from the pantry. Rhaena and Baela are murmuring to each other softly, mournfully. It doesn’t feel like something you should intrude on. Luke is peeking out of a window with his binoculars, vigilant for threats. Aegon sniffles, wanders over to you with large, sad, shimmering eyes, pats your shoulder awkwardly.

“Hey, Chocolate Chip. You doing okay?”

“No,” you answer honestly.

“Yeah. Me either.” Then he flops down on the hideous burnt orange couch and lies there motionless until Daeron brings him a can of Dr. Pepper. Aegon pops the tab, slurps up foam, and then begins singing to himself very quietly, a song so old you can remember your grandfather saying it was one of his favorites as a boy: A Tombstone Every Mile.

When Rio comes back downstairs—heavy footsteps, he can’t help that—you meet him at the bottom of the steps. “The house is good,” Rio says. “And Aemond’s in the big bedroom on the right if you’d like to go up there and talk to him.”

“I don’t think he wants to see me right now.”

“I could not disagree more,” Rio says with a miserable, exhausted smile. Then he goes to the couch to check on Aegon.

You pick up one of the flickering candles, white and scentless, and ascend the staircase. You find Aemond in the master bedroom, the same accommodations that Jace laid claim to when he was still alive. He is sitting at the edge of the bed and staring at the wall, at nothing. Tentatively, you sit down beside him, placing the candle on the nightstand.

“Aemond…what happened to Jace…it wasn’t your fault.”

“Criston said I was in charge, that’s the very last thing he told me. They might be the last words I ever hear from him, and I just…” His voice breaks; he wipes the rain and tears from his face with open palms. “I really wanted to get everyone home.”

“I’m so sorry about what I said at the bowling alley,” you confess, like it’s a dire secret. “I don’t want to fight with you, Aemond, I…I want to help you. I can see what you’ve done for everyone here, me and Rio included, and I believe in you. I want to be a part of this.”

He nods, an acceptance of peace, but he still doesn’t look at you.

“Can we start over? I’ll never bring it up again, okay? I wasn’t trying to guilt you or upset you or anything. I should have just dropped it. I overreacted. And I understand why being with someone like me maybe wouldn’t be…super appealing.”

“It’s not about that.”

“Then what’s it about?”

Aemond wrings his hands, shakes his head, at last turns to you, golden candlelight reflected in his eye, his scar cloaked in shadows. His words are hushed, clandestine, soft powerless surrender. “I’m already so afraid of losing you.”

He cares, he hopes, he wants me too? “I’m here right now, Aemond. I don’t know what else I can say. I’d promise you more if I could.”

He reaches out to touch you, to ghost his thumb across your cheekbone, wet with rain. Then he kisses you, so gently you cannot help but imagine the wispy borders of calm white summer clouds, the rustle of leaves as wind blows down the Appalachian Mountains. You don’t have to ask him what he’s thinking, what it feels like. You can read it in the startled, firelit wonder on his face.

You taste like the beginning of something, here at the end of the world.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x y/n

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zepskies · 7 months ago

Text

Take Me Home - Part 7

Pairing: Beau Arlen x F. Reader

Summary: You are another lost soul at Sunny Day Excursions. You’re aiming to settle in Helena, Montana, where Beau Arlen is the new sheriff in town. But you’ve both got a past you’re running from.

AN: For everyone who has Easter plans tomorrow (Happy Easter!), I decided to release this part a bit early. And yes, we’re at that part of the season 3 plotline…

Word Count: 6.6K

Tags/Warnings: Major angst, survival situations, violence, hurt/comfort.

❤️ Series Masterlist

Part 7: On the Edge of a Knife

Beau returned home that night with a large pizza for Carla and Emily. He’d already eaten with you an hour ago, but true to his legendary appetite, he still found room for a slice of pepperoni. They got comfortable around the fire out in front of his trailer.

“What held you up?” Carla asked.

Beau sighed and first wiped a bit of sauce from his face with a napkin. He admitted there was an altercation between you and your ex-boyfriend, Michael Hadley. Beau happened to be there in time to settle things down and help patch you up after you fell through a glass coffee table.

“Oh my God. Is she okay?” Emily asked. Beau noted her concern with a smile.

“She’s fine. Some minor cuts and bruises,” he said. “But I had to encourage the guy to leave town. If he’s got any sense, he’ll get gone.”

Emily looked relieved at that. Then she eyed him with a suspicious smile.

“And you just happened to be in the neighborhood?” she asked slyly, voicing the thought that Carla hadn’t wanted to.

Both women watched him closely, but Carla knew the tell-tale signs of Beau covering his embarrassment, giving his daughter a wry look.

“All right, smart Alec. Why don’t you break out the extra sheets I got in the trailer? We’ll set up the bed and the couch.”

“If you can call that glorified bench a couch,” Emily muttered with a grin.

“Ey!” Beau called after her, though he watched her go in amusement.

After a couple more hours of chatting and catching up, showers taken and plates washed, Emily headed for bed. The adults stayed up for a while, bundled in warm coats as they sat together by the fire.

Beau remembered what Emily told him days ago; that he hadn’t needed to be a perfect man for his wife and daughter. They’d just needed him to be a bit more honest about what he was going through, to let them in. After what happened today with you, your patience and understanding with him…he was beginning to get what she meant.

“I’m really thankful for you helping us,” Carla said. It unearthed him out of his own head.

“Yeah,” he replied with a nod.

Admittedly, he was still a bit distracted. Besides how he left things with you (which still made heat crawl up the back of his neck), he still had Avery and that stolen money to worry about. Otherwise known as the reason Carla and Emily would have to cram themselves in his little trailer.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Carla prodded, laying a gentle hand on his arm.

“I just got a bad feeling about all this,” he confessed. “It’s like in Houston with Randy.”

“No,” she shook her head. “You can’t go there.”

“It’s too late,” he replied. “‘Cause it feels the same. Like something’s…something is comin’, and I’m powerless to stop it.”

“Randy’s death was not your fault,” she reminded him. Just like you had.

Beau looked over at her with a humorless quirk of his lips.

“We both know that’s not true. He was my partner and I let him down. And then…then I wasn’t there for you, or Emily. I don’t blame you for leaving me.”

Carla couldn’t help it, but a part deep inside her had been regretting that choice. Her eyes burned with unshed tears. She managed to blink and keep them at bay, though she let out a shaky breath.

“Well, you’re here for us now,” she said. And yet, she could’ve predicted his next words like clockwork.

“It don’t make up for the way I checked out,” he said.

Carla licked her dry lips and swallowed down the emotion clogging her throat. She didn’t cry often. She could have an ironclad grip on her emotions when she needed to.

It was part of what made her a good lawyer. She knew Beau had sometimes gotten frustrated with that aspect of her personality in the past, because he was the opposite.

The man kept a good lid on things for his job, but at heart, he was driven by his passion, his anger, his love, and right now, his bone-deep guilt and shame.

She knew he’d been drowning in it for a year and hadn’t known how to pull him out. Every time he pushed her away, it had hurt her, hardened her, making her will to try again less and less. So she left him.

It was the choice she made, and she knew she had to live with it. Just like marrying Avery.

Carla laid a hand on Beau’s over his knee. She made sure he looked her in the eyes when she said this.

“I forgive you. For all of that, okay?” she said. After a moment, he nodded. This time, she felt like he actually heard her.

“But I’m telling you, this thing with Avery…this isn’t over by a long shot,” he told her. “I’m not saying that to scare you. You understand that?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, even though those tears from earlier were working their way down her face. She wiped them away hastily.

“I’m not gonna let anything happen to you two,” Beau said, in a firm, reassuring tone.

It worked, and it didn’t. Carla nodded again. “I know.”

He sighed through his nose and squeezed her hand. His gaze shifted away, back to the bonfire dancing in front of them. His eyes stung at both the smoke, and the emotion rising in his chest. He steeled himself.

“Carla, I’ll always love you…”

She smiled slightly, brushing the remaining tears from her cheek.

“Though I sense a but coming,” she said.

When she said your name in question, Beau glanced back over at her and nodded. Carla had been his first real love, besides Daisy Harlow in the eleventh grade.

But you were unexpected. How quickly, how deeply you’d gotten under his skin was too hard to ignore. And at this point, he didn’t want to.

Meanwhile, Carla stared at her ex-husband in bemusement. She slipped her hand from his and folded hers back in her lap.

“What’s she like?” she asked. Half of her was genuinely curious. The other half would rather not hear his answer, but she supposed it was only fair. She was the one who moved on first.

Still, the flicker of Beau’s soft smile stung, just a little.

“She’s special,” he said. “Resilient, like you. And smart to boot. You know she’s a college professor?”

“Yeah, Emily told me,” Carla said.

Beau’s smile dimmed when he noted the resignation in her voice. She gave him a knowing look.

“I have no right to complain,” she said. “And you deserve to be happy too, Beau.”

He considered that with a nod. He wasn’t sure if he believed her, but for your sake…he would try.

“Can you promise me something?” Carla asked.

“Name it,” he said.

“I know Avery is in this thing deep. He lied to me and he created this mess. Even when this is over, I don’t know what’s going to happen between us. I know I’m asking a lot of you, but please, look out for him,” she implored. Beau uttered a wry chuckle and rubbed at his chin.

“He is in this deep. And he’s being stubborn about it,” he said. “I might not be able to help him walk it back, but I will try.”

Carla released another sigh and nodded in response. She supposed that was the best she could hope for.

A few days later, you walked up and down the grocery store aisles with a basket in one hand and your phone against your ear with the other.

“Okay, I’ve got all manners of junk food and chick-flick movie watching snacks, including Reese’s cups, ice cream, frozen pizzas, and no less than three bottles of wine,” you said. “Am I missing anything?”

“I don’t think so, hun. That sounds very comprehensive,” Denise replied.

She was at work, and you were still getting ready for the fall semester. It was only a little over a month away, which meant you were excited, and also nervous.

You had five classes on your roster. You’d also visited Carroll College yesterday to set up your office with all your books, both textbooks and your favorites in fiction and non-fiction (but mostly fiction). Much Ado About Nothing was front and center in the Shakespeare section of your shelf.

You also wanted to at least try and relax for the rest of your summer. Denise was all too willing to help. You’d always had a good relationship with your aunt, albeit distant, since you’d lived in different states.

Living so close now just made you realize how much you two had in common. It was nice to find a friend in her, not just someone who would try to mother you in your own mother’s absence.

“Yes! Good. Then get ready to brainstorm what movies we’re gonna watch tonight, and in what order,” you said.

“Oh, don’t pretend like you don’t already have a color-coded checklist,” Denise quipped.

You laughed. Yes, she knew you too well. “Okay, maybe I do, but you still get a vote.”

You turned a corner in the aisles and nearly ran right into Carla, who was pushing a cart. You both jolted in surprise and recognition.

“Oh, hi! I’m sorry,” you said, at the same time she said, “Sorry, I…”

You two did the polite, nervous laughter people did when put in awkward situations. You noticed all the food she had in her cart—enough to feed a family of three for the week.

“Yeah, finally getting around to doing a grocery run,” she said. “Beau’s trailer leaves much to be desired in the form of amenities, so…”

You adopted a more amused smile. “Yeah, he’s not much of a cook, is he?”

“Do frozen fish sticks count?” Carla remarked.

“Only if there’s expired tartar sauce, according to Emily,” you joked. The two of you shared a laugh that was a little more genuine. You chatted for a couple minutes more before you parted with amiable handwaving. Then you realized that your aunt was still hanging on the line.

You sighed and put your phone back up to your ear. “Hey, sorry.”

“Was that who I think it was?” Denise asked. She was probably trying to be cryptic, if Emily was in the room with her.

“Indeed, it was. Doing a nice family-sized grocery run,” you whispered back, to make sure you weren’t overheard. You brought your basket of junk to one of the checkout lines.

“When was the last time you heard from him?” Denise asked. She must’ve heard the heaviness in your voice. You both knew exactly who “him” was code for. Beau friggin’ Arlen.

“Not since we said goodbye last week,” you replied. And the memory of that kiss had been torturing you for days. It had also been the fuel of many…late nights with yourself.

Speaking of which, need some more AA batteries, you thought with a warm blush.

“Okay, forget candy. We should get cheesecake,” Denise proposed.

You smiled. “You know what, that’s a damn good idea. Definitely cheesecake.”

You hopped out of line to do just that. You knew it probably wouldn’t be as good as Chicago made, but you went over to the bakery side of the store and hunted for the most good-looking cheesecake you could find.

“Hey, if you want, stop by here later,” your aunt said. “Em is here. We’ll grab lunch, make it a real girls’ day.”

“Sure,” you agreed. You hadn’t seen Emily in a week or so either. “Where are you thinking? I’ve been wanting to try that Indian place down the street from your office.”

“Sounds good to me. Come over after you drop those groceries off at home.”

“Okay, will do. I’ll see you guys soon!” you said.

Beau knew that he was going to be working straight through lunch. What he, Jenny, and Cassie had discovered in the past 24 hours was deeply unsettling.

Not only was Walter Sunny Barnes’s son, but Paige was alive. She’d been found in the foyer of Sunny’s home, brandishing a knife, convinced the married couple were in it together on her kidnapping. Sunny claimed she’d had no idea her husband had taken the poor girl and kept her in a shack for days.

According to Paige’s testimony, Buck Barnes had tried to kill her. And since she was alive, it meant Walter had lied in confessing to her murder. It was also likely that he hadn’t killed Mary or Luke either.

That wasn’t even the worst of Beau’s headache.

He rubbed his face in frustration after getting off the phone with Carla. Thanks to this whole business of Avery’s stolen cryptocurrency, she was being followed.

Fuckin’ hell, Beau thought. The next time he saw Avery, it had better be with handcuffs, or he was going to start working on his punch list for real. Instead, Beau grabbed his cell and called his daughter.

“Hey, Dad,” she answered on the third ring.

“Hey, honey. You doin’ all right? You good?” he asked. Maybe he was coming on a little strong, but worry was a living thing inside his gut.

“Yeah, totally. Just doing some research…but guess who’s coming to have lunch with us later?” she asked.

Her tone was leading him somewhere, and Beau thought he knew the destination. His lips curved with a half-smile. When he guessed your name, Emily confirmed.

“You’re welcome to join us. If, you know, you wanted to,” she teased.

Beau’s smile twisted with disbelief. Was his daughter trying to set him up? And better yet, it seemed like she liked you well enough to do it. While the thought warmed him, his smile dimmed.

“Wish I could, but uh, I got a lot of work here to do. I’m just…checking up on ya, like dads do,” he said.

As much as he wanted to see you (and he really, really did), he wasn’t lying. He needed to follow up on the man who’d trailed Carla to the drycleaners this morning. And he already had Jenny and Poppernak looking into finding Buck Barnes. He’d fled the scene after Paige and Sunny were picked up at the Barnes residence.

“Well, okay, consider me checked. We can talk later if you want,” Emily said. She sounded a bit disappointed. Beau felt guilty for that, but he’d make it up to her tonight. Maybe he’d bring home some takeout so Carla didn’t have to cook again in his tiny kitchenette.

“All right, honey. If not, I’ll see you tonight,” he said. “Just…don’t go anywhere by yourself, okay? Make sure Denise or Cassie’s with you. Matter of fact, I’ll pick you up from there today.”

“Yeah sure,” she said. Though he didn’t think she really heard the warning in his voice.

“‘Kay. Bye, Dad.”

She hung up, leaving Beau still feeling off-balanced. Until news came in from a fellow officer: while Paige had been brought to the hospital, Sunny Barnes had been brought into the station for questioning about her husband.

“Sorry I’m so late. I started cleaning my apartment and lost track of time,” you said, walking into the office of Dewell & Hoyt. Denise and Emily waved at you from their respective desks.

“That’s okay. We’ve been busy here,” Denise said. You looked at the large pinboard on the wall filled with news clippings and pieces of evidence. Bleeding Heart Killer, read many of the subject lines.

“Ech. Still working on this?” you asked.

“Unfortunately,” said Denise. She grabbed up her purse and went over to kiss your cheek in greeting. “But we might’ve gotten a huge break on it. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.”

“Get back? Where’re you going?” you asked.

“To get the food! I already placed the orders,” she said, patting your arm. “I’ll be right back.”

You gave her a narrowed look. “I was going to pay for it—”

“No need!” Denise sing-songed on her way out of the office. It had you smiling, shaking your head. You looked over at Emily and tossed a thumb over your shoulder.

“Careful with her. She can be devious,” you said.

Emily smiled and stood up from her desk. She went over to sit with you on the small couch near the center of the room.

“I’m actually glad you’re here,” she said. “I’ve kinda got a question for you.”

“Kinda?” you echoed with a smile, but you pat her on the knee. “What’s on your mind, honey?”

Emily looked a little unsure. It had you giving her your undivided attention.

“It’s about my dad,” she began. Your smile slowly fell, but now you were really listening.

“Okay,” you nodded.

Emily opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, the lights in the entire office went out.

Natural light still came in from the large windows at the front. It was odd though. The weather outside, while chilly, wasn’t cold enough to create an outage. You hadn’t heard anything fizzle when the lights went out either.

“That’s weird—” Emily said.

The back door burst open with the sound of hinges breaking. Both of you gasped and stood from the couch. You slipped a hand into your purse to find your phone, and then the first contact you could think of.

You were about to press the call button when a tall man with broad shoulders stepped through. He was older, balding, and his clothes and neck were stained with blood.

Buck Barnes.

“Buck?” you gasped. “What…what’re you doing here?”

He didn’t look like the easy going, kind-hearted man you knew at the camp. Now, he looked haggard, injured, and dangerous, like a wild animal.

“Hush up,” Buck held up a silver pistol in his right hand. “And drop that phone, nice and slow.”

Your heart was in your throat, but you couldn’t just think of yourself. You subtly tried to pull Emily behind you as you set your phone down on the ground.

“You tried to kill Paige,” Emily accused of the man. It had you turning to her, your eyes going wide. When you looked over at Buck to gauge his reaction, you saw how his lips pursed.

“Sit down and shut up,” Buck ordered, gesturing with his gun at both of you. He drew closer and forced you and Emily to sit beside each other on the couch. There he grabbed a roll of duct tape from his pocket and began taping your shaking hands together.

“Why’re you doing this?” you asked Buck.

“I need some collateral if I’m gonna get the hell outta dodge,” he replied.

“Fine, but let Emily go. She’s just a kid,” you begged, as tears stung at your eyes.

Buck just continued taping you up. Thankfully not your feet, just your wrists. He moved to Emily next.

“You don’t need her,” you tried again. “Come on, Buck. You really think Beau Arlen’s going to want to work something out with you if you take his daughter?”

“Oh, I’m bettin’ he’ll be more than willing.” Buck grabbed you and placed a strip of tape across your mouth, then on Emily’s. He hooked a large, calloused hand around your arm.

“Now get up.”

“What?!” Beau asked. His eyes widened in alarm. “Slow down, Denise. What’s going on?”

The more he listened, the more his heart plummeted into his stomach. He had to grip his work desk for balance.

It took him and Jenny under half an hour to meet up with Cassie and Denise back at Dewell & Hoyt, along with a forensics unit of officers. There was evidence of struggle in a turned over table and a broken back door lock.

Denise explained that she left you and Emily for just a few minutes while she went to grab a late lunch order. By the time she returned, the power was out, set off by the breakers, and you and Emily were missing.

Jenny found your purse on the couch, while Beau found your cell phone on the ground. He picked it up with a gloved hand. He’d seen you unlock your phone enough times to remember your passcode.

When he inputted those six numbers and unlocked the screen, he found his own name and phone number highlighted there. You’d been about to call him.

He squeezed your phone tight in his hand. He looked up and saw another officer pick up Emily’s backpack.

“No power means no surveillance footage,” Jenny said. “Okay, let’s think. Why take her and Emily?”

“It’s gotta do with Avery and the money he stole,” Beau said, grinding his teeth. “I needa find him.”

“Any idea where he might be held up?” Jenny asked.

“Carla will know,” he replied.

“Do you want me to go with you?” Jenny was quick to offer. She could see his rage bubbling.

“No,” he said, cutting her off with a swift hand. “Get a response team ready, but I don’t want anybody doing anything without checking with me!”

He was out the door before any of the women could stop him. Denise was in tears, both for you and for Emily. Cassie wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

“We’re gonna find them,” she promised.

You and Emily were in the backseat of an SUV. Buck was singing along to some country song, driving them down a highway to hell knows where.

The tears had begun to dry on your cheeks. It didn’t mean you were no longer petrified, but for Emily, to give her support, you’d been able to keep breathing through it. She was still in panic mode, hyperventilating as tears streamed down her face.

“Y’all better quiet down back there,” Buck warned.

You grabbed Emily’s hands and met her frantic eyes with your calmer ones. You were hoping to reassure her, let her know that while you were scared too, you were with her. She wasn’t alone.

She squeezed your hands back, even though it made you wince. Your right hand was still injured. Again, you breathed through it so you could hold her back. You rested the side of your head against hers to try and help steady her further. If you could, you would’ve held her like a mother bear.

Emily leaned against your side and began to calm down, bit by bit. Meanwhile, Buck continued to talk your ears off—about country music, and how this particular song was the one he and Sunny danced to at their wedding. Though frankly, you couldn’t give a shit about anything that was coming out of his mouth.

All you knew was that it was nighttime, pitch black darkness by the time he pulled into a plaza. It looked like a gas station next to a bar.

Only in Montana, you mused. Though you perked up at attention when Buck parked and actually left the car.

Of course, he took the keys with him and put the child locks on the doors, but you tugged at the duct tape Buck put around your ankles when he’d forced you and Emily into this car. If you could get free, then you could shove your way into the front seat and unlock the doors.

Emily tried to help you. You winced as the tape tugged at your skin. At least I shaved yesterday.

She gasped around her gag when she saw a young man coming their way in the parking lot. You joined her in banging on the window, trying to get his attention.

“Oh my God,” you heard him say, muffled as it was through the window. You pointed at the front of the car, trying to communicate to him to break the window open there.

“Hold on, I’ll get you guys out of there,” he said. He went to the front of the car and tried at the door handles, but before he could get very far in his attempt to free you, Buck came up behind the younger man and grabbed him in a chokehold.

You and Emily screamed at him, but it was no use. You did your best to shield Emily’s eyes when Buck snapped the man’s neck.

Bad call, bad leadership, bad police work.

Beau felt the weight of his shame like never before—all while he held Carla and rocked her in his arms. She’d just arrived at the police station, after getting the news that her husband had been killed.

When he learned that Emily was taken, Avery tried to help Beau and the police confront the men he’d stolen the $15 million from, but Avery had gone rogue by bringing a gun into the equation.

Beau had just one chance to pull Avery out and send in his unit of officers on standby. Jenny had asked him what he wanted to do, hoping he would make the right choice.

Beau had been selfish. He wanted to see if the men would give up the location on where they were holding you and Emily, so he kept Avery in play. He’d thought the man would be fine with Tonya and Donno backing him up in the room.

After all was said and done, however, Avery lay dead in a pool of his own blood with a bullet in his chest. The criminals also hadn’t taken you or Emily.

By process of elimination, Beau now knew it was Buck. The man had already killed a hiker on his way out of the woods, where he’d been holding Paige.

Now it was a whole new manhunt.

“Beau,” Jenny said. “We have something on Buck.”

It prompted him to drag himself out of the dark spiral of his thoughts. He let Carla go, but kept a supportive hand on her back. She was still distraught, and understandably so—not just for her husband, but for her missing daughter.

Jenny gave Carla a sympathetic look. She beckoned him over though.

“Come see this,” she said.

Beau comforted Carla one moment more, rubbing her back, but she encouraged him to go with Jenny. She led him into another room where Cassie was waiting for them, and Jenny’s laptop was connected to a smart TV.

On the screen was new surveillance footage of a parking lot, outside a bar a few hours out of town. There was a green pickup truck parked next to a black SUV. Beau couldn’t see you or Emily, but he watched Buck drag the dead body of a man behind the truck.

“Buck was casing the lot for a car to steal,” Jenny said. “We’re guessing this unlucky guy found them.”

“It means they’re still alive,” Cassie pointed out. Jenny drew attention to the keys, or whatever it was that Buck dropped and picked up off the floor. It was hard to make out from the footage.

Cassie agreed to ask Cormack Barnes if he knew what the keys were for, considering he already had the keys to the pickup trick in his hand when he picked up the fallen set. Beau knew it was time to question Sunny Barnes again.

He headed down the hall to do just that, with Jenny on his heels. Soon though, he found himself slowing down in the hall, like his feet were made of rubber. That, and his heart was fracturing. Jenny slowed down with him, giving him a questioning look.

“It’s just…it’s the one thing we’re supposed to do. Protect our kids,” he said. “The one thing.”

“Hey,” she said. Her blue eyes were understanding. “You couldn’t have done anything differently.”

And yet again, they both knew that was a lie. Beau held a curled fist against his lips for a moment, as he tried to swallow down the lump of emotion in his throat.

“She’s gotta be so scared, Jenny,” he said. His eyes stung, but he tried to blink the unshed tears from his eyes. It wasn’t working.

“Both of them,” he said. “They’ve gotta be terrified. And every minute we waste chasing our tails just gives that twisted son a bitch a chance to do something to them—”

Jenny grabbed his arm to steady him. “I still think he’s keeping them alive for leverage.”

“Well, I hope you’re right, because there’s nothing stopping him from making an example from one of them,” he said.

But the moment it escaped his lips, he wished he hadn’t uttered the thought out loud. It was too much.

He felt like a failure of a father. That was already destroying him from the inside out. And though he’d vowed to himself otherwise, you got dragged into this too.

You’d already been through the wringer enough. Beau hadn’t even checked in on you in damn near a week since he left your apartment the last time.

Now, you’d been taken by the very same man who murdered your friend Mary. Beau hadn’t had the chance to tell you…

He hadn’t been able to tell you a lot of things.

And maybe, he’d never get the chance.

The pickup truck Buck stole had a small trailer attached, convenient for stuffing you and Emily in, along with the corpse he’d made of the truck’s owner.

On the long and bumpy ride down the road, you’d been able to search the dead man’s jeans and found a small pocketknife. You pressed a small button to click the blade open. You showed it to Emily, and then tried to cut her bonds.

You only got halfway through when the truck and trailer stopped. Moments later, you smelled gas. Buck was probably stopping for a refill on the pickup truck. You closed the knife and hid it in your hands. That instinct turned out to be a good one, because Buck slid the trailer door open.

You and Emily winced as the bright morning sun hit your bleary eyes. Not only had you not slept all night, but you’d gotten used to the perpetual darkness of the trailer.

“You girls behaving yourselves back here?” Buck asked.

You and Emily stayed quiet, but fearful. He stepped into the trailer to lower your taped gag, and then the girl’s. He uncapped a water bottle to give her some. It was a strangely humane thing to do, you thought.

But then you realized that he just didn’t want you two to pass out of dehydration. He was trying to keep you alive long enough to use you as bargaining chips.

“My dad’s going to find you,” Emily said, staring up at your captor. Buck chuckled at her cheek.

“You want water or not?” he asked.

“And when he does, he’s gonna kill you,” she said. Buck rolled his eyes and gave her a few sips of water. He offered the bottle to you next.

Instead of drinking, you used his distraction and proximity to pop open the pocketknife and jab it at his face. He pulled back fast, but you managed to sink the three-inch little blade into his neck. Buck backhanded you so hard, it made the side of your face crack against the back of the trailer.

Emily screamed and tried to catch you when you accidentally fell on her shoulder. When you recovered after a bit, blinking the black splotches out of your vision, Buck punched at the spot right above your heads and made you both flinch. By then, he’d taken the little knife out of his neck, even though it made a new wound ooze blood down his shirt.

“Forgot to check his pockets,” he gritted out. His anger then bled away, into a dark chuckle. “Gettin’ a little rusty.”

He poured out the rest of the water over your boots, but he didn’t make any further threats. At least, not physically. He stepped away and began to exit the trailer.

“Next time it’ll be gasoline and a lighter,” he warned. “Now both of you, shut the fuck up.”

Then he closed the door, casting you and Emily into darkness once again.

“You okay?” Emily whispered. You could barely make out her face in the dim light, coming from the smallest crack in the trailer door. You rolled your head her way so you could give her a smile.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you replied. Truthfully, your head was ringing and aching at the same time. Buck had knocked you out for a few seconds there. Plus, you were exhausted, and hungry, and parched.

“At least the gags are off,” she said. You nodded, letting out a sigh. You welcomed her to rest on your shoulder and tucked her wrapped hands under yours.

“We’ve just gotta keep holding out,” you said. “I’m sure your dad is on the way.”

Emily nodded in agreement. She believed every word of what she’d told Buck. She just hoped it was sooner rather than later.

It was much, much later.

Still, you and Emily were no better off. Actually, you were pretty sure this was worse.

Buck had driven you deep into the woods, then forced you to walk what felt like another half-mile until you reached a dusty old shack. He’d unlocked it and forced you both inside, kneeling in the dirt and dead leaves. Along with the duct tape already around your wrists, he’d tied you both up with ropes around the metal hooks hanging from the short roof.

Even with the gags off, it was hard to breathe in the hot, stuffy woodshed. It felt similar to being buried in a box and left to rot.

You weren’t sure how many hours it had been, but the sun was slowly inching by. If you had to guess, it was around mid-afternoon. You were sweating down your neck and back, now uncomfortable while kneeling in the jeans you were wearing. And sometimes, your vision started to blur in and out.

By now you were beyond hunger. Dying of thirst? Quite possibly.

“How’re you doing?” you asked Emily. She nodded, but she didn’t have much energy to talk either.

So instead, you tried to twist your wrists out of the rope. Very quickly you gave yourself burns, however. Buck had tied your bonds so very tight, not to mention the duct tape underneath.

What a fucking asshole, you thought. He could’ve at least left a bottle of water. Or some protein bars.

“How are they supposed to find us out here?” Emily asked. Her voice was small and coarse with exhaustion. You nudged her knee in comfort.

“The police will get it out of Buck, I’m sure,” you said. “Even if Beau can’t, damn certain Jenny will.”

You gave her a smile. Emily tried to smile back, but she didn’t quite make it there.

“God, I’m so thirsty,” she coughed.

“I know, I’m sorry,” you nodded, letting out a shaky breath. “All we can do is keep trying to get loose.”

You both tried twisting out of the ropes for a while, but it was no use. You were just going to bruise or cut your wrists further through the tape.

You knew that you and Emily had been in the woods for hours at this point, somewhere in the middle of the mountains. You tried not think about how unlikely it would be that someone actually heard you, let alone found you.

You knew you were the adult in this situation. You had to keep it together for the girl beside you, but after a while, a feeling of desperation and despair rose up again in your chest, no matter how hard you fought it all.

Tears welled up in your eyes, though you tried to breathe through it. Emily nudged your arm this time, giving you a comforting look.

“It’s gonna be okay,” she whispered. “I know Dad’s coming for us.”

Your lip wobbled, but you nodded and sucked in a breath. If she could be strong, then you could too…

And that was when you started to hear voices. You knew they weren’t just in your head, because Emily perked up too. You both called out the best you could to whoever was out there.

You squinted watery eyes when the door to the shed finally slid open.

Beau tested the limitations of Jenny’s SUV on his way out from the woods, and then back into them.

At the very least, Buck was dead.

Sunny had shot him—before they had gotten a location on you and Emily. Beau had been about to have a serious breakdown before Cassie called him.

“They found them,” he’d told Jenny, with red and shining eyes.

In another five miles, they reached the old cabin. Cassie had said there was a woodshed attached on the south side. Beau tore out of the car and sprinted up a hill, through a patch of dense trees, until he found the cabin and the shed.

Cassie and Cormack were talking to someone just out of Beau’s eyeline, but his gaze focused on his daughter. The moment Emily saw him, she brightened and ran to him. He met her in the middle, grabbing her tight and secure in his arms.

His tears burned in his eyes and fell as he held her, comforted her, rubbing her back. She held onto him just as tightly.

He struggled and failed to keep himself together. Relief wasn’t even the word for how he felt; it was beyond words.

And it was almost unreal to be able to hold his daughter and see that she didn’t look hurt, just shaken.

“I’ve gotcha, sweetheart,” he said. “God, I’ve got you.”

Letting out the deepest breath, Beau’s gaze ventured past his daughter and up ahead. There he found you, being supported by Cassie up the hill. Beau’s eyes widened.

You were rubbing your wrists. They looked raw. Your eyes were also red and watery when they met his. Your breath seemed to catch as well.

Your name fell from Beau’s lips, his voice breaking. Emily looked up at her dad and had to smile. She even made room for you when you came up on his other side. Beau still kept his daughter tucked against him, but he reached for you as well and brought you into his embrace.

He felt your body shaking with quiet, wracking sobs. His heart broke for it, but he soothed a hand over your knotted hair and down your back.

“Shh, it’s okay now,” he whispered in your ear. His voice was choked with emotion. “I’ve got you, darlin’."

Never gonna let you go again, he thought.

You nodded, sniffling, but you kept your face buried against his chest.

Eventually, you lifted your head to meet his kind, if tearful eyes. He was a mess, and so were you. He was right though; you knew that it was all right now, as long as he was here.

You looked over at Emily, who was still hanging onto her father. You touched her shoulder.

“You okay?” you asked through tears. She nodded back at you with a smile.

“Good,” Beau said. “Let’s get you two home.”

You realized then that you were clinging to him like…like he was yours.

“Oh,” you uttered, releasing his shirt. “I‘m sorry.”

Beau’s eyes widened at the way you pulled away from him, unconsciously lowering your gaze. He frowned, and he pressed a gentle hand to your cheek, so you’d look at him again.

“Don’t you do that,” he said, his voice still a bit unsteady.

Almost every cell in his body said to pull you back in. To sink his fingers in your hair, and to kiss you.

But he noticed Jenny, Cassie, Cormack, and even his daughter watching with some kind of smile on their faces. You stared up at him, teary eyed and waiting.

Beau cleared his throat.

He hesitated a bit too long, warring with himself all the while. So he just stroked your cheek and guided you, along with his daughter to the car.

You and Emily were going home.

AN: 🫣 Lol please don't hate me for the little tease at the end there. But how did you like how all the action and drama of the kidnapping unfolded?

Don't think this is the finale though. We've still got some drama and fun things to come. (Also, I think it's funny how this next particular chapter is going to post on my birthday lol.)

Next Time:

“I’m the one who needs you to forgive me,” he said, gently squeezing your arm. “I promised myself I would keep you safe, that I wouldn’t drag you into this mess. And I couldn’t keep my end of the deal.”

“Stop that,” you said. You grabbed the front of his shirt. “How many times do I have to say it’s not your fault before you get it in your stubborn head?”

It came out a bit snappish, but the moment your eyes met his, you both seemed to realize where your passions had led you. Just inches away from one another.

“Maybe one more time,” Beau said, in a quieter, but no less heady voice. There was a hint of humor in his eyes. You couldn’t help but smile back.

You released his shirt and instead, took his face in your hands.

▶️ Keep Reading: PART 8

Ko-Fi Me ☕

Series Masterlist

Big Sky Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Series Tag List (Part 1):

@kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesbrainworms @foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @iamsapphine @simpforbuckyb @roseblue373 @brianochka @branj19 @globetrotter28 @hazel-eye-coffee-shop-girl-blog @ades106

@charmed-asylum @waywardxwords @deanwinchestersgirl87 @this-is-me19 @rachiem4-blog @sweettimelady @leigh70 @clinicallydepresso @emily-winchester @xiphoidbones @skoveu @nyotamalfoy @kmc1989 @deans-baby-momma @tabsluvsu @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @deanwanddamons

@antisocialcorrupt @lacilou @deans-daydream @deans-spinster-witch @agalliasi @venicesem @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @iprobablyshipit91 @ladysparkles78 @solariklees @lostin-jensenseyes @deansbbyx @candy-coated-misery0731 @curlycarley @sarahgracej @bagpussjocken @deanfreakingwinchester @chernayawidow

#On the Edge of a Knife #Take Me Home #Part 7 #Beau Arlen series #big sky #beau arlen #beau arlen x reader #beau arlen x female reader #Emily Arlen #beau arlen x you #Jensen Ackles characters #big sky season 3 #Denise Brisbane #Jenny Hoyt #Cassie Dewell #zepskies writes

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catboymoments · 13 days ago

Note

Any tips on cosplaying? I wanted to try cosplaying Ramona Flowers but I’ve. Never done anything remotely related to cosplay so I’m not sure where to start with like clothes and such

YES ACTUALLY

Personally I like to build my cosplays by thrifting basics and adding onto them and doing arts and crafts with it if I can ! While some characters require a very specific article of clothing, (like the time I did Iono from pkmn and in that case I just bought a premade costume,) you can find similar or even identical clothing pieces at a thrift store. My possessed Hunter cosplay was super cheap, I got a corduroy yellow jumpsuit from Buffalo Exchange and a wolf shirt from mercari. Thrifting is also sustainable and in some cases you can reuse pieces you buy for either casual wear or other costumes! Like if I wanted to, I could take off the black felt patches and use the jumpsuit for a Kazuichi cosplay ! Also I just like making my cosplays from thrifts because I feel like it adds a little personal touch.

Also, premade cosplays like you find on Amazon tend to be made in sweatshops and out of cheap polyester that gets hot and uncomfortable over time. As someone who lives in Houston, you can probably guess why temperature is an important factor to consider for me. The only things I try to get off of Amazon for my cosplays are things like hosiery (stockings, gloves, leggings, underwear) and wigs. Wigs are a whole other category I’ll make a separate post for.

YOU DO NOT HAVE TO BUY FANCY FABRIC OR SUPPLIES!! seriously! The patches of felt I used for Hunter was craft felt that was like 98 cents a yard. Maybe less I don’t remember. And the belos streaks on the gloves were green craft felt I painted with cheap acrylic paint and cut out! And then hot glued! - craft stores like Michael’s or hobby lobby (which you should always steal from as it is always morally correct to steal from hobby lobby) will have basic, solid color Gildan shirts in varying styles and colors for super cheap. I use those as bases for lots of my costumes, as they have tank tops, tees, v necks, sweatshirts and hoodies that you can build on and around. Strawberry crepe is one of those! The sweatshirt was leik $4.

use eva foam for making props or headpieces! It’s bendable, lightweight, cheap, and comes in a variety of thicknesses. It’s what I used for the magnemites on iono and the headband for strawberry crepe!

I hope this helps somewhat haha

#Face #my cosplay

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solar-sunnyside-up · 1 year ago

Text

Community gardens-

Community gardens are a piece of land gardened or cultivated by a group of people, which you can do individually or collectively. So they can be done on private or public land.

Community gardens are not only a testament to community care and mutual aid, it's also almost a radical act of protest and activism. You're combining and sharing resources, which is inherently anti-capitalist, and you're actively protesting climate change by cultivating the land and bringing back native plants. They exist in various forms, it can be located in the proximity of neighborhoods or on balconies and rooftops. They are far from a one size fits all, they are built to meet the needs of the people cultivating them.

History-

this is gunna be a long one yall--

1890s-- Rapid urbanization in Europe and North America lead to community ran gardens to supplement food stocks that the city couldn't maintain causing an obscene cost of food. Thus lead to cities across the world attempting in their own ways to handle the problem-

1893 - Detroit Mayor Hazen S. Pingree took office with citizens even calling for “bread or blood”. In the mist of this crisis the city establishes a program that required vacant lots to be used as gardens and farms for the unemployed citizens have access to food. The deal the city basically makes is 'we will provide the land for you to farm, you feed yourself by farming it!' Later called "Potato Patches" would convert thousands of acres of vacant and idle land in the city for subsistence gardens, then cultivated by the unemployed in order to ensure citizens access to food regardless of the employment or economic status. At its peak, 1563 families participating over 430 acres of donated or City land. This would become so successful that later other cities like Boston and Buffalo would later adopt similar programs.

In England, “allotment” gardens were created to improve working-class people’s food provision, living conditions, and overall health of people living in suddenly crowded city centers.

Marseille in 1896, “les jardins d’ouvriers”, or ‘the workers’ gardens’, were created by a clergyman, with the purpose of reducing the misery of the working class and improving living condition.

1917- The War Gardens Commission was established to call on citizens to become, "Soldiers of the soil," planting gardens to meet some of their own domestic need for food as well as solider rations. (talk about abandoning your citizens for the sake of war >.>) Providing booklets, cartoons, and plenty of propaganda to teach everyone able to grow and preserve their own food supplies. War and Victory Gardens running well through the 1920s into the 50s. Often communties would have a vacant lot or shared spaces to also fullfill any need that wouldnt fit on private land. By 1944, between 18 to 20 million families with victory gardens were providing up to 40% of the vegetables in America.

1970s - In major cities that were fighting both economic crisis and urban decay as a result of white flight to the suburbs. Bringing rise to community groups like The Green Guerillas- built of horticulturalists, gardeners, botanists, and planners who work to turn abandoned or empty spaces in New York City into gardens. The group threw "seed grenades" into derelict lots and developed community gardens, often without going through official channels. It became especially popular after the concerted redevelopment of a dangerous, trash-filled space at the corner of Houston Street and Bowery in Manhattan. That first and now oldest recognized community garden in New York City on a street corner, grew to be over an acre and remains active as of 2023 now named the Liz Christy Garden after its founder who wanted a safe space and good food for children in her community.

2010-Current

Millions of community gardens spanning across the entire world have been reestablished. Particularly over the course of 2012 on wards in order to get back to connecting with the soil and feeding low income housing. Many of the gardens today also hold other community functions like yoga and woodworking classes, socializing centers, holding events, and act as a 3rd space where there are so few these days. Becoming more like a community hub over just a simple source of food.

How do I join or create a community garden?

Join an existing garden- look up one in your area here

To create your own, you will need to do your own research on your city or towns bylaws but generally you'll need a few things-

Gather friends/group to garden with

Secure a place to garden, as well as access to water

Gardening Equipment

Happy Gardening!!

Also @solarpunkani this is for you!!!

#reaping week #solarpunk #gardening #ecopunk #food #permaculture #sprout guide #history

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chippedshake · 26 days ago

Text

Dally Winston didn’t have many possessions. A side effect of never staying in one place for too long, he supposed. Even if he stayed in the same city, he would sleep wherever he could, and most folks’ hospitality didn’t extend past the week.

He was a constant flight risk. Too many people had woken up one day to find him fifteen miles away and nowhere to be found. And when he ran, he didn’t come back; he brought all he could need with him: the clothes on his back, the blade in his pocket, and the shoebox under his train seat.

The shoebox would be wrapped inside of his sweater – no matter if he ran away in August or December – and the only thing anyone could see if they somehow got close enough to open it would be candy bars and Kools, and maybe a shirt or two.

While he was in Cleveland, some guy in his gang – Joe or John or something about as interesting – tried to nab one and nearly got his head beat in.

That same night he’d caught a freight to New York. He wasn’t about to explain himself to a group of wannabe gangsters who couldn’t throw a punch and didn’t want him around anyway.

Crouched in almost complete darkness, the train jostling him around as he opened his shoebox, the twelve-year-old made sure nothing was out of place underneath the bars and packs. He let out a small sigh of relief at the four plastic bags, perfectly intact. It was too dim to see the actual handwriting, but he knew each one had a city name on it.

The keys to his father’s house and his sister’s comb from Austin.

Houston was where he met the first girl that actually mattered to him – Kathy – and her number was the only thing in that bag.

He’d taken his first job as a waiter in Pittsburg, and the navy blue button in that bag reminded him of his boss, the first one to look at him and see a scared boy with nowhere to go instead of a hood in the making.

Maybe he was both.

He didn’t need to open the Cleveland bag to know it was empty. Hadn’t been there enough to have anyone to remember.

It wasn’t the first time he’d left a city without anything to care about. Atlanta and Nashville had been crossed out to make space for other names, but he’d only been there for a couple weeks.

He’d been in Cleveland for almost a year.

Squinting to make anything out in the near-darkness, Dallas took the permanent marker in the corner of the box and crossed out Cleveland, replacing it with New York in as good handwriting as he could manage.

It was legible at best, but no one else was meant to read it, so he figured it didn’t much matter.

When he left three years later it was the fullest bag he had.

It was a bit of a struggle to keep the bag covered inside the shoebox, but he managed.

When Dallas got to Tulsa, he was far from optimistic. He’d been in New York for the longest yet and had actually managed to get close to a couple boys there before the fuzz got a bit too familiar with him and he knew he needed to skip town again. Before that happened, he’d thought he’d finally found somewhere he could stay long-term, until the greaser life inevitably caught up with him and gave him the greaser death he’d known was coming for him since he was nine and on a train away from Austin.

Then he met a group of boys, one of them hardly in middle school, who thought themselves a gang even though they couldn’t do anything but grease their hair back. And yet, somehow, even though the kid was obnoxious and his brothers were overprotective over him and one of them seemed to be constantly sucking on a lemon, Dallas found himself strangely drawn to them.

They might not have been as tough as the packs in New York, but there was something else about them.

It might have been how Buck, who hardly knew him, let him stay above the bar almost free of charge. How he would patch him up whenever he came back from a stupid fight and scowl whenever he saw a new bruise. How he would wordlessly direct Johnny to Dallas’s room whenever he appeared unannounced and made sure none of the drunks gave him any trouble. How he would give Dallas advice about anything he asked about, even if most of it was terrible.

It might have been how Johnny always came to him for help and didn’t seem scared of him for a moment, even when they didn’t know each other and he had every reason to.

It might have been how Steve would skip school with him to watch cars speed by and comment on everything from the engine to the paint job.

It might have been how Soda embraced him wholeheartedly, despite how perfect his life was and how ugly a stain Dallas was on it. How he listened in silence when Dallas finally broke and told him about Holly and how he’d never forgive himself for leaving her alone with that bastard. How he told him it wasn’t his fault.

It might have been Mrs Curtis and her disapproving looks when he told stories about his battles and conquests. How she never stopped believing in him anyway.

It might have been how he knew that, despite all of their fights, Tim would never betray him when it mattered. How he’d been the one to first call him Dally.

It might have been how Darry always explained football terms to him when he told a story Dally wouldn’t understand and how Ponyboy wouldn’t stop yapping about his favourite books and how Two-Bit went to every part with him to make sure he didn’t do anything too stupid.

It might have been how, more often than not, Dally went home with something in his pocket to put away in his shoebox.

It’s been two days since Dally crumpled under a streetlight while his friends watched – except Buck wasn’t there, he wasn’t there, and part of him wonders if maybe he could’ve stopped him if he was – and Buck knows that it’s well past time to clean out his room because despite what he told Dally, he really does need the rent money.

It’s just washing the sheets and taking out any clothes he might have collected – not even three years he’d been there, and Buck’s life has a hole in it now that he’s gone and if this is anything like how Dally felt with Johnny, maybe he can understand his decision a bit more – and then he’s ready to rent the room out.

But it isn’t just washing the sheets and finding something to do with his clothes, because they won’t fit Buck because Dally was just a kid.

It’s accepting that the kid’s gone. It’s accepting that he’s not going to open the door with a scowl on his face. He’s not going to start complaining about Sylvia. Buck isn’t going to pretend not to care and give him barmy advice he doesn’t even believe himself.

The kid’s going to lie – still, cold, dead – in his make-shift grave and Buck’s going to stop crying because he’s done his fair share of that for a grown man and a greaser. And they’re just clothes.

Clothes that smell like the first kid Buck had cared about enough to take care of. Clothes many of which Buck himself had gotten Dally. Clothes that hold more memories of Dally Winston than any other place in town.

Just clothes.

And, apparently, a shoebox.

When he opens it, Buck isn’t expecting much beyond some unsavoury magazines and maybe a candy bar.

Instead, he finds five plastic bags with city names written on them in the chicken scrawl that only almost three years of living with Dally had taught him to read.There are a couple Twixes thrown on top as a half-hearted cover, but they don’t do much to hide the bags.

Three are almost empty. One is half full.

The last one is overflowing.

The Curtis brothers rarely received letters beyond bills or some routine ones from the state. They didn’t have many people that couldn’t just talk to them if they wanted to tell them something. At most they got some half-hearted birthday cards from distant relatives a couple weeks late.

They never received packages, though.

Except now their mailbox has a plastic bag stuffed inside of it and a shoebox sitting on the ground next to it, holding their usual letters and four other bags.

As they have for the last two nights, the whole gang – or, rather, what’s left of it – eats dinner together. No one says it, but they’re scared to spend too much time alone. Loneliness eats at them, even when they’re all together, and they’re the only thing keeping each other from going insane.

Darry clears his throat, breaking into the silence that settled down on them two days ago and has only thickened since.

“We, uh… we got a letter from Buck together.”

Two-Bit looks up from his plate with a raised eyebrow, and there’s something desperate in the way that gesture, that used to be casually playful and fun, comes from a Two-Bit who hasn’t smiled since Pony walked in the door two nights ago.

Steve and Soda share a glance before looking at Darry, but Pony doesn’t even bother. He just keeps pushing the food around on his plate as if it’ll make it disappear.

"What's it say?" Soda's voice sounds clogged up from lack of use.

"Apparently he– uh... Dally–" they ignore how his voice breaks on Dally's name "– he had stuff from all of us. Kept 'em in a box under his bed. Buck found them when he cleaned his room out. Sent 'em to us. He had stuff from where he's been before, too." For all Darry tries to seem casual, he can’t stop the unspilled tears of the last few days from seeping into his voice.

"I–" Steve trails off before clearing his throat and starting again. "Let’s see it then, yeah?"

It’s a well-known fact that Ponyboy’s too sensitive to be a greaser. Sodapop calls himself a bawl-baby and seems to somehow feel everything stronger than everyone else. Two-Bit’s an emotional drunk and hasn’t cracked a joke in two days. And Darry’s been suppressing everything he’s felt for nine months and is bound to burst at some point.

And yet Steve is the first to break.

He’s holding a small piece of metal – his DX name tag – that presses coolly against his skin. Dally always used to swipe it and play with it in front of him, laughing as Steve made mad grabs for it. He doesn’t even know why he tried; he knew he wouldn’t get it back until Dally got bored. He stole it a bit over a year ago, and Steve always figured that it was just to mess with him.

He sinks into his chair with a wet, choked sob.

Dally comes in on the one day Steve gets stuck at the counter. He’s messing around, sitting on the counter, his legs dangling off it, with Steve’s name tag, trying to goad him into some sort of stupid argument. Steve doesn’t even bother trying to grab it back anymore; Dally’ll give it back whenever he feels like it, and it’s no use trying to get it back before.

"You going to the drive-in today?"

"Nah, Soda'n me're goin' to the races."

"You takin' the kid?"

"Sure hope not."

Dally stops playing with the name tag for a moment. He swivels ninety degrees to face Steve and crosses his legs on top of the counter.

His eyes have always been off-putting, but now it feels like they’re piercing through Steve’s mask of uncaring and putting his soul on display for all the world to see. Steve looks away.

"Don’t do that, man."

Steve looks at him in confusion. "Don’t do what?"

"Don’t pretend like you hate the kid. You're not foolin' anyone but him, an' someday it'll be too late."

They stare at each other for a couple moments in a heavy silence. There are thousands of questions running through Steve’s head and he doesn’t know where to start.

"I gotta split."

Dally jumps off the counter and walks off, completely nonchalant, as if they’ve just had a normal conversation.

Steve doesn’t notice his name tag is gone until Soda asks him about it when he calls him over for help later.

He thinks a lot about Dally’s advice during the next year. Maybe he’s right. He does care about Pony, deep down. Somewhere. He’s an annoying piece of shit, but Steve cares about him.

But he’s been pretending not to for so long that he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to show him. Because if there’s one thing Steve knows, it’s that he’s not about to have a heart-to-heart with the little shit.

What he usually does when he can’t figure something feelings-y out is ignore it: block it out until it stops bothering him. But Dally won’t let him. His voice has needled a hole in his head, interfering with his every thought.

And the worst part is that Dally’s right. It’s not even just the kid that doesn’t know he really cares.

No one does.

No one but Soda and Evie really knows that he cares about them. And that’s really just Steve assuming they can read him well enough, because he’s not exactly one for baring his heart to someone and declaring how much they mean to him.

Logically, he should be the closest to Johnny, since none of the others really gets what it means to want to be anywhere but home, but Johnny would rather have to try and explain it to Pony than really talk to Steve.

Paying just the slightest bit of attention makes him realise that his stupid little sarcastic comments during Two-Bit’s stories actually hurt him, but for some reason Two-Bit chose not to tell him and Steve’s only just noticing now, after years of it.

Somehow, Steve managed to hide how much he wanted to be like Darry between ages seven and twelve, but now Darry thinks he hates him and obviously doesn’t know about the part of that hero worship that Steve still harbours.

Not even Dally, who acts like he can see right through him, knows about how Steve wants him to teach him to fight and about how he feels like Dally just… gets him better than anyone else.

But anger is how he processes everything. He can’t have a conversation without a sarcastic comment mixed in with it and would much rather brawl than talk something out. He doesn’t know any other way to work through things because no one ever bothered to teach him.

He wonders whether he could have asked Dally for help. Whether Dally would’ve laughed in his face or taken him under his wing and taught him how to feel things like a normal person.

Steve still hasn’t changed. He knows he should. Regret at Johnny and Dally never knowing how much he cared curls up inside his stomach, wrapping around and suffocating him. It’s only a matter of time before someone else’s monster is added in – no such thing as an old greaser – and Steve can feel it watching him, waiting until it can curl around his throat and start squeezing.

It’s too late for Johnny and Dally to know that he cares about them. It’s too late for Dally to see him take his advice to heart.

But Johnny and Dally aren’t the part of the gang that’s left.

So, for the first time, Steve looks around at his friends and tries to really see them. He tries to see the part of them they leave to subtext and interpretation, hoping someone will understand what that blink or that twitch meant.

Soda winces, he’s in pain. He’s holding something tightly in his hand, something sharp. But he has that faraway look in his eyes that he gets when he thinks about Sandy sometimes, so Steve knows not to talk to him. He’s going through something he needs to process alone.

Darry’s smiling in a bittersweet way that tells Steve that he’s remembering something good, something happy, and being brought back to the present will be infinitely more painful if it’s at someone else’s hands.

Two-Bit trails around the room, restless as ever, twirling a pencil around his fingers. Steve’s never felt like he knows Two-Bit. The walls of defensive humour and beer always seemed impenetrable and, honestly, Steve never really tried.

Finally, his eyes land on Ponyboy, sitting at the head of the table, a drawing between his hands. He’s trembling and blinking away tears.

“Golly, Pony, you oughta show Dal.” Pony looks up at Johnny, surprised and slightly incredulous.

“Yeah, right. Dally’ll laugh right in my face.”

“‘Course he won’t. Might not get it, but he won’t laugh atcha.”

If Pony didn’t know any better, he might say Dally’s face softens when he shows him the drawing.

Most people wouldn’t notice it, the subtle way his eyes stop being so sharp, like a shard of ice that melts just the smallest bit at edges. The way the corners of his mouth quiver ever so slightly as he tries to suppress a smile. The sharp exhale through his nose that replaces how most people would gasp.

Ponyboy didn’t even know he knew Dally that well. He didn’t know he could read him so easily, notice the smallest changes in his face and deduce his feelings. Most of the time, Dally still feels like an enigma.

“This ain’t too shabby, kid.” He looks up at Ponyboy. “When’d you make it?”

“It took me a coupla days, but I started when Two stole your switch to open a meat packet.”

Dally tsks almost fondly, shaking his head. “‘Course you did.” Before Ponyboy can ask what he means, Dally lifts his gaze – piercing, ice blue – and fixes it onto him. “You mind if I keep it?”

“Yeah– I mean, sure. I don’t mind.”

He looks at Ponyboy strangely for a moment before reaching forward and ruffling his hair. “You’re an okay kid, Pony.”

The memory doesn’t last much longer. Pony’s mom calls them to dinner a couple moments later and Dally never mentions it again. Pony had mostly forgotten about it until he’d opened that bag and found it, folded into careful eighths.

Now, as he thinks back to that moment and all the ones that were around it, he can’t help but wonder why he thought that Dally hated him. Why he thought Dally only ever loved Johnny. He’d thought Dally was hardened too much to feel anything, but from someone else’s point of view, maybe Ponyboy’s like that right now.

Maybe wanting privacy and being alone sometimes can make someone think he doesn’t care.

Maybe life punishing him for caring in the past makes him try to suppress it, or express it in almost imperceptible acts of fondness.

Maybe his own absolute conviction that Dally was nothing more than a hood made him ignore the clear signs.

He thinks about Steve telling him not to walk home alone, and Tim making sure he has a blade whenever he goes out with Curly, and Angela off-handedly asking where he’s going. He thinks about Darry hugging him at the hospital and the two of them chasing Soda in the darkness and Two-Bit making jokes even when Dally’s covered by a white sheet.

Has he been really seeing people, or has he just been seeing what he wants to see?

Steve’s slumping in a chair, looking at his nametag and then letting his gaze roll around the room. Darry’s playing with a deflated football, a bitter smile on his lips. Soda has his fist closed tightly around something, eyes closed as he takes deep breaths. Two-Bit is alone on the couch, staring at a tiny pencil in his hand that’s been bitten almost down to the point.

Ponyboy makes eye contact with Steve, who jerks his head towards Two-Bit and the two of them go over to him, Steve sitting down next to him with a back too stiff to possibly be comfortable, and Pony standing on his other side, a hand on his shoulder.

“I can’t remember.” Two-Bit’s voice sounds genuinely broken, and Ponyboy is sent back to when he stumbled into the house after catching a ride with a stranger from the hospital. When Two-Bit said that even Dally had a breaking point. That years of hardening himself so he wouldn’t hurt had been for nothing when Johnny died and made him reach it.

Is Two-Bit at his?

“All o’ you, you’re there, with something, and you’re remembering. ‘Cause you bothered to make memories with him. Me, I was too busy getting drunk –” his voice breaks and it seems like he’s about to cry “– I was too busy getting drunk to remember anything from him.” He holds up the pencil. “This was mine. I know ‘cause I’m the only one that chews pencils, all y’all find it disgusting, and he kept it so it was important and he took it at some point and I can’t remember–”

Two-Bit fully breaks at that point, folding in on himself, grabbing onto the pencil with a death grip.

Steve looks at Ponyboy, completely at loss as to what to do, and for all Pony may be more “sensitive” or more in touch with his emotions, he doesn’t have any more ideas on how to comfort Two-Bit.

Maybe they’re not supposed to. Maybe they just have to leave him to cope and come to terms with himself. Maybe they have to let him hate himself like Ponyboy’s done on so many occasions.

Maybe it’s what they’re supposed to do, but it’s not what Ponyboy wants.

“I can.” Two-Bit looks up at him, eyes slightly glazed.“I remember it. You got me to skip a couple years ago, remember? We found Dally, and me and him smoked but you just chewed on your pencil. It was when he told us about… about Holly. I guess he musta taken it and we didn’t notice.”

Steve’s looking at him curiously, as if he knows he’s lying. Ponyboy just hopes that Two-Bit doesn’t notice.

“Yeah…” Two-Bit starts nodding slowly, “I think I remember that.”

Steve’s still staring at Ponyboy, looking like he’s trying to solve a particularly tricky puzzle. He sends him one final confused look before turning to Two-Bit.

“Look, Two…” Steve hesitates for a moment “you– you still got four friends. You ain’t alone. There’s a lotta opportunities to get more memories – not with- with them, that’s true, but with us – and we want you to remember ‘em. ‘Cause we’re not gonna be here one day, and all that’s gonna be left for you is what you can remember, and Pony here ain’t gonna be around to remember for ya.”

Steve looks like the effort of being sincere is damn near killing him, but he powers through, not noticing that Sodapop and Darry are looking at them and listening in.

“And we– we need you to remember. An’ not to be hungover every day. ‘Cause it’s hurtin’ you and it’s hurtin’ us. An’ maybe this ain’t the time to tell you, but it’s the time I’m usin’, and we can help you if you want it. If you don’t, too, we don’t care none.”

“He’s right,” Soda says, getting up and walking towards them, something clutched tightly in his hand. “You aren’t just hurting you, you’re taking us with ya. Which means that you don’t gotta get better all alone neither. We’ll help you and distract you and whatever you need to get over it.”

Darry doesn’t get up from the table where he’s sitting, but nods as he watches Two-Bit carefully.

A year ago, Darry wouldn’t’ve hesitated at getting up and hugging Two-Bit, or telling him that he’ll be by his side, helping him over his twisted addiction. He would’ve sat down next to him, wrapped an arm around him and told him everything would be alright. That they would work together, and he’d get over it and everything would be okay.

Only it isn’t a year ago, and if Darry does any of that, the whole gang’ll look at him like he’s insane.

Darry’s parents died on a Saturday. He’d had three hours of sleep because he was out with Two-Bit ‘till the early hours of the morning, and then Ponyboy had gone and literally started jumping on his bed to get him up at eight – partly to be a little shit, partly so they could play football.

Since then, Two-Bit has invited him out too many times for him to count, but Darry’s never been able to. He treasures his hours of sleep more than he does the box under his bed with his savings, and wasting them on partying seems unthinkable.

But it’s not just going out at night. Darry hasn’t had a real conversation with Two-Bit in nearly eight months and the realisation has glued him to his chair.

It isn’t Two-Bit’s fault that he didn’t have to grow up like Darry did, and it’s not even a bad thing, but that doesn’t mean Darry can’t or didn’t resent him for it, just a bit. He’s only a little over a year older than Two, but their lives have grown to be so different that it seems like an insurmountable gap.

And they were too close for Darry to fall into the fatherly role he’s fallen into with most of the gang, so over the weeks they grew apart, and now Darry hardly knows the boy that used to be his best friend.

And now, as he watches Two-Bit cry over a bitten pencil and swear he’ll do better, for them, Darry feels the distance like a knife in his chest, twisting with every comforting word his brothers can provide when he’s forgotten how to.

It feels ironic, then, when his hands come to rest on the table, and hit the stupid deflated football Dally left him that doesn’t just mark when he realised Dally was a real person with real feelings who cared about his friends, but also marks when he got his head on straight and started the most important friendship of his life.

He should’ve known. Soda’s pitying glances and Ponyboy always asking him to stay behind, the way Steve always glared at them, hell, even Two-Bit had warned him.

But he’d been delusional enough to believe they might see beyond how much money he had and genuinely like him as a friend. In the end, all it’d taken was graduating.

He’d like to pretend like it didn’t hurt.

Like he didn’t care that all his friends from high school were hanging out without him just a couple weeks after graduation and hadn’t bothered to invite him. Like he didn’t care that when he’d gone over to talk to them, they’d acted like they’d never been friends. Like he didn’t care that none of them seemed to care, none of them but Paul Holden, whose face flickered with a semblance of regret – or pity – for half a second before his expression hardened back into bored disinterest.

The pillow that’s currently taking a beating he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy begs to differ. He throws it against the door, which opens a couple moments later, showing an unimpressed Dally standing behind it. He just raises an eyebrow, asking a silent question.

“I’m fine,” Darry grumbles, fully aware of how childish he sounds as he walks forward to grab his pillow.

“You do get why I don’t believe you, right?”

Darry grabs the pillow and rolls his eyes. “Why bother asking, then?”

“Thought you might wanna talk to someone who won’t say ‘I told you so’.”

He looks at Dallas in mild interest. “What makes you think anyone else’ll say ‘I told you so’?”

“You had a picture of the football team on the wall, before, but now it’s ripped into pieces in the trash can in the kitchen. An’ you’re hacked off at somethin’ and the team’s you an’ a group of Socs. I ain’t stupid.”

Darry’s walking away from him, punching at the pillow. He doesn’t respond.

“You should prolly talk about it, man.”

Dally’s right, he probably should. But who’s he gonna talk to? The fifteen-year-old midget lecturing him when he’s known him for just over a couple months? His brothers, who’ll just say they knew it would happen? Two-Bit, who’ll probably just make it into a big joke? Steve, who Darry’s almost sure hates him? His mother will just look at him in pity and his father will give him a pat on the back and tell him not to let it bother him.

The only person Darry walks to talk about this with is Paul, and that just leads him back to the start.

He still doesn’t say a thing.

“Alright, maybe you don’t gotta talk about it. Don’t you want a better distraction than a shitty old pillow?”

“Like?”

Something hits him in the back and Darry whirls around. Dally stands smugly a couple steps further into his bedroom.

There’s a football at Darry’s feet.

“That was a pathetic throw. It’s not supposed to turn like that.”

“Teach me, then.”

They spend the rest of the day in the field nearby, Darry teaching Dally the basics of football. Everything from how to throw the ball (he seems to be messing up on purpose) to basic strategies his team used to use. As the day wears on and some of the other members of the gang start showing up, they join in, and when Mrs Curtis calls them in for dinner, they’re in the middle of one of their usual scrimmages.

Darry claps a hand on Dally’s shoulder as they walk into their house.

“Thanks.”

Dally looks up at him, a glint in his eye. “Nah, man, thanks for teaching me.”

The ball had landed on a nail, somehow, a couple weeks later, and they’d all chipped in for a new one. No one had wondered where the old one ended up, assuming it had been thrown out somewhere.

Darry had always wanted to find it somehow. He didn’t like that some nail had left him without the only physical reminder he had that Dallas Winston was a decent human being, and maybe even cared about him.

And it’d been just a couple days later that he’d started hanging out with Two-Bit more often.

Now that he had it back, though, he wasn’t entirely sure how he was supposed to feel.

Dally had thought that that moment was important enough to warrant keeping a reminder of it, a reminder of Darry.

A hand is placed on his shoulder. He looks up and finds Soda looking down at him, worry written across his face.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, Pepsi-cola, don’t worry about it.”

Darry’s smile is strained and forced but Soda doesn’t say anything about it.

He sits down next to Darry at the table, grip tightening around the pin in the palm of his hand. He doesn’t know who to thank for the fact that the gang had let him open the bag first, but if anyone else found it before him, he doesn’t know what he would’ve done.

He wonders what exactly the point of this whole experience is. Of looking at painful reminders of one of the people they lost not three days ago and remembering all they went through together only to wake up and realise he isn’t there. They won’t get anything, they won’t get to see him again, they’ll just get a painful ache in their chest.

The pin is simple enough that if someone doesn’t know exactly the right information, they wouldn’t think too much about the pink triangle on a black background.

The gang would know, though. Maybe not all of them, but at least one of them would, and they’d figure it out.

News stories flicker through Soda’s head – boys killed, beaten, kicked out of their homes.

He’s not even sure why he told Dally.

It’s at least partially because Dally got him drunk. He’s also not entirely sure what kind of cigarette he was given.

But for some reason, Soda finds himself sitting on Dally’s bed as the other boy rummages around the room. He’s blabbering and any sort of filter he’s had before has been completely erased.

“There’s just… something, y’know? Like, I like Sandy just fine, but it’s like Steve’s eyes glow, man. And have you seen him when someone has a car that’s real messed up? His nose scrunches up all cute-like. I like Sandy more, though, I think, Steve’s just my friend. You dig, right, Dally?”

“Sure, man.” Dally locks the door. “You’re staying here tonight, right? There ain’t no way I’m bringin’ you home like this.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright.” He throws himself backwards onto the bed and ends up in a starfish position. “Maybe I don’t like her more’n Steve, I dunno. It’s weird, ain’t it, how everyone thinks I gotta like Sandy more’n Steve? I don’t think I do, but I should. Why can’t I like Steve more?”

Sodapop wakes up the next day and doesn’t really remember much besides the fact that he told Dallas Winston he was a queer and the boy proceeded to sleep in the same bed as him without hesitation.

It takes him only a couple more seconds to realise this is the first person he’s told.

“Hey, Dal…”

Dally yawns as he opens his eyes. “Yeah?”

“You won’t tell anyone about what I told you last night, right?”

“I mean, you could use some help getting with Steve, but sure, I’ll keep quiet.” Dally’s wearing his crooked grin, the one he always has on when he’s just messed with some Socs.

“I ain’t jokin’, Dallas,” Sodapop says, his voice hard.

“I ain’t either,” Dally says defensively “I won’t tell anyone, so don’t go worryin’ your pretty little head about it.”

They stare off for a couple seconds before Soda relents. He grabs his jacket off the floor and walks out. Maybe he stalks, maybe he storms, maybe he strolls. He’s not entirely sure, but he’s not around long enough to find out.

The next day, Dally walks into the DX and slides the pin over to Soda.

“You got no idea how hard it was to find someone I could swipe this from.”

It takes him two seconds to recognise it and just one more to cover it with his hand and look around frantically.

“Dally,” he hisses, calming down a bit once he realises no one’s around.

“What? I made sure no one was in here.”

Soda just glares at him, but Dally seems undisturbed, slouching and drumming his fingers on the counter.

“What’s this even for, anyway? S’not like I wanna go around tellin’ people ‘bout it.”

“Aw, c’mon man, I swiped it an’ everythin’.”

“That’s not my fault. You know what’d happen if Pony found this? Darry? Steve? Sandy?”

“Fine, fine.” Dally takes the pin back. “You wanna be a coward, go ahead.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk.”

“You callin’ me a coward, Curtis?” Dally raises an eyebrow, and under any other circumstance, Sodapop would’ve made a comment about him turning out like Two-Bit.

“That’s what it sounds like, ain’t it? ‘Cause there’s only one kinda guy that’d sleep next to a queer an’ it sure ain’t a straight one.” The last bit comes out a bit whispered and Sodapop looks around the DX again, making sure no one’s there.

Nothing about Dally’s stance until now had made the conversation seem anything but casual. A lazy smile had rested on his lips, and he was slouching, relaxed, his hand resting idly on the counter. Now his face has hardened, eyes turned to shards of ice.

It’s an expression Soda has never seen directed at himself, only at Socs. Under normal circumstances, he’d be terrified.

“Shut your mouth.”

“Who’s the coward now? You think I ain’t seen how little you care about Sylvia? You think I ain’t seen how you look at Johnny? Don’t you go tellin’ me how to live my life when you’re just as much a coward as me.”

“The difference is I don’t deserve anythin’ better’n a dirty broad that two-times me every time the fuzz picks me up, and Johnny don’t deserve anythin’ less’n the‘ntire world, which I ain’t exactly in the position to give ‘im, as you mighta noticed. You’n Steve, on the other hand, ‘re just about made for each other. So don’t you go actin’ like we’re the same ‘cause you know damn well we ain’t.”

Soda hasn’t had enough time to process half of what Dally’s just said before he storms out of the DX, pin in hand.

Later that night, at dinner, when Mrs Curtis notices the hole in Dally’s palm, he says he accidentally pushed himself up on a nail.

Soda doesn’t know why Dally chose something that reminded him of the only fight they ever had. They never acknowledged it afterwards.

But then, when he thinks about all the other times he interacted with Dally – and with everyone else in the gang, he realises – he can’t think of a single one where he was completely honest. He hasn’t ever told Pony that his constant singing annoys him or asked Darry to cook the meat just a little bit more because it gives him a stomach ache when it’s so undone.

And part of that is just because he doesn’t like to make people upset, so if he can swallow his emotions and just pretend to be happy, he’ll do it every time.

But he also hasn’t told Steve he loves him or told Pony that his drawings are spectacular or told Darry that he admires him because he could never do everything he does or told Two-Bit that his way of seeing life probably got him past the hardest week of his life. And he didn’t tell Johnny that he was such a fucking warrior for putting up with everything life had thrown at him, that he was an absolute angel for everything he’d done for Ponyboy. He never hugged Johnny goodbye.

He never told Dally that he cared about him and didn’t resent him for the pin. He never apologised for what he said. He never told him that he deserved Johnny and Johnny deserved him and they should give it a shot.

He always put on a mask, however light, to make himself simpler. More palatable.

Except for then.

When his secret was threatened, when he realised he wasn’t alone, his mask had broken and he said exactly what he thought. Had Dally managed to notice that? Had he known when Sodapop was lying, pretending like he was okay when there was a gaping hole in his chest?

Or did he just run on anger, on violence, and enjoy the memory of Sodapop being angry more than any of the memories of him being happy?

It doesn’t matter, Soda realises as the rest of the gang – five is such a small number – sits down around the table, each of them with their object in their hands. Because Dally isn’t around anymore, and they can drive themselves crazy trying to figure out what he meant or why he did things, but they’ll never really know.

And Soda doesn’t know if it even matters, if they somehow manage to find out.

Because even if Dally kept it because he liked seeing Soda riled up, or because he just liked the pin, or because he got it from a boyfriend or hookup, it made Soda realise that he’d only ever been true once in his life. It made him realise he’d been going through his life as a lie, and that if he didn’t want to have a thousand words unsaid, a thousand loves unrealised, a thousand regrets on his deathbed, something had to change.

The point wasn’t to go through the pain of remembering. The point was to think about Dally and about what he thought. About what he would have wanted.

Not necessarily to do it exactly, but to think about it. To let him impact their lives for just a little longer.

Let him live for just one more minute.

#crossposted to ao3 #the outsiders #the outsiders 1983 #the outsiders musical #dallas winston #dally winston #johnny cade #buck merrill #ponyboy curtis #twobit mathews #two-bit mathews #steve randle #darry curtis #darrel curtis #sodapop curtis #angst #dallas winston angst #chippedshake #fanfics

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